I can’t leave ether/aether behind.  With my three library cards in hand, I’ve checked out several books again.  A History of the theories of Aether and Electricity, Vol 1 and 2, Sir Edmund Whittaker (1951), Nineteenth-Century Aether Theories,  Kenneth F. Schaffner (1972), and Modern Aether Science, Harold Aspden (1972).  And I keep looking for more and more.  As much as I can find on an archaic topic with little relevance to modern life.  

But it isn’t true, the irrelevance.  

The science may be outdated, but desire is never outdated.  I think I am intrigued by ether because of its hope. There are spaces that are filled with something, everything connected by minute bits.  I get lonely easily, and the idea of something filling the emptiness of space is alluring.  I like the idea that I can touch air and through that touch more than air; touch the connected force that ebbs and flows, that pulses and vibrates, that is against your skin too.

I want more than is possible, and I can pour this excess into ether, into my search through old books, reading words of men who are long dead.  How appalled they might be with what I am doing, but that’s text for you; a medium easily mimeographed and transformed.