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one two seven.

Mon Feb 3 1997

It's funny, the world. Me. A dreadful pall confronts my environment. Me. An aching sense of sdaness. I am alone. I scream and noone hers, cares to hear. It's not a joke. Really I know each person has to do their own life themself. And I look out anyway for someone to listen to me. What sort of person would listen though? Am I seeking out people I don't even want to talk with?

Is a voluntary segemnt online sufficent to buffer me / them from each other? Tickle me. Go away with your sexual innuendos, your iconic slavery to reproduction. I want to be attractive and to have friends. I want the attribution of things exclusive. Fuck. I want the same old stupid thing that when you don't look closely is the default. I want the god damned pair bonding crap. But I don't. I don't find the standard stuff to be all that satisfying. Really I want to hold on to me. Wrap my arms around this strange being I am vertical social. To hold tight and cry. Scream the tantrum out of me. I hate my job. And I don't even have a job. Yuch. And people wonder where I am. They tell me I don't reach out anymore, that this place here of me isn't sharable anymore. I tused to be in my heart, and now I have an outlet that lets me keep my heart closed to their scrutiny - the opposite of what I wanted. I live around people who avoid me hurting them. Today was the worst for me. I .. I .

Isn't that it? They. They haven't really benefitted from knowing me. That isn't the god-damned standard anyhow. There are so many things I have not said. What are they though? Gibberish. Again gibberish. And my cats still stay at Richard's while I stare into the depths of a new apartment. The final one I think for several years.

I'm not alone - physically now. bye

[ ... one year ago today: Raquets ]


simply not the same.

Wed Feb 5 1997

Fibrillating amongst the butterflies in my mind, I reach out with filed edges to talk with anyone. And I see that there is no-one now except that whichI have created online. Others have been shown the door and although they have keys, perhaps they are lost. Little things tell me i am on my own finally. And bigger things tell me that I am also the leader - follow the leader. Why is this so hated? Who out there with a job has a job without there being leadership there alos? Am I perhaps an ungracious leader? Do I emit resentment too much? Can they feel that I wish that things were otherwise that I could just duck in behind the scenes and truth-functionally geek out at my own job?

Luxurious imaginings. Where a world is built of bravery and not of fear.

[ ... one year ago today: post fast ]


personas.

Thu Feb 6 1997

"I wish he'd simply grow up."

I wish instead that I'd simply know and enjoy grown up people more often. Conservatism aside. It's cold here still. Who's surprised. Perhaps its time that I get more plants again.

Looking more clsely I see only a mask a persona and know that the thoughts I have are just a dream of reality. There is no real me, just the stance I take, my opinions. And I surf over the details thinking they are just added frills and decoration there for others' entertainment. What is the real stuff? Why don't others know anything about this?

The social efforts we place into the life stream are cartoon-like. They represent a little tiny vague or clarified piece of who we are. Needed for communication with and modelling of others, we look at each other and see only th3ese things. I peer deeper into some people and see that they are used to doing htis so much that they feel naked without the perfect persona shard in front of them. They feel naked, exposed and empty. But it is beyond these shards tht the people are whole. We lose the ease of the instant opinion and gain instead a whleness that is fulfilling. Looking beyond these pieces and even beyond their Frankensteinian reconstructions we can make do with, we find a synthetic being, a whole person. Understand such a creature only with all of your own self too.

[ ... one year ago today: A swish of capacchino ]


A difference is also a change.

Sun Feb 9 1997

lunch

[ ... one year ago today: just another day in cyberspace ]


fortune 1.

Mon Feb 10 1997

It's funny how bad puns are easy to come by, good puns less so, and really important things to say almost unusual. So what is it to be a human being? It usre as hell isn't th constant output of wondrous value.

Perhaps it is the infrequent but nevertheless reliable output of the valuable (to us) that is what it is about. No. Sigh. Crawl bak into your hole and hide some more.]

Digitized waves of no-one to talk to. And yet after all this time, no matter what I hope for in my life, I am still me. How can anyone feel afraid of losing what cannot be lost. Beyond Descartes' meditation.

Fuck it.

[ ... one year ago today: purrr... ]


out of the norm and into the tempest.

Wed Feb 12 1997

Smaller thoughts creepin as I go nuts. I slipped away from the conventional view of the world. Why? I saw too much. I could see the causal tensions twisting between the people. I could see the norms battering people submissively walking throgh their lives spent holding on to being understood through the conventions.

I could see those caught up flies holding on tight to the bondage equipement. And the power in moving across each strand without sticking. I felt so stickable. I blinded myself last week, hoping in all gloryto go back where I ahd come from. Let in only th personal views I hold so easily. And a week of screaming later, do you think I speak in metaphor? I hold out a sore throat and cry knowing too much. I not only see it now, I see where I can go. I can let go, or I can get stuck or I can walk the web. Or perahps a little of each. But the grasping truth is that these don't look pleasurable or satisfying suddenly. My bravado slipped away too. There is no empowerment in wanting to crawl back into a safe place. It is there or it isn't - another simple logical truth. The flypaper web of social reality.

Tempests can happen in teacups I've heard. Whether or not a single life can fit into a teapot, I certainly feel as if the world has disolved me as a sugar cube into thecrystalline strucutres it designed long before my own pattern recognizers crawled out of the primordial muck. Yes, Peter, I do see the patterns. And I quell and whine about them. Not as you have done - in order to tellpeople of a better possible world in which each gives a little more than they need to. I whine instead about getting what you want. And I got what I expected and not what I wanted beacuse I didn't try to get what I want - for what would that be?

Obscure and randomly selected paths - political future from Joe, real estate owning from Hella and you, business running from Richard and Hella. What of me? Media fame from me. And the loopiness of this funny thing - someone saw me on CNN, someone else in WiReD - it hits me in a new way. The contact without depth - with breadth - a learned but enjoyable taste. Relax into it like a pair of new shoes. Blisters go away after awhile, and then later they become so comfy, they look run dwon, but cause more pleasure. But how do you decide which pair to buy? Whihc do you want to become comfortable with? Shoes like Tracey - Birkenstock worshipping? Like Peter - leftover from a bygone lawyer or two? Like me - scuffling arond endless shoestores trying to find my size and my style? Like Louise - many shoes to create the option base of foundational happiness? Random.

H0ow should I decide what to decide from here on in? Should I run this company, or step back a bit to do bigger things? Should I live alone or with someone(s) warm and close? Should I stay in Toronto, cut my hair, let more cats move in, continue to write? What is the answer to my own life?

My god. That's it really ... it is a life and well I get to do whatever the fuck I want with it. The vast possibility space of everything possible. Old solution: it doesn't matter which. Do whatever. Pick womething instead of nothing. A mantra leading into something but specifically anything. And now I have a something. Something friends, something business something real estate, something hair style. Get real. It couldn't be other than something without me having a committment more intrinsically to a specific ghing. Do I?

What do I care about... a list for the future:

being liked
having cats really like me. havng a place to live where people drop in becuase they like that experience. being
being causally efficacious (is there a better word for this?!)
getting what I want done simply because I want it. There should not be the vast schism between my thoughts and my deeds. Right now there is a vast and expansive gap. Would tht I could reach int others minds and let them see what I do (and I what they see too).
That's it.
No more things that I'd like.

It's nice to see that I am vey bad at even writing lists these days.

That's it then. Being liked - not my forte really. My god, not at all. When I was seveteen i swapped sex for learning - for communication that was geared toward me. I swapped it with other university people int he standard ways. Meeting them, sleeping with them, talking and getting to know each other. Yawn. It's funny to watch friends use this little pattern stil, swapping things because they are needy. What do I swap now? ANd what do I get in return. Now - today - nothing out at all. I'm tired fromconvention following. I'm stripped bare of the extra energy needed to be nice to my friends. I forget what nice even is. What do others care about when they are in that conventional mode of being - the social person? Wher are the psychological people? Where... a scream coarses through my blood stream, into my neurons.

Where? l


will this get out htere.

Thu Feb 13 1997

Is this what it comes down to? A choice between liking the things that are, or finding them dismally horrible? Broken web pages, no email - what are we doing?

I cannot hide these things and walk around with a smile on my face now. The thoughts show. Too much bacame the catering lunges of the socially impaired. Willfully opening notes at each other and sticking out their tongues.

What will become of hte me I remember from way back when? Hold on steadily.

[ ... one year ago today: island weather ]


the world in your pupils.

Fri Feb 14 1997

I really hate this here. Little stupid details. Everywhere. I couldn't hate this more. It makes my back hurt and my mind numb. Computers. People. Details. No bigger picture. No playing with anyting. Just peiople everywhere. Go away. Play boring business with someone else.

Greyness. No feelings. Just patterns to move through as if I were alive.


seasons of time.

Mon Feb 17 1997

Alright. I'll admit it. The lights are coming on again. Things don't seem quite as miserable. I put up some shelves in my new apartment by myself fianlly. I talked to sales persons a little today without wincing. I'm becoming more reliable again. But so many things have been thought out.

I am wondering why we don't get detached from our little nooks more often. Peiple call it a vacation - but themn they give themselves a milli more details to attach to during that time. I simply stare at walls? Well I cam e from there. Its relaxing in a way..

Funny hav8ing arthritis in a finger makeds furious typing more self-conscious. The body is never really the thing to be occupied by in my opinion. We can get so much farther into the abstractions. I always used to advocate that the physical was merely the boring seat of the mental. I still believe this - but as I get older I've started to appreciate that the seat should concern itself with the upholstery and internal structural integrity. So much for mind over matter.. But what exactly does one do to avoid arthritis in ones typing fingers? I think it's the "e" key that is getting me.

And so I wonder into the trivia . Back into the maelstrom of the unenlightened worker bees. Tick tick.


limes.

Wed Feb 19 1997

Faster working directly on a server. Much. Its warm out today and so I let smoke filter in the opened window. It brings back memories of a front porch.

Lots of associative memories are pooring into my mind these past few days. The depression is lifting. I can see clearly without overload mostly now. The shock of my life is wearing off. It feels a little normal again. Exterminators. Salespeople. Details - still those too. And my older memories come back to me living their lives as part of my own perspective. I watch a black jag drive away from across the road. This building is surrounded by some very nice carage - the design district of Toronto. I've been flipping on all the lights here. A live mind.


softly flow the tears of change.

Sat Feb 22 1997

A year ago I was in Jamaica bearing a week of the shallowness of a culture of salespeople. This year, I have brought the salespeople into my personal life. And we are sorting this through.

Where I have been. A month ago, I met with te Vice President of the United States. Since then and concurrent with several other life changes, I have been radically depressed. Down amongst the bottom feeding thoguhts I wallowed in, I found more insight then OI have had access to for quite some time. Layers of sophistry peeled away and in my eyes I saw all the things that have been happening. I cannot say these were clear - but at least clearer than before. it seems when I scale heights, I suffer an after shock of vertiginous surfeit. Buying a building was a height, and meeting the V.P. was. Telling others about either is really what sends me into shock.

For most of my life I was an anarchist. I wonder now if I still am in ood faith. Things are more complicated for me personally now, and anarchy does not best describe my values any longer. And yet my heart is still there really.

But for most of my life I truly was such a beast and this had some intereesting ramifications. I believed in anonymity as a personal life style. I tried not to get my name in registries. I paid cash. I spelled my name wrong. I didn't use phones once the peekaboo systems were in place generally. And I did not tell stories about my own life. There were several reasons for this, but strongest amongst them was that most people simply could not digest the stories and still tret me well. Being an anarchist has drawbacks.

[Black tails sleep under the chairs now. Today I finally set upu my home computer again - three weeks after moving I am coming out of shock and enjoying my wonderful new place. I will stay here for years. I am donwtown and uptown - a joy to be so easily in the city without commuting.] I have not written for months. The feeling that my old apartment gave me transcended my sadness as a depressent. I like smaller and less pink places.

So now I sit on a Saturday night as so many people always do - thoughme without a boob tube to accompnay my lonliness. The lonliness is salutary. I think that's the wrong word. It spills from me as pride suddenly rather than as suffering. I am healing from the wounds the abyss of losing myself left. I can feel again a little bit. I am interacting more and feeling out that people fear me only because I do not let them into me. And why should I? Where did it get me previously? To be honest I wasn'[t letting them in. I was doing somethng more and different. Something I'd like to do still but without the soulless loss of contact with who I am. Less frequent and more rewarding, I shall look to the public life as a refresher course in social skills. But not as a way of life.

My life will have to come from within me. If this were a mood swing I would laugh at myself. But a month of radical depresssion allows me to break the contections with the is. Detachment.

There once occurred three days when I was 20 during which I was removed entirely from the concerns of mortals, of being human, and I sat instead injudgement of my own future. Would it be for the good or for the evil. I knew the ramifications of both clearly during those three days, and int he end I decided to be for the good but simply on the strength that Peter was a wonderful ally. Without hm around perhaps I would not have reached that plateau. But with him around as the sole motivator in ethcial considerations, I chose the good - whatever that might be.

I remember though feeling the power that detachment is. The power to be whomsoever I choose. I am indeed sociopathic in this way, and yet for most of my days I am not on this plateau. I wonder within the choice I made. This past month I did not and could not stay grounded in this way. Yes it was an ayss from hell that I was in. And yes I could not care about that or about anything. It hurt those I care about greatly, and I watched this from afar. This is a sadness that will be mine forever, and I must be glad only that they could give me the things I needed to remain in that space while it was needed for us all.

I have detached fromthe connections and can step outside so easily suddenly. The power that is mine to use is wieldable again as a consequence. Those tough decisions people rave about htta I sling so easily around are simple again. There were days when I could not do anything - eat, dress, bathe, for lack of a decision to make. Now I am again sitting on top of that engine, that faith generator. And I feel that my decisions will make mroe sense. The coherency of the plateau, both raised and lowered, whistles through the breeze of my thoughts. We'll watch closely, I hear.


fondliness.

Sun Feb 23 1997

I'll give it a go. A second day of writing without the void surrounding me.

[ ... one year ago today: blue and green / grue and bleen ]


so really anyway.

Mon Feb 24 1997

It hurts really to find things so very tangled. I don't want to write right now though. Things feel too stuck. It's probably being n an office.

[ ... one year ago today: cyberstar?!!! ]

elopes.

Wed Feb 26 1997

Wondering the hallways of feelings. Nothing to do today. Perhaps the lull will turn into something good. Maybe i'll go furniture shopping. But really I'm too lonely to want to leave. I'd rather have something to do instead.You make your own life, and mine is

yes

exceptions to tendencies.

Thu Feb 27 1997

A letter from Tom today - a real letter, and with photos of him and Al too. And one from Angela.. funny.

I I had a lot towrite this morning, and then my home computer, ye little ole 386 decided not to do the monitor thing. I could have tried typing blind... Yeah write.

Delo says it better than I could today. Where art is thought.

[ ... one year ago today: swelling ]

the story of the rabbit and the hound.

Fri Feb 28 1997


and another day.

Sat Mar 1 1997

As slow and sensible as a worm, this day proceeds into the beginning of the rest to time. We watch as the sun moves holding our hands providing the power and energy of life. Seedlings grouping together in bands of likeness to tune the chorus of voices with the stars. Groping, gaping at the the likelihood of a tomorrow the same and different both as yesterday, comfort and excitment mixed together in a most pleasing blend. The narrow band of tolerance surprising in that it can exist and does so. We are human and this leads only to the questions that we can alone ask. Look out at the opportunities beyond the known band. We can get there. Maybe. If we tried.

I've been feeling lower again yesterday and now today again. I planted my energy this week at FSC's disposal and found tensions flying. A new client of hugousity and hiring of several more new personnel. More computers, phones, desks, wow. Accountants doing books, and people seeming to bloom a bit in the newly organized environment. I wonder.

[ ... one year ago today: fantasy space ]


devnul.

Tue Mar 4 1997

In the bathroom, there is an open window for cts to go through. It is sometimes cold in there when it snows. I like to close up the window when taking a shower or a bath. Understandable. And the cats get a little nervous when I do this. They like the option to go where they wish easily and without negiotiation. I am surprised at how many people feel the need to dictate the comings and goings of others. I don't think it is required in our natures to be told such by a superiour being. But it is possible that some people do not respond to opportunity with enthusiasm.

I've been slipping back and forth between the state of balance and that of fracture. The balance is in me now, and an enourmous amount of enthusiasm. And yet I feel that using this towards existing projects will be a shame. The little splash that follows such injections in the environment is usually lost - no reflections tomorrow of it. I find it amusing htat th environment is so foolish. Yeah.

My own balance though should start to become stable again. I'd like that really. The new orbital. WHat did I say previously? That changing is too hard? No. It's not too hard. It is very hard, but not avoidable. Sorry Tracey for thinking that perhaps you need to learn this still. Confort isn't everything.

On Saturday I thought to phone her up. I felt like saying that I didn't care about any of the last seven months, and could we just be friends again. I didn't call though. I think in truth that she will have changed. I am part of theevil enemy. I let reality in to our dream world. I was never supposed to. And she caught me at it. FUnny that I had thought she had known before hand that reality ws on ts way over to her comfort zone, a buffered reality. It's not fair to call it that. More it was independence, and living true to the dreams of heart.

Can I get away with thinking htat reality is that which bukmps yoy in the nose every morning harshly? Not really. Tracey's reality existed (s) too. Buffered permanently from actual doings in the world. I needed Peter, as psycho therapist and as hyper beaurocrat lawyer to realize that the harshnesses out there could be endured. Now I endure and even resculpt them. Sort of. Perhaps it is that my harshnesses exceeds that of general reality.

Stay in. I'm getting somewhere. There are small rivulets involved everywhere. Can others see them? March forth. Get to them as they unravel the truth we can know.

FSC becomes the philosophers halfway house these days. There is a surge of applicants from those old and dusty corrrrridors and we look at these in interest. The company of familiarity. And of respect for decisions made.

Tredding on windmills.

[ ... one year ago today: orbital decay ]


a brief look into the.

Wed Mar 5 1997

Follow me into a briefness of spirit.. I am going.

[ ... one year ago today: religious points ]


more thought than action.

Sat Mar 8 1997

the voices are quite. I can hear my own thoughts through the dust of motion. but the shroud is near. of course really.

at the margins between self-indulgence and asceticism still.

a shwoer.

[ ... one year ago today : existential angst, not ]


tulip petals and dust.

Sun Mar 9 1997

Don't we all need a bit of criticism? Entering our systems with verve desgined from another's view - to alter some part with a different vision? No.

just write for awhile and hte words will describe what is you. cats on the walls. ohters' lives unfold as does mine with the surprise and habit we all know of. I watch Carey and her struggles. It is a pleasure and difficult to stay quiet about. And Peter surfs along on his own leading me to believe having a website is where its at. That or getting lots of exercise... it's one of those feeling fat days for me. just write. who doesn't? Whay are some people unwilling to let me in to who they are? Richard is a shellfish of silence. A sculpture to gaze upon without an inside. But sculpture isn't hollow... the interior has structural integrity that is not for show excpet in its results. The sculpture crumbles or endures.



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Do I really want to though?

...

There is the world out there waiting for me to go into. And I wince. Yesterday, out with Carey, I found myself overwhelmed by it. God. The thoughts of people swarming like angry bees. And there I was receiving the reflections of their thoughts. Body language nuances grown into mature gestures. I think perhaps I need to be bolder still - or to tone it down. Make a decision. When I am out htere, I am noticed. The feeling of being on display, no... of being noticable .. I like it. Peple will have their reactions and whenI am confident, they are tunable to cooperation with me. When though I am in a quieter mood - perhaps hanging out with Carey who is so ably anonymous stimulated this - I am tossed around inside by the inputs. Close the senses. But ...

Hold out your hand to other people. Theyfeel the same way. I used to be afraid to make phone calls. Now I pop them off whenever I feel like it, to whomesoever intehowrld I want to. And bout anything. Dial and talk. And after getting over the phobia, I see more clearly that it wasn't a phobia. No one would call something a phobia which everyone has. I am now one of the most calm persons about making calls. I look around and others are always making excuses for not calling anyone. Or for doing so only infrquently. What is goig on? Why are we afraid to reach out? So I do. I reach out and give away some of my conquered territory - the lack of fear of contact. And if I in my trembling state am less afraid than most people. Hahahahaaa no wonder the world is the way it is. We are a peiple of fear. Let go reach out open up. There are very few bogey men in reality. Only the news media want us to think otherwise. Feed the fear for they will buy more fear later. Statistics show that statistics are not interpreted accurately by almost everyone. The joke is in us.


the other self.

Mon Mar 10 1997

18 seems like a number I like more than others. It is the day I was born on, and also its prime reduction is tidy - 2 3's and 1 2. I like it.

I talked with Louise yesterday. I like her a lot. Funny how things turn out. She is just got everything going for her - I'm not sure that she knows it or not. Its nice to know someone who is admirable. I'll tlak with her shortly again I think. Long distance brings people into different relaltionships, those of email and telephone.

My heavy insides are throbbing about what I am doing. I'm not centered. A balance of who is doing what and doing my own things today - fresher than usual. And several exciting new client prospects looming. Blooming. And I strategize the next phase of growth in our company. It blooms too.

Richard is haunting htis office - in need of care. But I am not his care taker. He'll have to be chirpy at me or haunt someoneor somewhere else. The tales I could tell.

As the world collects the dust of ages... the jaded and tired creak to their resting spots, motion free sensations of comfort conjured success. Are friends the stuff of life? Tickle the stars and the cat's chin will lift high. Other directions collect - collect more.

I wish I could show the feeling inside of dullness I have. It comes from making hard decisions and ... making it so. I like 18 for it is a number and not a fact, not a decision. Not a person. Clean and simple, well-defined, though only recently. I wonder if anyone has truly set down the definitionof that particular number though. They've had fun with zero and one. And then infinity and negativeness. But what of eitherteen. Is it defined from first principles? Or is the proof assumed to hold true as it does for say 2. Could I write a dissertation defining this peculiar number in a unique way? I suppose. And I'd have to spend ten years getting myself up to speed. Though that sounds more delicately intereting than sitting in a hive of business playing queen. Laying eggs. Hatch feed. Sting defensively. hatch more. SO my number becomes th recipient of connected thoughts of escape. Let out the demons of the now to find a desire to move on. But I will not. I would like to move and stay here too. Building and creating are fun... maintaining is effortful. So I should build ways of maintaining that fill me with spirit.

Never start a sentence with "but" says the grouchy sage. So I don't. Back up erase. Start again.

I am not really here anymore. Looking in to me surrounded only by the needs and pushes and pulls of others. Go away.. Buzz off... get your own strings to tug on. The life of me is mine. I give what I wish but I will not remainunder siege.

I want to remember a time ... but really what is that but another type of escape from this is. The is is that I am lonely now. Peter is off on his own adaptation spree. Richard burns himself out unless I push him out the door. And I have dropped pursuing other people again ... time to re-pursue I think. Carey dropped inon me Staurday making me feel wanted and friended. So I should reach out to others - let them in a bit more - step out of isolation that is Toronto in winter. This book I read called "How Insensitive" with Darelene's picture on the front. A story of the Toronto cool scene and the sense of empty style associated with it. People hurting each other like billiard balls. I think this book was one of the causes of my retreat last month. How Insensitive, Al. Funny allusion, no?

Disconnect - did you know it is almost 8pm and I am still at work. I've been here since 9 am.. Could this be why I am stuffed now with weeds and cotton balls. document ? bleed? just tired. I want a nice soft place to rest and rejuvenate. And a cute guy to date who thinks I'm really neat. WH otakes me to meet his friends who are funand interesting and most important welcoming. ANd who is sexy and wealthy and self assured. Strong enough to know me without losing. Is that enough? Clear enough? Can I live without this becoming reality? Of course, and yet with an aloneness. And then again I was going to write about being jaded. Not me - I see the world overly sensitively.

I noticed how easily overwhelmed I am. I rely heavily on others buffering the sensations and inputs so that I might process a subset - a small sliver of delicately reshaped colour to taste and chew on.There are shoes that over stimulate me.

And I thought my childhood was monstrous. If I was then as Iam today then it was me - I reacted soo much to the normal is that it was simply painful. A symptom perhaps of low grade autism. Intelligent and unable to sort out the noise. Why do people get mad at me for being borderline like this? Can't they simply understand that I'm cool even if a little - a lot - sensitive. I hate this sensitivity. The only time I lack it is when I am in a fuck it mood. Norbert's patented fuck it moods - fuck it. Let's do it nyway. Who cares. Its destructive and we all know it should get done so fuck it. Do it. Fuck it.

[So I feel better now - a little more motivated. Fuck it.]

[ ... one year ago today: fuddled ]

under the wavelength of pure green.

Sat Mar 15 1997

There are some things that we think of that take more thought. The llength of time it

[ ... one year ago today: infinite concepts ]


what is this here thing.

Sun Mar 16 1997

It's a busy night online, lots of bandwidth being sucked by everyone. No probs... I'll write in this quiet little corner of my computer and save for later. ... if I remember.

Once upone a time there were people living on a planet named earth. They all banded to gether to crete what they thought would be super cool, namely civilization. They added culture and language sophistication, street rules and city by-laws. They fostered organized religions and taxation, representative politics, front lawns and jobism. A scientistic swing towards fact and they thought about travelling out to the stars with their new invention, rather virus-like. But they hadn't considered several results of their achievements, those less bragged about. World wide disease, drought and famine, first world conservatism and money pocket hiding. They were stuck on teh pretty little planet, each to grub out an existence more pleasing than death. They did so. And yet, still a few hoped that civilization would not be the downfall of the species. They still do.

I met a fellow who spent a year with greenpeace. Strategy aside, this morbid and yet probably correct mind perspective on our planetary behaviour. Fun talking but its hard to lose myself back into oblivion - caring only about my own life. I still believe that making my life great will be my best contribution, but we'll have to see.

[ ... one year ago today: total relaxation: New York ]


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All non-daughter writings of Carolyn's Diary are not copyright © Carolyn L Burke, 1995, 1996, 1997, and may not be copied with permission except for non-commercial gain. See what your lawyers can't make of that.


Carolyn's Diary
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