Thursday, August 14, 2008
FROM MORNING DRIVE JOURNAL
AUGUST 15, 2002
Bright blue. Some breeze. It is the midway point between summer solstice and the autumnal equinox. Forty five years ago perhaps I'd have been on the dock of a cottage along Lake Okaboji in Iowa, trying to catch a sunfish or two, experimenting perhaps with the feel of water up my nose.
On the radio a fellow says we are enslaved by machines. I say we are enslaved by life - the sun, the turn of the planet, the course of stars through the night, the wind through and across our days.
We can accept our enslavement or resist. Resistance is futile.
AUGUST 15, 2002
Bright blue. Some breeze. It is the midway point between summer solstice and the autumnal equinox. Forty five years ago perhaps I'd have been on the dock of a cottage along Lake Okaboji in Iowa, trying to catch a sunfish or two, experimenting perhaps with the feel of water up my nose.
On the radio a fellow says we are enslaved by machines. I say we are enslaved by life - the sun, the turn of the planet, the course of stars through the night, the wind through and across our days.
We can accept our enslavement or resist. Resistance is futile.
