Note to self: get a funny group of friends and write sketches. 

http://juanberrio.blogspot.com/

Haha, the second one is crazy. I wonder how often that is searched for. . . tried on several computers so it's not just me.

Emails are a glorious thing, but at the same time they are a life sucking alien that just wants to feed off your soul to spawn its own mutant off springs. Remember the old days when checking your email was an ordeal? You had to wait for the modem to connect, and then you had to log into the site and so forth. It was an event much like waiting for the mail man. Mail person? I'm gender neutral here.

The instant gratification of emails is its best and worst part. I know you get my emails the second I send it. You are just like me and are sitting at your terminal waiting for little bits of information only to ignore them.  There is no etiquette to email, well, sort of. . . Everyone is expect to respond immediately, but why? Why can't I take a few days. It would serve both of us to have some time to think.

I would like to subscribe to a service that collects all my emails and will deliver all of them at, say, 5 o'clock. It could even be around 5, running into delays like a real post person. I'm just saying it would be nice to have a set time to receive things instead of having the constant worry that things could come in at any moment. It is an affection that will become habit if I don't stop check my email constantly.

"We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience. . ."

This excerpt is from the second of Eliot's four Quartets:

II

       Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

       There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable-
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

       There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

       Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind's tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

       We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

       There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone's prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

       It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence-
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness - not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affecton,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations - not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by, but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.