Tossing A Life Line

The computer is defragmenting, with the moving picture on the screen of molecules gadding whimsically between a pair of test tubes. When it's done, like it's time to wipe it's ass, a digital drain spout appears, vortex circling into the cyber-shit I dive into first thing every morning. Habits are always degrading.

There's no such thing as cyberspace. I'm still annoyed at the culture that grew from our failed dot com craze of 1990s. Great at holding a grudge, everyone was thrilled and smug about the new language, and the new Silly String jet of fresh perception. 'Cyberspace' was believed to be something so brilliant and accessible and intangible that it had to do a better job than God or Jesus at making them better off. And better than people who don't dig computers. I was still a pink ludite in the 1980s, and my ass is still stinging from the alienation that resulted.

I won't be mistaken for Noah. Last time I got a directive from on high, I was tripping. It was, like, take the things that made you an asshole, and place them in the forge. Then do an Aldous Huxley on the way people drink you in. Sell something. Wear a decent suit. Talk like a powerhouse.

You have to take your own turd-in-the-punchbowl dysfunctionalities and build an arc from the goofy timbers. The new salvation is in jettisoning from the boat the giraffes and zebras who might steal your job or default on the rent. Like Satan, a rhesis monkey is a liar. But you needn't sail alone. You will be needing an entourage when the raft of drift wood beaches. After the deluge, it's gonna be a gas.