My eight-year-old computer is failing
and I will be replacing it next week. It bubbles, it wheezes, it
hesitates, it stalls. It is outdated. It is no longer supported,
except by my desk. When I click on the link that leads to your page,
it takes me to an earlier time when shovels ruled and the snows were
undefiled on solemn slopes. Is that you I see waving in the distance?
How silly I must appear, a twisted, bearded elf pulling the stops,
firing toy cannons. What you say I can’t hear, what you show me I
can’t see, what you mean I can’t fathom. The new computer,
meanwhile, will be wonderful. It will be a pristine notebook I am
afraid to write in. I will stare at it for hours, then I will go and
wash my hands. O Profundity! Omar Serif of the Sans! Oh, how I love
thee, my Friend! Forgive me, remember me, ’til then!
This blur we bravely call our vision,
and love so well in each nigh-blind revision, as if by our decision
we deny and justify division — is it not high time we agree, the
art of being me lies closer to derision, with human-kind provision,
brought on by sweet collision, than ultimate precision?