Monday, February 17, 2014


I used to have these fights with my old friend Steve Jobs . . . I’d say to him, Steve, these computers you’re inventing here, they’re destroying the world!  . . . it was like telling a Catholic that there’s no God.

- Doug Tompkins

            I must confess: I am writing on a computer. And I use a computer often, more often than I’m comfortable with. For writing. For composing and recording music. For connecting with friends and family across the world. For taking in music and writing and film and art. For learning, and sharing ideas, philosophies, and knowledge.
            All these pursuits seem worthy, don’t they? They seem to be valid reasons to use technology. So why do I feel I must confess to using it?

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

dispatches from nowhere #4


The snow shows no sign of abating. It has been four days since the start of the storm, when we were forced inside. At times we have entertained the thought of going on. Alex is the one to check the weather, but it has not changed in all this time and when he digs out the door the wind sweeps in, so we limit his excursions.

The igloo has been a boon – we would be gone already if we had had to rely on the tents. Still it is like a cell now. Only a vague blue light comes through the ice during the day, then fades to utter darkness. There is not much difference one moment to another. I find myself wishing time would hasten on, but to what? Only some relief from this cold.

I can write again because we have warmed ourselves around the stove. But that will be short-lived. There is only enough fuel for a few more meals. If the storm breaks before then, perhaps we can go on. Frustrating to be so close, 11 miles to the depot. But impossible in this weather.


The storm continues. The fuel is nearly gone. I can feel my blood slowing. All the others sit still muffled shrouded. Sometimes they move but so little. I wish to tell you something but I don’t know what. It is so strange to think how this note will be found. In our frozen cave. In my still hand. I will have departed. Dear dear heart. Please go on. I think of you in the sunlight. I can see it in my mind but I can’t feel it.


The wind sings and speaks. I wish I could write its meaning but words come slow. I failed you. For that I’m sorry. So many regrets in my heart. But I would have been a different man if I didn’t come here. Not me.


I dreamt I was walking to see you. I left the others, went on to the depot. A feeling like setting out, all the excitement and fear, something new ahead.