...I think it's been too long.
I used to sit at this keyboard every coupla days and force my thoughts through the tunnel. From this side of the wall they'd start out as an undisciplined mob of memories, impressions, and opinions.
Out there they'd show up as metaphors and missives; allegories and allusions.
I think it's been too long.
I'm pretty sure they weren't ever the most important words in the datastream that is the information age.
But they were mine.
They were my mark on an everchanging universe of opinions and shared ... no, I mean Shared!, experiences.
They were a proof that I existed. An erasable touchstone that no one would ever have the energy or impetus to completely erase.
And then I almost died.
And they were suddenly unimportant to me.
Now with no excuses, I'm not sure I need them anymore.
Oh sure, I want them -- those ... words that connect me with you; that find you even when I don't know where to look, or how to make you know we should be connected.
But the need ... after months of a different fight, doesn't punch the inside of my gut the same.
And in that way "my" life enjoys its irony -- the hunger is fleeting in an era where I've so much to say.
You know I'm aching to talk Barack, and Hill, and Russert, and that goddam R. Kelly.
I have ... questions.
Like:
What the hell was Kevin Garnett talking about?
and
Why do I dislike Michelle so much, but get so fing pissed off when other people talk badly about her?
Oh ... and I haven't told you about my trip to the DNC Rules Committee meeting in Washington where the determination was made about delegates from the Disneyland and Motown.
That was some rich shit.
Oh, and the Supreme Court. I've got ... thoughts.
Yeah ... and the media's pornification of my hero Mr. Russert.
Awwww fuckit.
I may as well write.
Stand by...
Peace,
--Stew.
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