Word: semis
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...probably never know the real answers. But that doesn't stop me from interpreting these fuzzy snapshots of digital activity. Using the wonderful Unix tools at my fingertips, I shamelessly extrapolate beyond the virtual realm, weaving intricate stories about semi-fictional characters I will never meet. I create elaborate personae based on three-line ".plan" files. I conjecture wild theories based on the geographic information garnered from "ph." In my fictional world, login information from "last" becomes nothing less than a complete roadmap of someone's daily schedule. And slowly, these 4-8 character user names develop personalities and plots...
Despite a collarbone that hadn't completely healed, Springer led Harvard to a string of narrow victories over playoff opponents to advance to the semi-finals against Brown...
...yogurt on the occasion of my parents' first cholesterol tests, I've been aware of the less "fattening" alternatives. I don't mean that I was obsessing about these things as early as that. That was a later phase, starting around the seventh grade. Only that I've been semi-consciously stockpiling health information for most of my life. It's gotten to the point that it's as natural and ostensibly integral to my conception of the way the world works as, say, the speed limits on the major roads around my house...
...ballet opens with a scrim, a semi-opaque curtain at the front of the stage that blurs the action behind it, cementing the ballet in the human subconscious that lets the viewer experience and personalize art. The characters are endearing, fictitious, yet and somehow logical, carefully developed through choreography. The Firebird herself, given frantic, bird-like steps, seems supernatural, wrought with the frustration of being the sole guardian of good in a realm deprived of it. The princesses dance barefoot, as if to accentuate their delicacy and femininity in a dismal bleak world, and also their child-like helplessness...
...stepped on an acorn and realized that he wanted to write about Reagan's whole life with the same closeness he could legitimately bring only to the three years he shadowed him in the White House. And so Morris constructed a story that lies on the shoulders of a semi-fictional narrator, a modified version of himself. The bulk of the criticism of Morris' book, which has been as fast as it has been furious, rests with the creation of this narrator. Certainly unorthodox, this new technique has raised serious questions about both literary and historical integrity. But what must...