Wednesday, January 31, 2001
11:55 p.m. I'll end
this month's entries with another nice cover from the past
that depicts The Future as we'll never know it. If aliens
land and destroy us, at least we won't be wearing those '50s
peasant blouses and those black cinch belts and those
bad-girl "tight" skirts. And we won't be crawling along the
parched earth and pausing for portraits in a provocative,
sweaty pose ... longing, waiting, hoping for that big guy to
come along and scoop us up and out of harm's way.
I used to have a much better handle on the future than I
do right now. This is probably a feature of my encroaching
decrepitude, but I've been averting my eyes lately. I just
don't know what's going to happen. I used to know. Now, I
don't know. I used to be sure of my way. Now, I'm not so
sure.
I used to think I had a career -- now, I'm not so sure. I
used to think I was a writer. Now, ditto. I used to think I
wanted success, acclaim, money ... now, I'm sure I don't
know how to handle those shiny globes. I've bought the '50s
myth that shiny things bring you nothing but misery and a
longing for cigarettes and gin in the middle of the
night.
Black and white lugubrious futures stuck somewhere in the
past. A Star is Born and somewhere else a star goes nova and
somewhere else a star winks back and there are so many many
stars and so little time to study their trajectories.
So it's 2001. We still don't have hover cars. Or video
phones. We didn't even bother going back to the moon, let
alone the planets, let alone the stars. There are no handy
home replicators and most of the people on this earth are
hungry and many more are unloved and it's still a crime to
sleep in the street.
But we have each other. People continue to share recipes
and secrets and blueprints.
The Future is still under construction, I guess. On the
back burner. In dreams.
I'm sad tonight, but that will pass. Into the past.
Forward the future.
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