by Carol Bindel
Did you notice yesterday's date was binary? 01-01-10. Happy New Year!
Today it's January 2, 2010, that is, 01-02-2010. What's that called,
those strings of symbols, usually words, that echo from end to middle
to end-- oh, yes, it's a palindrome, how could I forget my
pal(indrome).
Both dates, as I've written them, are correct, true, easily
interpreted. But do you notice how I shaped each to meet my own
little criteria for finding them interesting?
We writers-- we humans-- do that all the time, selecting and shaping
the details we notice, the ones we report. Nonfiction or fiction,
it's a necessity. Even a Twitter devotee cannot capture every element
of every moment.
Is it possible that the things we notice and report form some
essential part of how we humans, each unique like everyone else,
separate ourselves brother from sister, mother from child? Is it part
of how we become either lonely or united in our understanding of one
another?
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