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Saturday, June 10, 2000


I finished a major milestone for Megacorp late last night, clacking away on my little PowerMac set atop a huge desk with wires trailing away--a hi-tech hacker's device plugged directly into the nerve system of Megacorp Central, feeding keystrokes in and pixels out, then folded away into a backpack, wires curled on top, and taken away with me as if I were never there; no trace left behind but the small water bottles stacked sideways in the wall-mounted file holder, with the cold ones on top, room temp ones on the bottom where they're pulled out and consumed, the rest cascading into place like a push-button vending machine ("nerd feeder" in the local lingo).


So today I took a breather, a little interlude in the mad dash to damnation, and filed away email--a task suspiciously similar to the one I thought I was resting from. I cut it down from over three hundred to under sixty, but it's a futile act, like trimming back weeds that like to be pruned. The activity just spawns new growth and if you let it go just a moment too long things are right back where they were and shooting onward. I could pull it up by the roots, pull the plug, the root that feeds the bits into the growing body of email, but alas I too graze on these leaves of information and would lead a much less productive life without them. So it continues, the email cycle, me attempting to keep it under a hundred for a week or two until finally it breaks free, accelerates, engulfs me until I can't see the forest through the weeds any more and then I give in and let it go until I have the time to gather my forces and attack it with full attention.

Tara's packing up her belongings as I type. We're to move her to Santa Cruz tomorrow, away from this toxic air and into the land of the granola trust-fund hippies. It's only an hour away but it's at least half way to Maui, for better or worse or both.

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Simon Funk / simonfunk@gmail.com