Harris Creek is silver this foggy Monday morning in December and the garden is falling into Winter. The funny thing is that once I began to think about myself I could not remember what it felt like when I didn't. There is the experience itself and there is the experience of watching the experience itself. I cannot say when I first became a watcher, but now, in those hours when I am awake, it seems as if the watcher has always been here. It is not as if my childhood has vanished but it is confined to a space that is separated from the space in which I here and now find myself.

The watcher's world unfolds in the process of reading/writing, which is surperimposed upon the process of participation. There is the fantasy itself, and the reading/writing of the fantasy; there is the original and the recording. The participant proceeds the watcher.

Reading/writing alters the experience of the corporate body; there is a bifurcation, a separation of the stream of experience into two streams which flow in parallel, each to each, one real, and one unreal. As the childish participant learns to read/write the body of experience divides itself into parallel worlds; the real one, and the one up on the silver screen.

Once the body enters the theater, there is no turning back, no re-unification, short of disease or insanity. The watcher takes his/her recorder everywhere she/he goes. The watcher is a development in a fanastic experience which begins at conception and ends at death. The world of the watcher is an analog world.

But now as I tap these words into cyber-space, there is a new superimposition upon my already superimposed body. The watcher is being digitilized. Evidently, this is a new development. Stay tuned.