I have a tablet.  It’s called an Ipad.  You stare into it and it tells you whatever you want it to tell you.  It is a total frenemy.  It never gives you a chance to tell your side of the story.  You can squeeze a word in here and there on social networks, where you are sold and quartered by interest and preference like cattle.  Amazon buys your backstrap.  The Democratic party is happy to buy the leftovers to make scrapple.  On Twitter you cruise by one another, high-fiving and chin ‘supping your bros, with no time for a conversation.  Twitter’s all like, “How are you man?”  But Twitter would cringe awkwardly if you tried to unburden your soul.  If you are lost in the crowd in Tahir Square when the lights go out and the bullets start flying, I hear it is a useful tool.  That’s why I keep my account active.  #mitigate.

My point is, I have a home base again.  A good old Desktop computer, provided by one of my sponsors here at the BRC, LoPo.  A folding table, a second-hand keyboard, and it’s like I never left.  I dismantled my station when LOVE moved in, which is the only acceptable answer.  LOVE is settled, and so I followed my heart.  It lead me right back to this spot against the wall, facing 17 degrees north, which if you draw a straight line goes all the way up to Nova Scotia, then across the ocean to Ireland, then over the flat edge of the earth across the blackness to arrive right back at this desk.  I can hear this exact transmission whispering across the universe and sneaking up behind me.

For two years I let the internet have the last word, and now I have something to say again.



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