Man, oh man.
It's summer
It's not summer
It's hard to tell the difference because of all the time I spend on trains and in the car.

����Speaking of which -- On June 22 I'm supposedly jumping out of a plane. I asked my parents a few weeks ago if they'd ever do it, and after an initial no way, my dad decided that yes he would, and that yes, we should, and de pronto. Which was fine with me: I was going to get around to it eventually anyway. So he did some internet research, and made a reservation, and well, that's that.

���� I think I have a fascination with choice and consequence. It's obvious that every choice or non-choice has consequences. The trouble is that at the point of choice, most consequences are unknown because they don't yet exist. So to me, most of the time, choices are pretty arbitrary. I wouldn't say they're meaningless --assisting others for example, or creating things that add to a human legacy are meaningful actions-- but considering an individual independently, dissociated from others, where being good and productive are not inherently valuable, most choices don't make much of a difference. So I have a morbid sort of interest in noticing where actions that make a difference can lurk, those primarily being actions for which loss of life is a possible result. I guess the whole thing might be objectionable to the more sensitive people, or to those who know me and don't like to hear me talking like this. Sometimes I find it objectionable myself. But not inherently so.

���� Anyway, skydiving is safe enough that it doesn't pose a genuine existential dilemma, and I don't seek those out anyway. Jumping out of an airborne plane is simply worth doing. Also, presumably, it's fun. I really just couldn't go through life with such a thing being available and not do it. Or, you know, so I think.

���� So a week and a half from now, some time in the late afternoon, my dad and I will each stand for a moment in the doorway of a plane, trying to make a decision. I haven't figured out completely which fear will be my fear in that moment --fear of height, or of dying, or of bringing others pain and loss in my death, or a more general anxiety related to the absurdity of plummeting. Anyway, with any luck we'll step out into open air. Then I think it gets scary again about 45 seconds later, when you start worrying about whether the parachute will open.

���� Before that, there's a guy I know, a client who comes into the office every now and then to use the computers, who wants me to help him build a website about gender identification and how to go about changing one's sex. I've not built a website before, so that's something. The only thing is he's not half as enthused by assembling information or writing as he is by the acres of crappy animated gifs found at migente.com.




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