Yesterday I was putting together a list of links to original thinkers whose work is represented on the web. I wanted to show the power of the web in making it possible for such voices to be heard. Among them was Gary Kildall, whose work, so instrumental in the development of personal computer systems, is now seldom mentioned. I remembered that he had died suddenly around the time I was hit by a car, but I did not remember the details.

As I read about this extraordinary innovator and that he died on July 11, 1994, reportedly from an accident that resulted in a brain hemorrhage, I remembered lying in a hospital that very day. I remembered the sickening pain from my mashed leg; my hair still matted with blood; the knowledge that I would have bled to death if my severed artery had not been so swiftly repaired.

A terrible coldness swept over me as I thought about Gary Kildall; the loss of his life; his creative spirit forever silenced; the loss to our civilization of all who have died in such circumstances.

Although such details as the accident scibe describes (which did happen to me) are true, the story that is set forth here is narrative conjecture. The deep sorrow that pervades it is fueled by the metaphor that a campaign of genocide against creative and caring people of all kinds -- including artists, athletes, scientists, workers, public servants, activists, spiritual leaders; people of all walks of life, people of all races -- has existed for so long in our free country.