[Brief diversion from the mission for below philosophizing]
To previous followers and commenters, and recently, to you, R.P, E.E. and P.W., thank you for your lovely emails - your notes warm my cardiac cockles.
To the rest of you: thank you for your patronage. But who are you and are you really out there? That is the problem with a blog, isn't it. You aren't writing a column for a newpaper that gets circulated to so-and-so many individuals. You are not writing a novel which you can pick up at Barnes and Noble, and by law of the direct mail, will sell at least 1% of the copies printed, to someone who may read it. Someone curious. Or foolish. When you write a blog, your Id is scribbling, your Ego is editing, and your Superego is publishing on the ethereal Matrix, disguising the product of the Others in such manner making their labor superfluous and invisible. Sure, under Idian pressure, the Ego negotiates with the Superego, and the invisibile is visible, for a handful, a select few - in the form of the code to an otherwise random, impossibly located corner of the Matrix. Otherwise, really, how many eons would it take a room of chimpanzees to type, and therefore instruct their internet browser to go to : http://mesopotamianmedic.blogspot.com/?
Blogging is lonely business. After nearly two decades of email, one becomes, or I have become, conditioned to know the internet as a social tool, and another means of dialogue. Never blogged before. Blogging ain't like that. Just monologue. Or soliloquy. Or drivel. Let me just leave it there.