My file folder of user names and passwords threatens to burst open telling tales and flying away to roost on a power line near the Chevron station. My life list of bird sightings is unrealized. A stack of receipts are unrecorded. My collection of opera performances and libraries is lacking updates. The spreadsheet of Dad's falls, injuries, mood swings, and haircuts is current for the moment. We will be so carefree in the bosom of technology, each of us creating our own story and beaming it up, Scottie. Some folks would like each of us to have our medical history on a little electronic chip embedded perhaps under a layer of our skin. My history of mental states and journeys might be found instead in the tiny chip of electronic haiku known as passwords. Case sensitive. Letters. Numbers. No punctuation or symbols. Changed frequently for added security. Scrawled on Post-Its for quick records. Stuffed in the file for aggravated access. Every few days either creating or reinventing a user name or password. What sort of autobiography in very short poetry would they write if they could trim, sculpt, alphabetize, reconfigure a miniscule yet memorable key into my passageways. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder