Feckless Entanglement
By R. D. Flavin

7-26-13

Sunrise doesn't last all morning
A cloudburst doesn't last all day
Seems my love is up and has left you with no warning
It's not always going to be this grey

     Recently, I attempted a punctuation reach-around while engaged in textual intercourse and my clumsy thumbs couldn't pull off the inverted question mark (¿).  I'm unsure if it rises to a White Men Can't Jump moment, maybe more along the lines of Pearl Harbor's unpreparedness in ¡Tora! ¡Tora! ¡Tora!, but it definitely caused some rictus interruptus as I subsequently pressed SEND and now my personal social media cult has an erroneous recipe for Gyro Loaf with Tzatziki Mashed instead of a new spin on fish tacos.  Beyond the virtual veil of tinted transparency, we are exposed as naked newborns only older and with cooler diapers.  It's said that savored successes are transitory, but media mistakes last forever.  However, considerations of perpetuity are a feckless entanglement as even though I still remember my multitudinous log-in names and passwords, my current speeding train of thought has been derailed and I'm stuck in another thematic jerkwater with no place to go but forward.  Diversionary asides?  ¡Not a problem!  Err, make that “¡No problemo!”  Okay, no es un problema...

All things must pass
All things must pass away

     So, my Facepalm® page needs work.  I'd be hard pressed to say if I truly feel it's any easier to stay in touch with friends and enemies today than, say, twenty years ago.  The lack of a national cell-phone directory has significantly diminished my occasional late-night drunken telephone binges.  Google's sacred algorithms continue to improve and, as a researcher in a variety of fields, I've noticed punctuated improvements from time to time.  Finding e-mail addresses is hit and miss, as it seems somewhere in the vicinity of 90-95% of onliners begin as “Joe Smith” and get stuck with Jsmi3624hike@wtf.com.  As I've been a struggling writer all of my adult life, I've consistently used my real name and Social Security number at all of the temp-jobs I've had, and during my post-1996 web-years I've always posted to the Condiment Abuser forums with my actual name and a valid e-mail address.  Yeah, some writers dig pseudonyms and then there are the folks who feel proud to attach their correct names to the True Blood fan-fiction stories which feature Jessica as a legal eighteen year-old vampire instead of an underaged seventeen year-old sultry succubus.  Deleting that pic of me with the overweight Wonder Woman would be a good start...

Sunset doesn't last all evening
A mind can blow those clouds away
After all this, my love is up and must be leaving
It's not always going to be this grey

     Though it's casually wise to follow the advice of Dr. Richard “Baba Ram Dass” Alpert and “Be Here Now,” some attention to the digital afterlife (var. E-Heaven/Hell) should be shown.  Google's Inactive Account Manager puts in place an automated notice sent to a “trusted contact” after a period of inactivity (i.e., death) which allows a proxy to manage one's G-Mail, YouTube account, and various other Google products.  Sure, some are lucky enough to have executors and estate planners to answer questions regarding that wild weekend in Portage, Indiana during the mid-'70s or to grant permission to use that video of a cat playing the jam-riff of “Freebird” on air-guitar, but most and many are faced with sporadic remembrance, then nostalgia archiving to deepening obscurity, and then sooner or later, I'm sorry, who were we discussing again?  Forever is a conceit kowtowing to the law of conservation of energy without considering that cute and sucky Black Hole 200 parsecs down the road (V4641 Sagittarii).  There comes a time to turn off the lights and go home.

All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
None of life's strings can last
So, I must be on my way
And face another day

     Mayans dealt with the illusory māyā by becoming dedicated monarchophiles in much the same way as too many today are consumed by Reality Television at the expensive of the sound of that bottle being smashed in the next room.  Though, walking and chewing medicated gum at the same time, this week's birth of Kate and Harry's kid, George Alexander Louis (aka His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge), did occupy us more than Wall Street.  As when splitting a pair in blackjack and doubling down, as you make one good before the other, one would think that most are concerned with taking care of this life and leaving the afterlife to others.  Yet, some hold that seeing Nate beneath the opine tree (John 1:50) was a portent of some future time when all will be converted à la the Mormon Baptism of the Dead.  “This means something.  This is important,” was Roy Neary's assessment, but as I gaze upon my Tzatziki Mashed potatoes I know there's another after the Nine Billion Names of God.  I'm sure I can't spell it correctly or maybe not even pronounce it properly, but there's always another.  Well, at least until such a time when there isn't.

Now the darkness only stays the night-time
In the morning it will fade away
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time
It's not always going to be this grey

     Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't mean one has to scamper after the pack.  I have nothing against sexting as a means of flirtatious communication, though because of my tactile dysfunction (oh, the stories my thumbs could tell) I usually just watch.  Maybe I need a bigger keypad...  In much the same way as Mom always encouraged me to wear clean underwear in case I got hit by a car and had to be taken to a hospital, it stands to reasonable decency that I should do my best as far as spelling and punctuation is concerned as the NSA is building a new data-storage facility in Utah to hold copies of all my telephone calls, texts, e-mails, IMs, and forum postings.  When it opens this fall it's expected to be able to hold a yottabyte of my stuff (1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 bytes), which is fine by me as long we can hold off digital decay and avoid attacking ourself with a CHAMP (Counter-electronics High-powered Advanced Missile Project) electromagnetic pulse missile.  I never imagined the dreaded Blue Screen of Death as a factual metaphor for life.  I wonder how long it will take for human burial to be considered hazardous waste and outlawed.

All things must pass
All things must pass away
All things must pass
All things must pass away
“All Things Must Pass” by George Harrison (1970, Apple Records).

     It's said we can't tickle ourselves and I'm sure the Engineers had a good reason for designing us so.  Reputations are likewise a limited organic function dependent on others and largely confabulated through error and erosion, as eventually the square peg is forced into the round hole.  Saving social media currency seems a short-term exercise with no guarantee of permanence.  Spend it if ya' got it!  It's only been fifteen years since Oogachaka Baby was a desktop commonplace, but the video hasn't aged well at all.  Neither have I.  All of our entanglements are destined for the singularity next door, so maybe I should start sexting with my feet.  And whither then?  I cannot say.

Inefficaciously unlocking my screen,
Rick

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