Dear Joe,
You really have become dear to me as I have visited your site and read your essays and correspondence. To me, you are one of the best that we call "human." I really hope that moving to Belize will be the satisfying experience that you seek. I take it that you will not be keeping up your website? I don't see how you could, although maybe I am just not up to the wireless tech possibilities. I sure hope that there is a way that you can keep us apprised of your thoughts.
Cooking a breadfruit over a campfire on the beach, slaved in butter and salt, and wrapped in tin foil, with a papaya and squeezed lime on the side, washed down with a gin and tonic. Jesus, man. Don't be too surprised if you are joined by awkward red-faced strangers who've been looking for you for weeks.
I wish you all the very best -- the best life and the best death -- and the best whatever is next as you merge with the galaxy and become the stuff of visions and stars. Be free, and let this corporate landfill culture become a dim memory.
Love,
Freeacre
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Dear Freeacre,
Oh, the web site JoeBageant.com will hum on, and I will still be writing from down there. Belize has its share of Internet facilities, many of which serve beer.
I've thought a lot about technology lately, and how much of it I can discard. And I have had to conclude that the Internet remains among the best, serving more people and creating connectivity between thinking people that is to be found no place else. Flexible and portable too.
During the past 18 months JoeBageant.com has been maintained and updated by my best friend, Ken Smith, as he traveled around Europe and the US. The site was launched from a rented apartment in Nice, France, and Ken has posted essays and letters at train stations, airports, coffee shops, Internet cafes and the homes of new-found friends in France, Germany, Denmark, Hungary, Romania and Croatia -- in addition to various coffee shops with Wi-Fi while in the US.
I still find it amazing that two old farts with laptops could do all that.
Meanwhile, there is, as you so well put it: "Cooking a breadfruit over a campfire on the beach, slaved in butter and salt, and wrapped in tin foil, with a papaya and squeezed lime on the side, washed down with a gin and tonic. Jesus, man."
What a way to go!
In art and labor,
Joe
