READ ME ... yeah, right. Right?

I'm sick of everyone else having on-line diaries. I want one too.

What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.

august 10, 1997:
there, there.

It is beautiful outside.

The air has that deep-summer humidity to it, unusual for San Francisco. A larger-than-ordinary number of people are hanging out on the streets. More pairs of sneakers hang from the electric wires than did yesterday.

Edward is almost completely healed. My mind is finally back on track. I am over that physicality-obsessed phase.

Perhaps it is beyond the ken of human intelligence to realize that computers will only be intelligent when they think better than humans.

It's spelled anomie.

Los Angeles feeds the nihilistic side of me. It has this evil, slimey background noise. There's nothing there but one big existential wave -- a city of Virtual People. They can't hurt you, because they don't exist.

You can be anywhere in the city and be in the exact same place. Same malls same look same cars.

The streets are empty. No one will walk.

It feels dangerous during the day, but you can't see the danger.

It doesn't get sunny and clear; instead, everything is obscured by a hazy hot fog. The air tastes like cosmetic waste. It has a plastic tinge, and a murky mold feel to it.

Finding a beautiful lookout spot requires also having to gaze down on the obscene mansions equipped with their heated pools and electric fences.

No one stops to pick up a person who has been hit by a car.

Everyone has their silicone puppies with coiffed hair and painted nails. And the women are made of saline, water, and sugar free bubble gum which they crack and crack. All this delicious food in beautifully smelling restaurants with ocean views sinking into salmon upscale bathroom tile with that sour emetic stench, while the restroom attendants hand out generic travel size hair spray bottles and green starlite mints with paper towels.

I just know that my future is there, not here. I'll end up there as if i fell or something.

But I like it in LA -- when you feel dead, there can be no pain.

Nonetheless, a completely different side of me sees me settling down in a lovely eccentic house on Laidley Street with purple potted plants and records stapled to the balcony.

Kinda like the records stapled to the balconies on the flats on 14th Street, this evening.

(thanks, peter and david)

101 Ways to Save Wired! (because we want to)
Mac & uSoft -- so fucking what!

skink home
Some Stats on GirlGames
joinIN (if you dare)

thanks, COMOFLOW





or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge

Copyright 1996, 1997 Rebecca L. Eisenberg All rights Reserved.