'Here is a hymn for a post factual democracy sung joyously by the disenchanted and forgotten as they tumble teary eyed into the arms of their oppressors.'
Late night lethargic yet nervy Tallinn viewing of GAME SEVEN elimination pending Eastern conference finals....
Natto, fermenting in my dishwasher.
Koskenranta, Rovamiemi, 7 May 2016. Not so visible are chunks of ice floating by.
Just before start of round two, game two
Just before round 1, game 3.
I had invented a way for people to take really specific artisanal baths. I used the old cassette tape drives from Commodore 64s and came up with a standardised system of bath-related metadata stored on cassette. Then, I made a protocol to attach some specialised hardware (which would control temperature, volume, and additives such as salts, oils or other nice things) to communicate between the cassette tape drive and the bathtub itself. I rigged up a prototype at my aunt's house and I had invited a bunch of investors to her place in order to show them how it worked, but when they got there I discovered my aunt had removed the tub part (the spigots and knobs were still on the wall, rather high up) and placed a sofa underneath. But it was too late to stop the demonstration so water was just pouring onto her sofa and getting it wet. I was pretending like everything was OK and trying to undress to get in the sofa/tub myself, but my t-shirt was really tight and also there were an infinite number of layers, so every time I wiggled out of the t-shirt, there was another one underneath.
Through the years, humanity, like a tide of refugees or pilgrims, shoeless and in rags, or in Mercedes, station wagons, running shoes, were traveling on, joined by others, falling by the way. And we, joined though we may be, briefly, by other strays, or by road travelers on their little detours, nonetheless never quite joined the continuing procession, of life and birth, never quite found or made it to the road. Whose voice is this? Not here. Not mine.