My Outbox

Every so often, I get moved by an idea so wonderful that *not* writing it down would be criminal. Usually, I get this wind of inspiration with the pipe variety. And so I find myself on the bus or walking in the street, tripping out on the way the world works and finding little bits of insight here and there. I would love to get these moments down for future meditation and extrapolation, but sheets of paper or pen are out of reach.

Meanwhile, the next best thing to letter-writing and keeping a correspondence with my friends and relatives is using my old Nokia. It's an old piece of junk, a hand-me-down from my sister's old Cingular wireless phone plan. A klunker as this old phone is, it will *not* go away. I've flung it across the room from bruschetta-stained fingers onto pebblewash ten feet away and into peoples' lunches to see it discharge its parts like a space shuttle going into it's third stage of burn.

But it won't die. And it won't delete my correspondences with my thumb pals or with myself. I have this outbox with dozens of little parables I pick up on the way to Kate O'Briens or waiting for the BART underground. Before my 3310 or whatever PoS model this is, I think I ought to download all these little proverbial jots, these stabs at literature. I've begun to copy my phonebook onto my computer. (Word to the wise, this will pay off later on.) It's not a hardcopy which can get lost or burn. It's on a hard drive memory disk of 80 GB which can get lost or burnt just as easily.