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February 16, 2008

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I feel like an archaeologist mining my own past.
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The piles and piles, bags and boxes, cardboard tubes and plastic-sleeved binders, all chock-a-block with photos, notebooks, postcards, drawings, letters, clippings, photocopies and microfiche... all of it waiting--for what? Am I the only one to be overwhelmed by stuff? Did I indulge all this instant nostalgia to create the extended family I never had? Lou Asekoff wrote " man is more distant from another/than he is from himself/at another time." Was all my scribbling and photography a primitive form of time travel, attempts to communicate from future past to present? I grab at random a yellow legal pad protruding from a shoulderbag overflowing with notebooks, pads, and envelopes stuffed with loose sheets of paper, paperclips, tiny scraps and artifacts. The top sheet in part reads:


It's been a year since I've read a book and that hardly seems about to change on the PATH to 33rd I feel I've grown too cynical to want to write much of anything but here I am scheming my scheme and dreaming these things--wishing to live my life on two wheels 'cause walking flatfoot's too slow & I reckon I still believe.

...Which somehow led me to this forgotten and previously unpublished first-class example of revisionism--a pre-PoD (B.P.) event recreated from notes in PoD style. It relates a dream I had after my first day on the office job I took in order to learn about computers. Twelve years later I see computers as clocks with people the cuckoos whose every movement occurs on schedule.
The paper itself is the message. It's what McLuhan knew.

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