I victimize you with my melancholy for passing time, but I offer no apology. I see you now with the wizened eyes of my grandfather as he stood by the train that would take us from the village for the last time. Did they not reflect the soul stirring acceptance of the fickle nature of time ­ at once the acceptance of movement and arresting mortality. It was not a train he watched as it tugged each car from the station, but time itself, epochs and eras that carried his grandchildren wistfully away, while his feet remained rooted in the holy dirt on rice paddies and long pregnant moments in being. If melancholy exists where the past and future can be seen in the present, had he seen that each passing train would carry all his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren away along digital tracks into the silicon cities of Palo Alto, and Bangalore? Had he seen that we who left the village that day would be high tech entrepreneurs who would build those very tracks. It is with those eyes I see you now, as I long for a draft of the pines, mountains, and glaciers of Patagonia, the rain soaked forest of Monteverde, and the Arenal’s Volcano. To see freshly I place myself among unfamiliar grandeur but the media I am rooted in is of my own making ­ a blog, a cell phone, and you.