I found this on a backup disc from last year. I have only the faintest memory of writing it. Posted with the bare minimum of proofreading.

Carver’s Glen was not what you’d call a decent town. In fact, calling it a town would be charitable. Amounting to little more than a handful of shacks clustered around a wind-scarred general store, it was not the sort of place where anyone could live for long. Prospectors on their way into the Rockies would rest there for a few days, saving their energy for the push across the jagged range that would lead them to fresh wilderness, unpanned rivers and a fortune in gold. Prospectors on their way back east would stop by for slightly longer. Some held fast to denial, telling all who would listen (there was not much choice but to listen, when there was only one saloon) of their inevitable success.

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So here we are. Osama bin Laden - terrorist, religious fundamentalist and angry rich guy - has been pronounced dead by the United States government. Hurray for that, I suppose, but I’m not particularly excited or encouraged by the world’s reaction to this news. I tried very hard this morning (yeah, for like an hour - ed.) not to express any opinions about the announcement, because I really didn’t want to invite others’ indignation upon myself. Unfortunately for all of us, the emotional forces at work here are a bit too clear, the trend too noticeable, and the bloodlust too sickening for me to just keep my mouth shut. I don’t imagine my writing this will accomplish much of anything, but perhaps, if nothing else, it will allow me to move on to things of more immediate importance.

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I thought very hard about whether I should write this. Two weeks ago, I decided that I want to stop sharing my opinions on the internet. After all, if I’m going to add my voice to a discussion, I need to be damn sure that it’s actually going to contribute, and since I’m not really an expert on anything, this doesn’t happen very often. Perhaps, after years of being stubborn and arrogant, I’ve just gotten tired of preaching half-baked nonsense when there are so many more meaningful things I could be doing instead.

But one thing I do feel qualified to talk about is perspective - specifically, what happens when we lose it. Perspective is part of being a functional adult. It allows us to calibrate our reactions to things. Perspective is not just saying “this stuff is important, and this stuff is not.” Rather, it’s the way we decide how to approach problems, and it keeps our emotions in check when things go awry. And I’m beginning to realize that the culture of the internet impairs our ability to do this.

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The afterparty went late into the night. Sullen music echoed across the warehouse roof as disillusioned twenty-somethings shuffled past each other in the August heat. The smell of cigarette smoke and warm beer mixed with the silent, screaming angst of the partygoers, their masks of indifference haggard and misplaced.

Awkward advances fell flat against the glare of the skyline, the girls alternating coquettish and stone-faced while boys fumbled through vapid conversation, struggling to feign disaffection without blowing their chance at temporary relief from self-loathing.

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This post is not a story, nor is it quite an editorial. It is about the thoughts and realizations that led up to me writing it, if that makes any sense.

The past few days have been rather interesting, as far as my writing is concerned. Thanks to a suggestion from the excellent Krystian Majewski, I wanted to write a short story with Roche limits as its central theme. I’m still going to do that, but when I sat down on Sunday and began to write, I just couldn’t get the words out. That happens with fiction. Sometimes, you just have to wait and try again.

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“The Grid. A digital frontier. I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer. What did they look like?”

Thus begins Disney’s Tron: Legacy, the crusty baritone of Jeff Bridges rumbling lazily between programming genius Kevin Flynn and carefree slacker The Dude, who now seems to just be part of the actor’s persona. Thus also appears a remnant - a mere coffee stain - of the film it could have been, of a thought-provoking story whose intricacies were sanded down or simply ignored by standard Hollywood screenplay mangling.

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Lately I’ve become wary of situations in which everyone appears to agree on something. There are plenty of reasons; the most coarse is simply the vague dystopian creepiness of an entire group adhering to an idea without harsh enough inquiry. Less cynical is the scientific concern that homogeneity leads to stagnation, and progress can be stunted when there isn’t enough variation in the gene pool. But perhaps the most important reason - one that I learned from Iain M. Banks’ A Few Notes on the Culture - is this:

It’s boring.

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The break in the clouds lasted several days. It had been years since the sky had permitted more than a glimpse beyond the atmosphere, and now a freak high-pressure system had unfolded the velvet night like a gift. The astronomer would have taken advantage, but he was miles from any observatory, and he knew the constellations by heart. He would have gained nothing from retracing his charts, aside from the small comfort of a familiar tableau. He had learned to live without such respite.

He no longer dwelt on the uncertain future. The centuries had taught him that.

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I miss photographing animals. Since I have few opportunities to snap photos in the wild, I took advantage of a day trip to the Norwalk Aquarium in CT.

I’m visiting family in New York for the rest of the week. Went through some old photo albums at my mom’s place and found these. Sorry about the reflections; I snapped them with my phone camera on the kitchen table.