JOHN GRISHAM DICK PICS or
JET FUEL CAN’T MELT DIGITAL MONSTERS
2003: 8th grader shows me 9/11 conspiracy sites + says I’m gay + declares Pokemon and Digimon the same. I fling my entire body into his.
Treasure the clarity of preteen rage.
2000: “The web is a land of extremes,” warns the principal, “full of predators.”
Every kid recognizes the algorithm for receiving a quest.
2016: jazz-musician-cum-mirror-neuron-researcher confesses déjà vu has plagued him since childhood.
I ramble under Adirondack stars about Spinoza & tell the neuro-saxophonist the story of your life.
We finish our Utica Clubs, beer that tastes like I drank it already. Are we spiders?
2010: stuck in quasi-cryptomnesic experience loop registering for Metafilter, its reliquary coloration a blue monument to the early net.
1991-1999: Childhood is, imho, searching
2002: Bruising, perched over falsely-dogeared Pelican Brief, I eagle-finger “fagit define” then “penis” into Netscape as invocations. I crawl through Dogpile’s hissing SERPs.
2003: “People die, Pokemon faint, Digimon reincarnate you idiot!! All that matters is their data, they can reconfigure!! My uncle died on 9/11!!”
Build a Digimon-facts webpage
soon many pages.
Time seems linear, not pre-indexed.
i remember all my earliest searches, imprinted like nephograms of summertime