i can't in good conscience call myself techno-saavy. while i'm no luddite--you can find me somewhere in the blur. there is a lot about my computer that makes me sweat. i am not immune to the pitfalls of social networking. i will stare at my news feed, collecting a mass of fragmented data. i will always be "offline" and gain and lose "friends" daily. i'll play the role of the voyeur, fascinated with the range at which we will try and see each other. we go snaking this digital landscape, it becomes in our best interest, we go hi and lo mimicking playgrounds, we go bored and riveted each day into its big light.
i am a writer because i often weigh certain misfortunes or experiences in measures of writing material. i'm not particularly sinister or morose, i am just slightly obsessed. this time of year marks several anniversaries. some wedding, some death, some birthdays, and so on. much like october, march has that finishing quality. the light rests differently. the hours change. moods shift. the planet realigns and simultaneously falls apart. and therein lies the words.
i am trying to find a way to stitch together the moon and these computer keys. in documentation i find permanency, but sometimes i forget to take notes. sometimes i don't sleep at night. most recently in a convergence of natural disaster i laid awake in the middle of a storm thinking about natural disasters.
there was mostly japan. and there was libya. the brush strokes of hokusai and the quiet devastation of repetition, and of generations. the speed at which we lose. the speed at which we know about losing and how we can measure loss in multitudes. and how we going viral is how we get anywhere. i am trying to make use of my sleeplessness:
Status quo: uprising
In the mega forces that be with you and also with you, we have been set into flames. A formulaic type of biblical—paper cranes and their wingspan— a crowd of believers gone reactor. There is cyber-grief among us. I can no more sleep through the night than compose something warrior-like, something important—a tomahawk firing into sea-change, relentlessly. Ali is… still awake and manicuring her technology. Managing to hear the earth quake, managing to be unprepared, trying to find the perfect link to chaos and relativity. In the deluge everything that gets lost is eventually found—at best I can attend somewhere in the background, conducting the traffic of veins. They push wildly, aorta bound. I won't orphan these tragedies and the simultaneous beauty of our digitalia. Learning to walk at best, in this air-born world, there is both levity and poison in our abbreviated connectivity.