I couldn’t help from finding the #6 train relevant to the whole thing. Especially with so many people in the subway station willing to bounce the idea around with.
Lizzie Widdicombe of The New Yorker. Wrote an article about the bash. Dude, this woman is a genius. What makes me label her so? Read, count, and pay close attention.
The Unmatched Snowflake
by Jace Daniel (b. 1969)
There once was a snowflake. It spent most of its life drifting aimlessly in flurry of other snowflakes, happily distracted from the blizzard of questions storming through its mind. One day the snowflake fell upon a snowman.
“Have we met before?” the snowflake asked.
“No,” replied the snowman. “We have not.”
“But,” appealed the snowflake, “I remember meeting you once. You had the same eyes of coal. And the same carrot nose. And the same mouth of buttons.”
“It wasn’t me,” replied the snowman. “Must’ve been another snowman.”
“Oh, but I’m quite sure,” said the snowflake. “You even had that scarf. And that broom. And that hat.”
“You’re mistaken,” explained the snowman. “While you may have seen a snowman that resembled me, it was not exactly like me. The carrot was a slightly different shape. The buttons were a bit larger. The scarf was a different material, or a different color. The hat was a different style, worn by a different man. And the eyes of coal were looking at something else.”
“But I could swear it was you,” the snowflake said, frustrated and confused.
“It couldn’t have been me,” promised the snowman. “Besides, if we have met before, I would’ve remembered you. For, you see, there are no two snowflakes that are exactly alike.”
“No two alike?” questioned the snowflake. “None?” This was something it had never been told.
“None,” echoed the snowman. “Every snowflake is alone. You can search far and wide, for eternity in both directions, and never find another snowflake that perfectly matches you.”
“You mean to tell me,” the snowflake challenged, “That of all the millions of billions of trillions of zillions of snowflakes in the history of snow, there have never, ever, ever been two snowflakes that match perfectly? Ever?”
“That’s correct,” nodded the snowman in his icy cold wisdom. “Nor will there ever be.”
The snowflake pondered the concept for a long while. And another long while. Deep in thought.
“And have you seen each and every one of these millions of billions of trillions of zillions of snowflakes?” the snowflake finally asked.
“Certainly not,” laughed the snowman. “Snow has been around a lot longer than me, and it will be around long after I’m gone.”
The snowflake nodded, unsurprised at the snowman’s answer.
“Then how can you be so sure?”
It’s been two weeks since the release of Not Quite What I Was Planning, and the community is abuzz. Technorati shows over 2,400 blog reactions, our NPR story is being dugg on Digg, and our man Frank has begun a Contributor Registry with links to the blogs of the authors. One blogger created a cartoon celebrating her friend’s inclusion, another family has created a video, Rev. Dr. Bill Steadman has invited his readers to distill their beliefs in the form of a six-word memoir, asking “What would Jesus do with six?”, and the Six-Word Memoir flickr group has just arrived.
The book release party has moved up to San Francisco, with the next Six-Word Slam going down tonight with Green Apple Books. Wish I could make that one. Then it’s a Google gig in Mountain View tomorrow, followed by Portland, and back to New York.
Watch this. Dr. Randy Pausch from Carnegie Mellon University is dying, and knows it. Pancreatic cancer, with months to live. His destined-to-be-legendary final lecture to his students has been going around the Internet all winter, and he came back recently to reprise it on the Oprah show.
If this one hits you the way it did me, you’ll feel very much alive after ten minutes.
Letter to the Author
by Jace Daniel (b. 1969)
Dear Author of My Existence,
You’ve not yet met me, yet you know me better than you know. I am the face you see in every crowd. I am the voice you hear in your head, barely identifiable behind the noise. I am what you love to hate. I am everything you hate to love. I am the truth of your falsehood, the contradiction to you solution. I am the source of your something. I am your greed. Your patience. Your craving. Your repulsion. I am your appetite and your sickness. I am your dead-end, more than you’ve ever been. I am your idleness, your energy. I am the epitome of your potential, the manifestation of your impossible. I am your shame and pride. I am your tool. I am your coldest fear. I am your strength and stamina. Your hope. I am your your grudge, your envy, your malice. I am your unselfishness, your charity. I am your kindness. I am your heart.
I am you.
My requests are simple: Do not do me injustice. Do not mistake fact for opportunity. Do not resort to gossip for entertainment purposes. Do not sugarcoat. Do not embellish my story to suit yours. While my existence is indeed dependent on you, never forget that you only exist because of me. Consider us even.
Do good,
The Character You Have Not Yet Named
The other day over Cuban food we were polling people in the restaurant to see if anybody could recall the street address in the classic sitcom, I Love Lucy. It’d be impossible for me to eat Cuban food in New York and not think of Ricky Ricardo.
We finally looked it up this week and learned that in that fictional world, the Ricardos and Mertzes live at 623 East 68th Street in Manhattan. That would theoretically be the north side of the street; if you look out their window, you’d be looking south.
Matt just pointed out that 68th Street ends at the 500 block. That puts our friends right in the middle of the East River.
