We may say, charmingly, that this is the third age of the Fob, that we have entered with all the messy democracy of our millennia into that final journey; the abnegation of self. There was, indeed, always something self-consciously Buddhist about our blogging, a nirvana of nattering. It was only a matter of time before that web was stitched together with our electronic thread, only a question of dimension to frame our holy conversation. We were half cyborg when we met already, there was only that decision to be made. Like messy democracies everywhere (e-verywhere), we must now take dictation to get things done.
All hail, beloved dictationer: first look to the e-mote in your own eye.
To speak of the letter e is to prate at paradigmatics, to question God. For do we not make it a game to see how long we can write without that pivotal Vowel, not count it success to well-spell a novel without it?
Thrice in this sentence. Thrice.
This, then, our good news, this our God-spelling: deity is less potent, under glass. But still, inevitable: crawling at the end of the sentence, the silent e smites the precedent sound, rounds out the plasma ow. What is then the use of questioning, if the line of punching remains the same?
The death of poets lies in punditry: wherein is the breath-e of life.
Mark them, then, the heads of our movement. Witness how they stand at the corners of continents and make domestic disasters beautiful. Behold, they meet without meeting, worlds without sight, worlds without body. And yet there is some sense that the animal still holds sway, that there are hungers and exhaustions untroubled by our desire to e-produce. We sleep, we wake, we feed, and yet we flatten to make it whole.
Make It whole. Turn It capital. It is the third age of the Fob. May It not be the last, so we e-pray.