Sometimes the diode burns brightly; other times, it burns out. Not so profound a sentiment, I imagine, unless you ascribe to the idea that it is the poet’s job to state that which is so obvious as to have seemed prosaic, until mentioned; and to merely remind you of what was already profound in its own right. Then, of course, I would be writing poetry. I will leave it to your rather discerning judgement to decide. But at core, it is true; and between the two poles I swing.

Rolling inexorably, though exhaustingly, towards the conclusion of the MMW project. I know the blue progress bar on my little iMac intimately, its quirks and flaws, its cute little skip at 66.63%. I know what the trench looks like where U.S. soldiers, test-subjects all, sat awaiting the nuclear explosions out in the desert. I have seen the Russians rioting in Petrograd and defending Stalingrad and then seen young girls, later, go through paroxysms of joy at seeing Josef Stalin. I have seen Hungarians martyred, monkeys vaulted into space, riots in Tokyo and Berlin and all through Argentina, treaties signed, Poland lost, and Ghandi speak. I am not one with this world, but I do ride a celluloid crest that resembles it, bleached of color, in its most extreme moments– at least this century. Would that I could digitize some memory of the Mongols, the Ottomans, the Great Zimbabwe, Tlaxaca, or the Forbidden City.

Perhaps most exciting of all, I have learned a lot about video, Final Cut Pro, codecs and streaming… enough to rip DVDs and make them my own. Tonight I venture into the Blue Planet, perhaps my favorite documentary series ever.