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Thursday, May. 02, 2002
Often times it's like flying with wax attached feathers across the land and dropping unbidden into someone's third bedroom - the junk room - the one with the computer. The one having the only table lamp in the house which is still burning, at 11 pm.

Reading internet diaries. That's what I'm talking about.

I have way too many of them on hand. A listing here, a favorites site there. I read quickly but not quickly enough to cover the ground that they demand. I swoop the East Coast, the mountains, off to the Northwest, cover the Pacific Rim and return for the run over the heartland. And what is it about the Midwest that spawns so many journalists? Or is it journalers?

It takes a significant amount of time to do it all. It is time that could be spent doing things worthy and wise. But what is more worthy than making sense out of words heartfelt, funny words, or words which cut and demand thought. Written by third bedroom people in the middle of the night.

They plunge into the pool of instant review land here on this medium which is still new. They plunge, even if they go hesitantly and with trepidation, because there is no return from the moment of completeness brought on by hitting that send button. It instantly bares the soul, even if the soul of the instant is complaining of bunions and cat litter and neighbors with small and vocal progeny.

And so we go. We read, we wait. The cat litter entries and the other ones. Where cries for help or victorious cheering erupt. We compare, we extol. We attempt to capture the flight of imagination, which created such beauty, even as we ourselves fly overhead peering into the lighted window with the monitor glow that is the sunlamp of a new generation of writing and creating. Lives captured by cables and wire and small green circuit boards installed by people wearing white suits in dust free rooms.

For a short time, I am you, and you are me. It is good to share with you the mind we all might have.

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