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dear reader

June 18th, 2004

you ask beautiful questions. “what if muses were real?”; “how many people appreciate you?”; “do you have any proof god doesn’t exist?”

you need not worry at seeming arrogant or pompous to one who’s kept handy the working titles “philosopher queen”, “girl genius”, and “the professor herself”…which is so nice in French, “le professeur elle-même”. “Hubris? Why I invented it!” — that’s my favorite self-referencing definition, a happy mirror of form and content. =)
who wired the planet? that i can not say. as an accolyte of Goethean science, my wired planet reference points to nature’s many feedback loops, the sensitive chaos of vortical forms from riparian to alimentary systems. water, constant water, always seeking lower ground, always seeking to be round.

desolation wilderness: the sun is but a morning star

June 17th, 2004

it rained as i walked in but, thanks to the canopy, i was not wet.
according to notches inside the door i was 4’1″ my first summer here.
stowed under this cabin, my old PCs remind me that even when the nearest phone was miles away i’d hike down to jack in.

hanging for hours, looking out over Fallen Leaf Lake,
in a glass phone booth that is no longer there.
i will always love Ma Bell the way i imagine freight hopping bums of old
loved the Union and Central Pacific (for their might and reach.)

birds do it, bees do it

June 7th, 2004

I wish I could tell you about a time before, so long ago that memory, mother of the muses, was herself a maiden.

Long before the art of writing altered time and space.
Back before even poetry, even speech.

Would that we could go back a few seconds before the first expression, just before the big bang that brings the first intellectual property into being.
Does a symphony cease to exist when the only remaining I/O for its data format bleeps its last?

From what I hear, communication runs deep. Our planet was wired for it long before we got here. Our brains since the chordata fork.

broadcast as in scatter seed

April 26th, 2004

I might as well tell you up front, I’m scatterbrained. Everyone who was ever alive is alive to me still. If space makes it so everything doesn’t happen in the same place, time ensures it doesn’t happen all at once. But in my mind is neither space nor time. Everything always is.