Lately I start thoughts that seem substantive, but turn out to be prosaic and obvious and stupid.
I read a comment somewhere about how language can deprive us of thinking of things with subtlety, and I was thinking yes, we're so attached to binaries and labels that we don't trouble to create vocabulary for the middle grounds. Then my own thoughts reminded me of that stale myth about Eskimos (that's how stale it is -- who says "Eskimo" anymore?) having something like 8,423 words for "snow," and I wanted to punch myself in the face.
Elsewhere, I read the final post of someone I've never met who has decided to stop blogging. So what? We don't really know each other. But I still feel a bit bereft. I'll miss her story. So I was thinking about what a strange thing this kind of loss is, on one hand without substance, on the other, quite real. Then I remembered that duh, it's hardly a new phenomenon, as about nine hundred million Harry Potter fans, including me, can attest.
So I wanted to write something about the nature of loss of online contact. But my head is clearly empty.
If there's a new idea in the universe, folks, you won't read it here.