1Q84 Design Video

Interesting stuff.

Last one about Bolano. I swear....

We all know, or we all should know, that Roberto Bolano was one of the original founders of the Infrarealists Poetry movement. Here is the group's manifesto, translated in to English for the first time. It reads like a beautiful, long prose-poem and was penned by R.B. himself.

http://altarpiece.blogspot.com/2009/06/first-infrarealist-manifesto-english.html

Also, check out this old picture:

Reading Challenge

It's a little late now, but I just found out about this reading challenge. I would suggest Bifurcaria bifurcata (the original poster of this challenge) extend this opportunity to next year, thereby attracting more new readers of Bolano. Just click on the picture below to check out the challenge.

More Bolano to be published

It seems there's always more being dug up every year - six new works by Bolano will be published in 2012.

Third Reich was just released the 22nd of November and a little before that, Tres was released. It's exciting and almost overwhelming for those of us who came to Bolano after reading the all-encompassing 2666 or The Savage Detectives. It would be surprising if anything slated to be released was at the level those two novels were, but Bolano is one of those unique poets-cum-novelists who can say in one word what it would take for most others to say in a paragraph.

• The Secret of Evil - a posthumous prose collection.
  
• Advice from a Morrison Follower to a Joyce Fanatic - an early novel written with Bolaño's friend A. G. Porta. You can't judge a book by its cool title. But it could earn some points.
• Diorama - one of 3 books discovered among Bolaño's papers. Still unpublished in Spanish.
• A Lumpen Novella - El futuro, the film adaptation of this book, is already being shot on location in Rome. It will be perfect if the short novel will come out as a movie tie-in. It had a rather interesting premise. 

• The Troubles of the Real Police Officer - another discovered manuscript. It came out in Spanish early this year. It's very likely it will be released in English in mid- to late 2012. And the wonderful Natasha Wimmer will probably translate again for FSG. 
• The Unknown University - the last of Bolaño's 3 major collections of poetry translated by Laura Healy. New Directions will most likely publish this in 2012.

Preview of new article about homelessness

This is an interview I conducted a week ago with a man at one of the shelters in town. In it, I think one can get a sense of how the homeless are faring in Indianapolis. Keep in mind that this is only one voice and everyone I've talked to is extremely diverse in their situations and reactions. This is meant to be informative and I hope it sheds a but of light on a problem every city faces.

*Pseudonym for purpose of the interview – Mike

Mike’s* a stocky guy with a buzzed head and a cursive script tattoo on his neck that’s faded to illegibility. He’s been in a gang since he was a young teen, has two children, and was in jail for 18 months at age 26. He has large bags under his eyes and a forlorn, despondent look. But, behind that look, there’s a certain unidentifiable pride and fearlessness. Mike speaks out of the left corner of his mouth with a long drawl and answers in short, clipped sentences.

NUVO: How long have you been coming to Horizon House?

Man 2: I’ve been coming since ’09.

NUVO: How long have you been homeless?

Man 2: Off and on for two years.

NUVO: What’s your story?

Man 2: I came out of prison. No family up here. I got a bother and sister, but they live pretty much far from here.

NUVO: Why were you in prison?

Man 2: For battery, possession of dope, and possession of a handgun.

NUVO: What services have you been using at Horizon House?

Man 2: Medical, showers, phones, wash my clothes.

NUVO: Where do you stay?

Man 2: Actually on the streets.

NUVO: On the streets? Do you have a little spot?

Man 2: Under the bridge.

NUVO: So tell me, who are you, who were you, all that.

Man 2: I’m from Brownsville, Texas. I moved up here when I was about 12 years old. Both of my parents are deceased now. I was born in the gang life. Been a gang member since I was about 13. Like I said, I came up here when I was 12. Lived on the Southside all my life. Started getting in trouble and I came up here when I was about 13 – stealing cars, breaking in to houses, robbing people. Been to juvenile, been to boy school, satellites, boot camp. Then age 16, I had my first baby. She’ll be 13 the 27^th (of Nov.).

I mean, I’ve had my own house before. The first house I bought, I was 19 years old. And then, age 21, actually 20, was my first time going to jail up here. That was for a PI. Then around age 22, 23 my other son was born, age 23. I was with my baby’s momma for four years and then 23, 27. Let me see, I went to prison. Came out the age of-I did 18 months.

NUVO: Was that your first time in prison?

Man 2: Mhmm.

NUVO: How old were you?

Man 2:

Let’s see I’m 30 now (long pause). 2011 (trails off). Went to prison in ’07. So, that’d make me 26. Then I came out, had nowhere to go, walking around the city. Then, I finally went down to Delaware Mission where the mission actually was. And I was there for a couple days. Then, I ran to my Mexican brother. Stayed with him four about 3 or 4 months. Then went homeless again. On the streets. Taking care of business. Come here. Do my thing at Horizon House. Wash my clothes. Shower. I actually had a job when I was homeless this past year working at the car wash over here. Lost that job.

NUVO: Why did you lose it?

Man 2: I had a death in the family and I didn’t let them know I was leaving. Then, I went back to Texas. Then, I came back up here. So, unfortunately, I’ve been homeless, like I said, off and on for two years now. I mean, I got places where I hit and go. Stay with a friend here. Stay with a friend there. Most of the time, I’m under a bridge over here. So.

NUVO: Is enough being done in Indianapolis for homeless people? Are there enough places to stay? Is there enough to eat?

Man 2: Food-wise, yes. Places, no.

NUVO: No? Have you ever had trouble finding a place to stay?

Man 2: Sometimes, yeah.

NUVO: What do you do in those cases?

Man 2: I just go back under the bridge where I come from. If I can’t get a shelter or nothing, I’ll just go back down there.

NUVO: As far as places to wash your clothes, free medical clinics, is there enough of that?

Man 2: No, I think there should be more. But, I think they got them here. I mean, they got them all over town, but sometimes they’re just so far away some people can’t even get to them.

NUVO: Have you ever had that problem?

Man 2: No, I come for my medical. If I really need medical, man, I’ll walk to the hospital.

NUVO: What else could be added to the services? What do we need more of in Indianapolis for the homeless population?

Man 2: Honestly, more shelters. I think they should put enough more to where they can like a halfway house for people they can bring off the streets. You know? And help them out. Help them out with their addictions. Drug addictions, sexual addictions, gambling addictions, alcohol addictions.

NUVO: Do you see a lot of homeless that are addicted.

Man 2: (quietly) A lot.

NUVO: And how do you feel about that?

Man 2: I mean, it’s sad to see, but there ain’t nothing I can do. I wish I could, but I can’t.

NUVO: So, what else. You’ve experienced it first-hand.

Man 2: I mean, there should be a lot more clothing, clothing pantries for homeless people. You know, to where they can go in and get a couple outfits here and there when they need them. Like this time of the year, it’s hard to get clothes. Sometimes you miss out to where, you know, they’ll come out and you’re not there, then, you’ll just miss out on the whole thing.

NUVO: What about trying to find a job? Are you trying to find one right now?

Man 2: Oh yeah. So far, it’s looking good. Cause I’m close, if I move to the Southside he’ll give me a job.

Ann Beattie's Seven Truths about Writers

Excerpt from Beattie's new book Mrs. Nixon. I found them humorous.

1. They take souvenirs of Important Evenings for their “mother.” This is like taking leftovers home for the “dog.” Of course, some mothers do get the souvenirs and some dogs do get the scraps. However, it is not likely.

2. If they find a copy of Richard Yates’s Eleven Kinds of Loneliness, they buy it. It is as if they’ve found a baby on the front step. They peek inside, examine the dog-earing, the marginal scribbles. Or perhaps it’s a clean copy, which carries its own kind of sadness. In either case, they embrace it, though they already have multiple copies. Those are irrelevant to the one they would be abandoning if they left the book behind. This is a hostess gift you can give any fiction writer, guaranteed to delight her even though she already has it. Regifting becomes an act of spreading civilization.

3. It makes the writer’s day if he or she can include the opinions of a truly stupid character or text in the story, punctuating those announcements with exclamation points, which are the icing on the cake. This situation is to be found in novels, too, but novelists are less likely to be immensely flattered if you have noticed their needle in the haystack(!). For particularly adept and judicious uses of the exclamation point, see the works of Joy Williams and Deborah Eisenberg.

4. Without these things, many contemporary American short stories would grind to a halt: fluorescent lights; refrigerators; mantels. They are its gods, or false gods. In that it is difficult to know Him, these stand-ins are often misspelled.

5. Poets go to bed earliest, followed by short story writers, then novelists. The habits of playwrights are unknown.

6. Writers are very particular about their writing materials. Even if they work on a computer, they edit with a particular pen (in my case, a pen imprinted “Bob Adelman”); they have legal pads about which they are very particular—size, color—and other things on their desk that they almost never need: scissors; Scotch tape. Few cut up their manuscripts and crawl around the floor anymore, refitting the paragraphs or rearranging chapters, because they can “cut” and “paste” on the computer. As a rule, writers keep either a very clean desktop or a messy one. To some extent, this has to do with whether they’re sentimental.

7. Writers wear atrocious clothes when writing. So terrible that I have been asked, by the UPS man, “Are you all right?” An example: stretched-out pajama bottoms imprinted with cowboys on bucking broncos, paired with my husband’s red thermal undershirt (no guilt; he wouldn’t even wear such a thing in Alaska) and a vest leaking tufts of down, with a broken zipper and a rhinestone pin in the shape of pouting lips. Furry socks with embossed Minnie Mouse faces (the eyes having deteriorated in the wash) that clash with all of the above.

It might be two years old, but it's relevant - "One For the Good Guys" (it's also written by Dave Eggers).

The link above is a book review about Kurt Vonnegut's book of short stories Look at the Birdie.

I've been doing some volunteer work for the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library. I've never personally seen an entire city adopt an author so readily and whole-heatedly. It's extremely satisfying to see constant remembrances of a man, an artist who just seemed to have things right. My favorite line from the article is, "In a 2003 interview, when asked the softball question 'How are you?' he answered: 'I’m mad about being old, and I’m mad about being American. Apart from that, O.K.'”

A giant mural of Vonnegut has gone up on Massachusetts Avenue. It seems damn near twenty feet tall and captures perfectly that sagacious smile right beneath that perfect Midwest mustache of his.

Vonnegut had a lot of good things to say about people and about his home, Indianapolis. Even though his genre of choice, science fiction, was one most people shrug off, I think he pushed the boundaries of literature and, if I can say so, human thought.

So, all of this is to say, today is Kurt Vonnegut's birthday - his 89th. Let's remember him in the way we all might see fit.

I extend a question to you...

This post on Melville House's website really got me to thinking about my reading choices as of late. I read a couple of Pynchon's in a row and then moved on to a Vollmann. My brain was foggy and muddled after all that. I really needed some fresh air. So, I chose Hans Fallada's Little Man, What Now?.
It was exactly what I needed. Simple, concise, and full of relatable characters. So, what's your favorite readable author and/or books? In stormy seas, who do you call upon to clear the skies?

http://mhpbooks.com/41882/in-praise-of-readability/

Terrible 1Q84 review

I'm as excited for the book as anyone else (yes, I'm still waiting on my copy to come in the mail - Amazon messed up), but this review just left a sour taste in my mouth before I'd even tried the main course. There is a comparison to Stieg Larson's characters and a mention of the 900-pager's potential to strain your arm. Well, if you've been hefting around such intellectual lights as "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo," then, yes, this book might cause you to pull a muscle in your brain.

There was a time when I would look to NPR for advice on books, but this has been some time ago. Just read this review and see one of the many reasons why I've quit them.

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/25/141460070/1q84-japans-orwellian-bestseller-comes-to-u-s

V.

Much has been written about the enigmatic and ever-elusive author Thomas Pynchon. Entire wikis are dedicated to recording every noun, allusion, instance of symbolism, and historical fact in his novels. Academia has has been attempting to describe his works for over 30 years with Pynchon Notes. I prefer a moderate stance. To me, his books are just a golden ticket in to his universe. You may take a guided tour and follow the story arc all the way to the end, but when that glass elevator bursts through the ceiling of his factory, you turn to face Pynchon, but he's gone. The elevator is hit with a guided missile and you're left plummeting toward the earth.

Despite being his first novel, V. is no exception to feelings of free-fall and a mountain of questions when you reach the finish. It's essentially the story of two protagonists - one, content with lazing away his days on the streets or bumming around in friends' houses and another fervently searching for "V," whom he believes could be his long-lost mother. As we read, more instances of "V" are found - a mad priest who is trying to convert his rat/lover/devout follower, Veronica; a Utopian land, Vheissu that may or may not exist; and, finally, the capital of Malta, Valletta. Yes, there are more, but lest I risk spoiling any of the fun, I will refrain from including them.

So much is packed in to this novel. Pynchon's erudition is undeniable, but this doesn't prevent him from including comical slap-stick relief and potty humor. From condom bombs to erections to climbing radio towers so the waves will render one sterile, it's all there. The plot of the novel does follow somewhat of a delineated path. The beginning of the novel has our protagonists thousands of miles apart, but as the book progresses, they eventually come closer and closer, until finally meeting each other and heading off together to search for "V" in Valletta. There are many sidetracks and side character stories, but it's not quite as labyrinthine as Pynchon's later novel, Gravity's Rainbow.

I could go on and on about this book, but I almost prefer not to. I don't think it's meant to analyzed so closely. I believe much of the book is about searching and persevering whether or not you know what it is you're looking for. Reading this book is like following bread crumbs. Along the way, you'll find something that another person definitely missed.

The "Iliad" translated again

Do we need another one - or another four in one month? This month, four new translations of Homer's "Iliad" are due to be released, according to The Economist. You might expect to see the same result time after time, but in the article below, starkly different translations of the same line are presented as well as short profiles of the translators and their style - a couple staunch, dusty old men from academia, one poetess, and a reissued translation.

http://www.economist.com/node/21532253

Henry Rollins & Henry Miller

I never really held as much respect for Henry Rollins as the man deserves until I saw him speak at the Buskirk Chumley Theatre in Bloomington, IN over a year ago. He spoke for over three hours, sails at full-mast, engines revving the whole time. I was riveted. I remember leaving the venue and just thinking, "Holy shit. What an intelligent man." I felt as if I'd run mental marathon and was experiencing the post-run high. He's full of insights on everything ranging from foreign policy to F. Scott Fitzgerald. I'd never attended a spoken work performance of any kind before and I don't know if I ever can again - Rollins set the bar too high.

Check out this awesome interview with Rollins on Bookslut. He talks about his books; one of my favorite authors, Henry Miller; and other topics of interest.

http://www.bookslut.com/features/2011_10_018191.php

Melville's been occupyin' for a century and a half

Check out this post from The Millions proving how relevant literature from 150+ years ago still resonates as strongly as ever.

http://www.themillions.com/2011/10/bartleby%E2%80%99s-occupation-of-wall-street.html

Nabokov's Lolita

Did you know Lolita's cover has been through many changes over the years including this most recent design? But, did you know that the cover was originally supposed to be vertical, not horizontal? Check it out: http://housingworksbookstore.tumblr.com/post/10735628268/fun-fact-i-heard-at-chip-kidd-lecture-this-cover

Books

A friend of mine recently told me about his troubles with trying to find a reading group in downtown Chicago. The problem wasn't that what they were reading didn't interest him, but that they simply did not allow males into the group. These groups are hindering themselves from having a male perspective and simply another voice to be heard in the group - one with a unique outlook. I don't understand this problem. Is this a throwback to knitting groups, red hat societies, cliques? I say it only hurts a group to not be all-inclusive and it seems old-fashioned.

Another thing I've noticed is that reading groups seem to read the same books. Just Google "reading group suggestion" or "best book club books" and you'll find nearly the same lists site after site after site, e.g.:

The Russian Concubine
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
The Help
The Art of Racing in the Rain
People of the Book

I think with this blog I'll attempt to make suggestions and add comments or points for discussion. Hopefully, this will help diversify and make book clubs seem a little more progressive.

Brief posting for now. Check for more later.

Passing the time

Since winter hit, I've been striving to squander as much of my money as I can and get my hours cut as much as possible - or at least that's how it seems. I'll spare you the painful details of my financial accounts, but I will say that I only work about twenty-five hours a week. Of course, I've been squandering the hours and whittling down the last few months in Durango as much as possible as well.
I started spending four of my idle hours a month by volunteering with a program called TAMBO. For an afternoon, I'm partnered with an awesome kid. Aren't all kids awesome? - just little bundles of kinetic and frenetic energy and optimism. Most of the kids in the program have some sort of disability, be it cognitive or physical and ranges the whole gamut of severe to mild. Caveat: the program takes place in a building with a large gymnastics facility.
There's a seventeen year old, Jack, who's a big 'ol boy. He loves Alice in Wonderland and he can quote the whole movie. Every time I sit down next to him and try to talk to him about the movie, he quotes it loudly and then peering out of the corner of his eye, I can see him looking me up and down and then attempting to mimic my posture. I taught him the "cool man handshake" a week ago. He got it down in no time.
There's Emily, who, I suppose you could say is wheelchair bound. But, as soon as she is out of the chair, she uses her strongest arm to pull herself toward the large trampoline in the back. She can't jump, so she has to be held. I cradled her in my arms and sat her in my lap. She looked at me with her one eye and stopped laughing even while I was trying to bounce her on the trampoline. A serious look came over her face and she took her arm from around my neck. Scrutinizing my face carefully, she took her hand and started petting my beard. The smile came back and I think I heard a little giggle.
At the end of the night, when the lights in the gym are switched off and the floors vacuumed, the program coordinator gives a brief speech about the importance of volunteerism and how much we matter. For four hours on a Saturday, parents with kids with disabilities can drop their child off and go have some time to themselves, take a breather, and decompress a bit. It feels great to be appreciated and know that you're helping someone and hopefully making an impact as well.
I've also managed to fill some idle hours each week by hanging out with my friend, Gam. He's from Nepal and his English is terrible, even after four years in the States. He works six days a week and during his off day he's in school, studying English, and that's where I come in. I hang out with him for an hour and we just talk about whatever he wants to talk about or whatever I feel he needs to know. I'm trying to teach him what a subject and verb is.
I've been to Gam's house twice now for lunch. Today was time number two. His wife is a stout little woman, but cooks giant and delicious meals. She scoops spoon after spoon on to my plate until I have to adamantly and politely refuse. It's some of the best home-cooked food I've had.
Today, after the meal, Gam told me a little bit about his life. I listened with a bloated and bubbling belly. He was in the Indian army in Iraq for fifteen years. He retired from that and moved back to his homeland of Nepal. He lived in a small and remote village with little electricity but a great view of the Himalayas. After that he signed on with the British army and served for a few years in Iraq. Sometimes it's difficult to understand him, so I'm not sure how, but he ended up going from Iraq to the United States.
Now he lives in a trailer in a pretty rough-looking part of town. There are only a few material items in his home and most of them look as if they've been scavenged out of dumpsters. A few holes in his trailer's wall show small bits of light coming through. He says America is a wonderful place. He never stops smiling and laughing. He always opens the door for you and then claps his hands together and with a huge smile, bows to you and comes up giggling. Namaste, my friend and best of luck to you.
And, to all of you, Namaste. Thanks for reading.

WeirdThingsGeorgeSaysAndDoes.Com Pt. 3

Let us say it's near 5 a.m. and he's already driving up and now over Wolf Creek Pass. The construction work, which will commence soon, would make it a slow-going process, but those fuzzy-looking men are just arriving at the work site with Thermoses and cigarettes. The dawn is sounding off like fireworks and setting the mountains ablaze.
He swoops down the pass and stops at a diner. Inside, he sits and orders a simple breakfast with a black coffee. He's on his way to an estate sale, where the remnants of an existence will be auctioned off with less than a hollow remembrance.
"People die and I buy their stuff. Things accumulated over a life time and it ends up in my store," he thinks. "Hopefully these bastards weren't as cheap as the last ones to kick the bucket."
Breakfast done, he steps outside the diner. Across the street he sees the pawn shop he frequents when he's in the area. It's a narrow hall full of junk with floor-to-ceiling windows at the front. A sign reading "Closed" hangs on the door and two Victorian-era nudes hang on the back wall. They're beautiful.
He walks back to the car and as he pulls on the door handle, the owner of the pawn shop pulls up.
"Hey," he yells, "I see you got two big nudes in the back there. How you want for 'em?"
She turns and stares.
"Well, a man from Pagosa's 'sposed come look at 'em today. But, I guess it wuddn't hurt for you to take a look."
She unlocks the door and he makes straight toward the pictures. They're just what he thought. Originals. Beautiful. And should catch a pretty penny if he were to sell them.
He fingers the tight wad of cash in his pocket and walks up to the desk.
"I'll give you twenty-five hundred for 'em. Cash."
And before she can bat a lash, he's slapping the bills on her desk in a lustful fashion that not even a monk could resist.
"Well, OK," she says. "I'll just close up for the rest of the day and hope he don't come knockin' too loud on my door."
He contentedly grabs the large frames and sees behind them two semi-nice-looking landscapes.
"Oh yeah, them," the lady owner says. "Take them too. Have 'em for free."
Well, damn, he thinks. Can't beat that, can ya?
With the pictures loaded, it's lunch time. He drives a few miles and stops at another diner. It's almost the same one where he ate breakfast.
He seats himself at another laminate table with saggy vinyl booths and orders a cheesburger. A few minutes later, a man walks in looking quite out of place. He fidgets uneasily at the front of the diner and removes his hat. The man makes his way toward his table.
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
"No, have a seat," he says.
They exchange pleasantries and small talk.
"Where ya from," he asks.
"I just arrived in town from Pagosa," he replies.
"Yeah, what do you do there?"
"I'm an art dealer and would like to consider myself an avid collector as well."
Oh, and there's the wrenching gut feeling of, damn, I did something I shouldn't have.
"What you doing here in town?"
"I heard of a woman here who has a couple rare Victorian era paintings. I was planning on purchasing them."
He stares across at the uneasy-looking man and mumbles something - a "hm" or "oh" or "howboutdat."
He eats the rest if his lunch in a hurry and mumbles a "nice to meet you" and off he goes.
What are the chances of that happening?, he utters to himself. Well, now for the whole reason I came up here. To the estate sale.
Perusing the deceased couple's goods yields nothing. Junk, as usual and a bunch of idiots buying it, too. Within thirty minutes, he's arrived and left. He takes a different route home to avoid the construction on the pass. It's still early afternoon. On the outskirts of town, he spies another pawn shop; one he's never been to. A man sits in a rocking chair on the porch, puffing on a cigarette. He parks close to the man, says hi, and walks in.
Junk again. Nothing. The cigarette-smoking man comes in.
"See you got some nice big flowery-lookin' paintins' out there in yer truck," the man says. "Let me show ya something."
"Well, OK," he says.
The man steps into a back rooms and emerges in a cloud of dust a moment later with a large bundle of papers.
POOOOFFFFFFFFF - and the old man blows a dragon's breath of collected dirt into the shop's atmosphere.
"Lookey here," the man says. "About a few some-odd weeks ago, some nice-lookin' fella pawned these to me."
The man presents him with a bulging portfolio of original Victorian prints. He knows it when he sees it - these are worth hundreds of dollars each. He shivers like a nervous cat and says, "These are nice. How much did you give for them?"
"Oh," the man replies, "prolly 'bout ninety dollars. Been back there for a while. Give 'em to ya for a hundred."
He gives him a bill or two from his pocket without looking and makes for the door before the man can change his mind.
The sun is nearly below the western mountains and he turns the ignition key. How can one man have so much luck? he thinks. He almost wants to return everything he's procured from today's travels. But, on second thought, no.
A few years later he sold the two Victorian paintings for twenty-thousand dollars and finally got rid of the burdensome feeling of strange luck.
True story - mostly.

A residual self-image of my online persona

I am fickle and callow and oft thought of as naive. Social media has worn thin upon me and I feel as if I'm dragging through the dregs looking for something most mornings when I wake up, eat breakfast, and plug in to the netherworld of false connections.
I read an article recently in New York magazine about our personal digital imprints and what happens to them (some might go so far as to say, "What happens to my online self...") when we ("...I...") die. People now live solely online and less so through personal ephemera, photo albums, journals, and such. Our children will click endlessly through our Facebook albums and Flickr accounts to find out what kind of people we were. Who were mommy and daddy? Are they the people making raunchy faces and lewd gestures at some house party or are they the docile folks in these posed, yet slightly hip sepia photos? Will my children search for this blog in lieu of physical journals penned by me and what the hell will they think of me because of it?
I strangely feel as if I'm looking into a fogged mirror and staring back at me is an otherworldly self whenever I see "my profile." People who I've barely met have somehow come to be my "friends" and it feels very queer when that thuggish high school drop out with whom you may or may not have achieved and altered state of consciousness when both of you were quite young wishes you a happy birthday. I feel semi-violated, almost as if a pedestrian wished me the same.
Too much is digital - books, movies, music, newspapers, magazines, photographs, communications, and even myself.

I am now a residual self-image of my online persona.

"A human being is a part of the whole that we call the universe, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical illusion of his consciousness. This illusion is a prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for only the few people nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living beings and all of nature." -A. Einstein