I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without

That blog entry later helped the police trace the murderer.

There’s a quirky side story why I signed up on Friendster in the first place. For some years, I ignored it because I considered it merely a fad for teenagers. But one day in the summer of 2004, a girl was murdered in her own condo unit. The girl was a Metrobank employee, and days after her death, an email circulated that directed people to her Friendster account. I couldn’t resist it; I was on Friendster faster than you can say “Bienvenido Jesus Torres.”

Since then, while I struck “friendships” with total strangers, I realized the heartrending side of Web-based services like blogs and social networks. People remain “alive” on the Web even years after their passing. And often, so few realize it.

Friendster, for example, doesn’t delete an account even if it remains inactive for many, many months. In October 2004, amateur mountaineer Prana Escalante died on Mt. Halcon. Anybody who is curious enough may still see her account and learn how much she loved life and Samurai X.

Sometimes, things are fresh as today’s headlines. There was a woman who was manager of that McDonald’s branch on Taft Avenue beside DLSU, and the last time she accessed her account was hours before her bitter officemate shot her in the head.

Folks with “normal” sensibilities are usually “shocked” when I’d tell them I dredge the Web for traces of people’s lives. But I can’t help it; I’m consumed with the desire to know these people as human beings, not as some goddamn statistic.

Like Johnny Smith in Stephen King’s novel, The Dead Zone, or that kid in M. Night Shyamalan’s Sixth Sense, I see dead people as I caress and romance the dark underbelly of cyberspace. There are times I’d be staring at my monitor for long moments, placing myself under their skin, retracing the last seconds their fingers tapped on those keyboards,

And I wonder and wonder about the meaning of it all.

Technology gives our human presence some sort of “permalink” to the wired and wireless masses in such a way that persists as long as the foundations remain in place. In Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, the “evil” genius Totenkopf fools the world for two decades into believing that he’s still alive, when it’s merely his machines that have been continuing his work down to the last details of the man’s disdain of humanity.

And it’s not only about dead people, but also about dead websites. A month ago, I rediscovered the Internet Wayback Machine, and saw again the homepage of a literary site I used to maintain.

I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without a

Since then, while I struck “friendships” with total strangers, I realized the heartrending side of Web-based services like blogs and social networks. People remain “alive” on the Web even years after their passing. And often, so few realize it.

Friendster, for example, doesn’t delete an account even if it remains inactive for many, many months. In October 2004, amateur mountaineer Prana Escalante died on Mt. Halcon. Anybody who is curious enough may still see her account and learn how much she loved life and Samurai X.

Sometimes, things are fresh as today’s headlines. There was a woman who was manager of that McDonald’s branch on Taft Avenue beside DLSU, and the last time she accessed her account was hours before her bitter officemate shot her in the head.

Folks with “normal” sensibilities are usually “shocked” when I’d tell them I dredge the Web for traces of people’s lives. But I can’t help it; I’m consumed with the desire to know these people as human beings, not as some goddamn statistic.

Like Johnny Smith in Stephen King’s novel, The Dead Zone, or that kid in M. Night Shyamalan’s Sixth Sense, I see dead people as I caress and romance the dark underbelly of cyberspace. There are times I’d be staring at my monitor for long moments, placing myself under their skin, retracing the last seconds their fingers tapped on those keyboards,

And I wonder and wonder about the meaning of it all.

Technology gives our human presence some sort of “permalink” to the wired and wireless masses in such a way that persists as long as the foundations remain in place. In Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, the “evil” genius Totenkopf fools the world for two decades into believing that he’s still alive, when it’s merely his machines that have been continuing his work down to the last details of the man’s disdain of humanity.

And it’s not only about dead people, but also about dead websites. A month ago, I rediscovered the Internet Wayback Machine, and saw again the homepage of a literary site I used to maintain.

I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without

Folks with “normal” sensibilities are usually “shocked” when I’d tell them I dredge the Web for traces of people’s lives. But I can’t help it; I’m consumed with the desire to know these people as human beings, not as some goddamn statistic.

Like Johnny Smith in Stephen King’s novel, The Dead Zone, or that kid in M. Night Shyamalan’s Sixth Sense, I see dead people as I caress and romance the dark underbelly of cyberspace. There are times I’d be staring at my monitor for long moments, placing myself under their skin, retracing the last seconds their fingers tapped on those keyboards,

And I wonder and wonder about the meaning of it all.

Technology gives our human presence some sort of “permalink” to the wired and wireless masses in such a way that persists as long as the foundations remain in place. In Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, the “evil” genius Totenkopf fools the world for two decades into believing that he’s still alive, when it’s merely his machines that have been continuing his work down to the last details of the man’s disdain of humanity.

And it’s not only about dead people, but also about dead websites. A month ago, I rediscovered the Internet Wayback Machine, and saw again the homepage of a literary site I used to maintain.

I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without

And I wonder and wonder about the meaning of it all.

Technology gives our human presence some sort of “permalink” to the wired and wireless masses in such a way that persists as long as the foundations remain in place. In Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, the “evil” genius Totenkopf fools the world for two decades into believing that he’s still alive, when it’s merely his machines that have been continuing his work down to the last details of the man’s disdain of humanity.

And it’s not only about dead people, but also about dead websites. A month ago, I rediscovered the Internet Wayback Machine, and saw again the homepage of a literary site I used to maintain.

I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without

I called it The Inkblot, for lack of any better name. And years after it “died,” I discovered for the first time how it was full of crap, and how much somebody like me could change in the past five years.

I often wonder how things run these days. How everybody can have access to somebody else’s most treasured feelings and thoughts that would have mortified the living daylights out of somebody like Beethoven, JD Salinger, or Thomas Pynchon.

And more to the point, how practically anybody can leave persistent vestiges of their lives in cyberspace.

Maybe, in a universe where lives are short and people know they are doomed, and where things end without any sense of resolution, we find ourselves consumed with this desire to leave our mark on things that we touch. We find ourselves in situations that somebody like Kazuo Ishiguro loves fleshing out.

And maybe, like Bjork in Dancer in the Dark, it’s our lot to find ourselves so jaded for having seen it all, but still having the heart to cling on, hold on to the brightness of some little spark—whenever, however, wherever we find it.