Socrates said that writing killed the memory. Wonder what a harddrive does.
It's neat to find yourself snooping through one of many discarded 'documents' folders, only to find a really good poem. At least, one you like. And I personally liked stumbling upon this one:
the magic catalyst, knowing
names of elements that color the sky
truths that swim behind a friend's eye
dynamics of contrivance to let men fly
subtler nudges at questions of why
do well to kindle all that growing
yielding fields to wisdom's flowing
that slivers of flesh
like legs through a dress
after long night's sigh
surprise we voyeurs by regular showing
I like what happens towards the end, though I'm still new enough to poetry that I'm not totally sure why. Good feeling. For my birthday, recently, I inflicted an entire chapbook of poems (called Nightmare Paint) on exactly three of my friends. One, in Norway, got a fully digital version, whereas everyone else got printouts of a bunch of .txt files. Not sure why, but Notepad is one of my favorite places to write.
So, yeah. Teaching again. Loving that I get to build a hybrid game studies/media theory course, and loving the media ethics/developer ethics course I get to keep building.
Otherwise, machinations apace.
