“In Memoriam: A Memorial Day Advent Series” – Part Seventeen: Public Library Card Catalogs
Before the “next” button, there were drawers – and each one held a world waiting to be found.
Read the letter →Before the “next” button, there were drawers – and each one held a world waiting to be found.
Read the letter →When the elevator door opens, the button is all we’re left with – but it wasn’t just the ride we miss. It was the reminder that we’re all in this together.
Read the letter →A place that vanished as quickly as it appeared – where stories outlived the mystery, and the real question was never about what happened, but why we ever stopped wondering.
Read the letter →A movie under the stars – where the film was just the backdrop and the real story played out in every car around you.
Read the letter →A coin, a call, a lifeline – when connection depended on chance, courage, and a payphone that never asked questions.
Read the letter →A tangled cord, a captive moment – when every call demanded your full attention and being unreachable was its own kind of freedom.
Read the letter →A tiny scrap of paper that said “I was there” – long after the lights dimmed and the moment became memory.
Read the letter →A simple turn of the wrist, a rush of earned air – when effort made even the smallest freedoms feel unforgettable.
Read the letter →A love letter to the quiet, everyday reality of AI, reminding us not to let sensational headlines overshadow the helpful, practical roles AI already plays in our lives.
Read the letter →A reflection on the real question behind AI and jobs, and a love letter to the idea that every technological leap is also an opportunity to rethink and reinvent how we work.
Read the letter →