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I let the world pass me by… for years, I didn’t want to know about anything. Today, I went to the library and browsed. Brought home a half-dozen books. Haven’t really read fiction for years—I get too wrapped up in it. My writing over the last few years has been painfully stiff. I just didn’t want to know, didn’t want to hear, clock in, avoid everything, clock out. Of course, in the meantime, communication has gotten incrementally more pervasive—it was hard to get a handle on back when Usenet was everything and now it’s quite impossible to make one’s voice heard over the din, which only discouraged me more. It’s hard to establish one’s expertise when they’re a thousand people at a moment’s notice who have a better background than you. As Bart says, “Gotcha. Can’t win, don’t try.”
I do this for my own satisfaction of my own standards of quality, and I couldn’t win, so I didn’t try. It’s fun to play here with my record collection (one of the few underrepresented angles I can still spin with) and rant about things of temporal inconsequence, but it has so far been only that, and the occasional clue… off to page an available buddy…
