The amount of information swirling around us makes me question the need to add my voice to the cacophony. We have become trashcans, overflowing with so much useless data, some disguised as indispensable to our wellbeing, but ultimately cutting us off from reality, nature, and ourselves. Is my rehashing, regurgitating what I have seen, read, absorbed, experienced, witnessed, and so on, providing a service? This is hardly journalism.

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Art: Trash, 2005 

By Ceal Floyer

Why not switch gears, and retreat into the world of imagination, creativity, reflection and introspection. How about some literature…

Jorge Luis Borges: The Unending Gift

A painter promised us a picture. Here in New England, having learned of his death, I felt once again the sadness of recognizing that we are but shapes of a dream. I thought about the man and the picture, both lost. (Only the gods can make promises, for they are immortal.) I thought about the place, chosen in advance, where the canvas will not hang. Later, I thought: if it were there, wouldn’t it in time become one thing more – an object, another of the vanities or habits of the house? Now the picture is limitless, unending, capable of taking any form or colour and bound to none.In some way, it exists. It will live and grow, like music, and will remain with me to the end. Thank you, Jorge Larco. (Men can make promises, too, for in a promise there is something that does not die).

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