ancestry offers no consolation for me. while my curiosity takes me into my family’s past i have no desire to claim a relationship with people from eons past. whether i came from dirt farmers or kings is inconsequential to my current place in time.
as i sit here, now, at 1 in the morning the idea of past riches, great triumphs or terrible defeats offers no solace for me when all i want is a quesadilla from Taco Bell.
the last post was brought to you by insomnia, depression and watching Grave of the Fireflies at a late hour.
and now, this night, i’ve spent way too much time on the DataHoarder subReddit
all of this is part of the process for creation. the artistic act, for me, is birthed from nostalgia, depression and disillusionment.
where it’ll take me today is undecided.
and i’m still watching old x-files.
i don’t know why this is titled source control. i assume the idea was appropriate when i began this file hours and a day ago but it has ceased to be.
my conflict is always between the knowledge how it can be versus the reality of how it is.
regardless of the actual physical cause of death this conflict is the source of it.
I was going to write about connections. How an even 49 years before you were born could affect your life as much as something that you live through.
That’s changed and now I mostly am amazed by how much can go wrong when you’re just trying to keep to yourself.
memory can be gone in a heartbeat. a small rupture, a violent crash, a blockage, etc. and boom – goodbye memory.
it’s an amazing thing, actually, considering how fragile it is to begin with and how fluid of a material it can be under the best of conditions.
my memories from 17 years ago seem more like dreams. could they have ever been real in the physical sense? i know that i am not the same person who experienced those things even though i now carry them around in me as well as their consequences.
and i notice more how my dreams of 17 years ago are still similar to the dreams of today.
but mostly i wonder about the future of all these memories and dreams.
i recently learned of a recording of my grandfather that was taken during a birthday party about 35 years ago. i was 2 and i have no memory of this. both him and my great-aunt both are dead.
but fast forward 35 years. people are dying (as they do) left and right and leaving behind odd traces of existance and memories that’ll persist as long as someone keeps paying the light bill.
facebook pages, flickr albums, etc.
but i’m digressing too much.
a recording isn’t a person-it’s just information organized in a manner that provokes a memory.
to hear the words of a recording spoken by someone with a different voice or to read the words as they were transcribed would bring no memories to me. without knowledge of the creator whether that knowledge comes from being told “this is so and so’s words” or “this is so and so’s audio frequency”, etc. i am unable to attach any more importance to the existence of this information than if it were a automatically generated by the latest nonsense AI.
this is nothing new or profound.
but i wonder if i’m being overly foolish to think that it’s still very important.
also, i need to figure out a way to get graphs and drawings on this here dev blog. #sigh
I seem to have forgotten something
The follow up question to a statement such as that is “what?”
And the reply to that is “if I knew, I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”
Insanity makes as much sense reason during times like this. And, having thought it through, seems to make more sense simply because it’s a distraction from actual mind killing reality.
Everyday is reduced to a set of tasks and formulas. High priority things such as drinking water, having food and sleep are obviously prioritized but after that the list gets hot and heavy.
Classes that can be generalized as maintenance are career, living quarters, transportation, health.
Each of those classes can be as simple or as complex as one wants. But regardless of how they get structured once the pattern is realized the slow evolution of one’s life turns towards the institutionalization of those patterns.
All of it is simply a passing of time.
This is why I can’t sleep.
Been working on a body of work that utilizes old photos that I took during road trip years back (like 15ish?). Years back I was making paintings based off of them but that time has come and gone. The memories are faded. It’s hard to believe that that time ever occurred. That I was ever outside of my house and in the wide open country.
And when those memories come they’re glitched. Certain things are out of place, colors have either faded or been exacerbated. Detail has been lost or muddled.
So that’s what I’m trying to represent–a moment in time that is gone for me. Nothing more than a pictorial representation of some memories that may or may not be true.
I’ve also started making screen recordings of the process. I believe the documentation of their creation to be essential. A combination of how the sausage gets made disgust and intrinsic awe at the nonchalance utilization of multiple permutations of glitch.
Which then pushes me past the notion of art making. You can control the glitch and when you’re combining them there’s a million different ways you can take it. This is impressive. Also, since there’s no shortage of data storage space anymore you can make these millions but you must always just choose one.
Life is unfair.
I got through quiet spells. To force conversation or words or even utterances past a couple syllables from me is near impossible.
I don’t enjoy this quietude. My brain is active–always thinking, planning. Entire projects get built in my mind from beginning to end. Plans are seen to fruition. Lives come and go.
But there I sit thinking.
It is in these moments that nostalgia hits. I live vast lives in worlds I’ve never seen. In times I’ve never been a part of and places I’ll never go. The causes of such a nostalgia can be anything from an old song to a glance at an advertisement. Old movies, buildings, etc.
The nostalgia is certainly terminal. It causes action to die and a life ever after to be lived in my head.
How many times must I be an tragic film noir figure before the end credits finally roll?