Friday, November 19, 2004

Subj:
Date: 11/19/04 11:13:59 AM Pacific Standard Time
To: camille94019@aol.com

Digital Garbage

I just tried to clean out my e-mail boxes. Apple makes it hard to get
rid of things. I deleted everything and then I had to individually
empty the stuff out of the trash and the delete folder a second time.
I was afraid that the messages were just going to get shunted back and
forth. We shall see. When I die, will I be reunited with all of my
deleted e-mails? Will they come back to haunt me sooner than that?
What about all the other garbage that I have thrown away the past 30
years?

Is there a term for the fear of garbage returning to you? I think I
could cultivate an authentic mania if I wanted to. I won't of course.
I know which little voices to ignore.
Most of the time.


Real Crisis

Before I was in a stew trying to get rid of unwanted e-mail, I was
separated from my plan book. The book where all of the things I am
obligated to do for my bread for the next six months are written down.
I retraced my steps, I didn't panic. After years of being me, I have
the routines for relocating lost items down pretty well. I did find
it, in my trunk (of course!) with a bunch of glossy pictures of
flowers-- a perfectly logical place. The next place I would have
looked were the recycling bins. I took out a mountain of recyclables
yesterday. I had already searched my bag, the staff room, my desk and
the Inimitable One's room.

My life is resembling a mysterious
factory-- materials going in, materials going out. Everything in a
state of constant flux. People going in and people going out. Ideas
coming in, scads of communication going out. I feel like a train
station. The endless movement of goods and services. I suppose this
is normal for an adult person in this society. I want everything to
just stop, but I am afraid that that would mean sudden poverty or
death.

Vinyl Epiphanies or Plates of Black Food

Have I mentioned how much fun I am having with the M*ster's record
player? I think I am well on my way to becoming one of those pale,
antisocial record collectors. At 25 cents a pop, I can't go wrong. I
love watching the needle make contact with the groove and then the
sound comes out. I know, its a pretty retarded thrill, but I don't get
any romance from a CD player. All of its mystery is contained in a
boring black box. I noticed that different discs have are heavier. I
picked up some vintage classical music and the ones from Germany weigh
a ton. I also have a couple from England (swing music, no less-- I
think from the fifties). I spent a lovely weds trying to translate the
dirty latin lyrics from the M*ster's copy of the Catulli Burana from
Carl Orff. The liner notes had a funny comment-- "for obvious reasons
we are not going to translate the following lyrics" followed by a long
blank.


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