Frozen. An experiment in stream of consciousness.

It seems kind of strange, but reading the New York Times newspaper is a more timeless activity than the internet to me. As deep and wide and down the rabbit hole as the internet is -- as all encompassing -- it always seems to be in the now. The now of all things that ever existed. And yet, the newspaper of record seems mired in the past. It seems quietly backward, in the sense that there is no hurry to learn what's there. It's still readable a month or two later to me, and in some ways a more interesting look at what seemed immediate then and seems frozen now, and the way it's trying hard to guess a future that by the time I've read the paper is now the past. It's a culture shock, with N.Y. weird and shallow flash, and yet respectfully retro, and almost archival in the way it evokes of things that once were and reminds me of things I've forgotten. Limbo reminders of books and movies and plays and fashions, and on the same page new ads, with a skinny models, wearing clothes no one I will ever know will ever wear. It's meant to be news and yet seems more like a layer of time, peeled back to reveal what I was supposed to know and think a month ago and only now finding. A paper substrata of the past, jumbling bones of different eras together, creating the now or the now of that moment, which is now gone. It's life, frozen, nostalgic already. A message and a culture shock from long ago and far away -- a month ago. It's the rustling of the paper, the blackness of the ink, the folding over to read and throwing the carcass on the floor that makes feel comfortable and quaint and I don't want to give it up. Don't make me give it up. But it is probably doomed and there a palpable air of desperate credibility and snobbery and wanting to be liked and also a sense that we're the biggest and the best and don't you dare forget it. Frozen. It's a chunk of time, that's changed since then, and yet it's still relevant. And I'm with you to the end, and I'm already missing you.