It's as if technology exists in an endless present. None of the new machines innovate; they just do what we do, sometimes better, sometimes not.
I fired up my laptop to write this, and while I was waiting, wrote it on a scrap of waste paper.

...platforms. I've deleted Twitter (currently X) and either deleted or suspended Facebook, can't remember which. I like the simple interface at Medium dot com, which is pretty much a white space with an invitation to write (type? No, not a useful distinction), and I'm finding that Substack's Notes feature is actually an improvement on Twitter for short thoughts.
But ... both Substack and Medium are infested with people whose primary relationship seems to be with the platform. They write about writing, and/or about getting liked/followed, and/or about how much/little they're being paid for their writing by the platform.
As though - that last one - writing-for-the-platform has replaced writing. Which is fair enough, I suppose; we're all writing for a reason, and getting paid to do it seems like a good deal. But.
But. But just to write about that? Too much of that for me.
I think I'm beginning to remember that being subject to the vagaries of a platform is not quite the same as being master of my own destiny. Perhaps the time has come to return to my own website.

...podcasting. Reading stories and posting them as podcasting edisodes. No particular urgency, and I'm only writing this because I happened to open up my website and noticed how long ago since my last post, but ... yeah. Podcasting. I have the skills and I have the sound-booth, although not the mixing desk, so maybe.
Enough. It's sunny outside and it's Easter Monday. I hear the call of the - not the wild exactly, but the outside.