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Friday, October 15, 2010

Oh, To Be In Error: A poessay on Errorists

Space is not the only final frontier. Space can be far out, or cranial. Space can also be the separation between two persons and the disconnect with reality.

Spaceisimportantotherwisearunonlettersbecomesnightmarish. In speech, pauses do what spacing does in writing.

Much like other creatures, (sardines in tin cans will be considered another time) individuals need their space.

Ask couples how important is individual space for them. Customarily, this space is proportional to the time they have been together. The shorter the togetherness the lesser the space. Exception: some newlyweds can spawn a mile wide space between them in a hurry. Exceptions move people closer or apart in nano seconds.

Both individual and collective shared spaces are prone to whip lashes.


To be in error is to be in ecstasy - for that night. The morning after if you forget the companion's first name, or mix it with a former partner's - that error, if not deliberate, could be painful.

To err is to be divine. To err is to be a Republican. To err is to be a neoconzix. To err is to be poetic.

We live our lives through a series of errors and course corrections - though some amazingly go through their three score and ten without any course correction. In some societies we call them professors, in others, priests, mullahs and rabbis - even insensitive s-o-bs. The b is for brainless.

The more intelligent and sensitive amongst us repeat the same errors less frequently while the less gifted and resilient repeat the same errors repeatedly. You can bet and win again on replays with them.

The key to longevity, both at the work place and at home is in timely error spotting and in timely corrective measures.

The survivors become more adept in error control. They become errorists par excellence. They rise to the top while the rest gravitate to the bottom.

In essence I whirl in error - from birth to the present - hence I qualify to be called a life long "errorist." I, therefore, humbly and solemnly declare myself to be an errorist - even though there is a inherent setback in this declaration.


Eavesdrop on a phone conversation:

First Person, "Have you heard t is an errorist?"
Second Person, "t, errorist?"

For the uninitiated, every phone conversation is monitored and transcribed in the bowels of Langley, Va. the bee hive of Curious Interpretive Age.

This is where spacing becomes crucial. If the transcriber misses that space, I am toast. And I end up at the exclusive, all-inclusive Gran Bahia Principe Guantanamo Bay.


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