At my age (insert obligatory "hey you kids, get out of my store!, what do you think this is, a reading room?" here) the blasts from the past seem to blow with ever increasing frequency and velocity. I’m used to various elements of my past circling back on me, as my forays into pop culture hobbies always seem to result in intersecting circles of friends and acquaintances. A number of the same people who used to write for a zine I self-published twenty years ago probably (like me) have their own weblogs now, in an era where self-expression means you no longer have to spend a single cent to get your writing out to potentially millions of readers every day.
And yet, the more things around us seem to update and lurch into fast-forward, the more familiar they seem to me. No substantial difference, really, between passing around handwritten story pages to classmates or cranking out apazines or posting on message boards or blogging. It’s all one-to-many conversation, it’s all storytelling and essay-writing, it just comes down to a matter of scale and audience. The big difference is that nowadays, thanks to online archives and search engines, our stories are no longer so easily lost.