A day late and a dollar short - that’s what this post is.
A day late and a dollar short - that’s what this post is.
i write this while my GuixSD install desperately searches for substitutes (note: it has since found them) and i ponder throwing up another mirror to match this one mirror.leifrogers.com/gnu … but i don’t know.
mostly i just want this install to finish and then maybe go to sleep.
in the meantime terrible early 80’s scifi is playing:
with any luck the sleep dope will have kicked in before a third item can be added to that list.
this is in keeping with the retro theme for the day, however, since my son and i spent the day at a vintage arcade. it was delightful with the winning machine being “Air Handball” by Brunswick
and now, mostly, i can’t stop thinking about the handball themed episode from Moone Boy (season 2 episode 4)
there i am – easter 1986. the easter bunny had been generous with a new transformer.
i am also wearing pajamas that are advertising for Centurions: Power Xtreme – a cartoon that existed from april to december of the same year.
i don’t remember that cartoon anymore than i remember the boy in the photo.
i’m very pale because i was often sick and spent the majority of my time indoors and should, roughly, be in first grade which marked a significant beginning of the end in terms of who i was.
over the coming years i’d go from whoever that was to someone far more cynical, depressed and alone but i don’t feel like going into that tonight. mostly, this is a wondering about who that kid is.
i watch my son and can imagine that i was similar.
i know then that this kid would have been happy with that transformer along with the rest of the easter basket stuff. and there’s vague recollections about going to bed way too excited for sleep but also waking up excited and feeling happy.
but i want to know more. i want to talk to him, warn him about the future, about school and growing up, but i know he wouldn’t believe me – there’d be no reason for him to.
past that i mostly remember a constant question: why?
it was - and is - a tormenting question. it is one that accepts circumstances but still wonders about them and their necessity because the mind tells you that most situations that warrant a “why” never had to be that way to begin with…if only.
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 had to get a crown last week. It was a temporary crown and I have to go back to get the “permanent” crown put in next week when it comes back from the “lab”.
In the meantime, the silence is deafening.
I believe that the tooth, or remnants of it, is possibly infected. Maybe not.
The compulsion of wanting to be heard is reaching a fever pitch. The result of which is desperation and that is almost always terminal.
During this moment is the great silence and I occupy myself with ideas and potentialities. What to do next? What would get traction? How can I make this silence end?
It’s something that demands representation but it’s existence is the void. To represent the desperation of isolation one is left with nothing but the wind and the ever present silence that ceases to be and turns into a roar.
You can’t hear yourself think and much like the constant ache from the crown time is your enemy. Endurance only lasts for so long and the silence and the pain drive one mad with their desperation and the tense, anxious energy that has gotten built up collapses into itself and leaves you in stasis. Alone in a chair in a quiet room with no energy to even contemplate another thought.
I like to think that this is all a dream.
That, somehow, if I were to wake up that it’d be 1986 again and everything would be ok.
None of that is true, however, this reality of ours is what we’ve got and it’s relentless. We fool ourselves with pleasantries–pick and choose our beliefs from whichever hip philosophy makes us feel good.
Whatever the popular notion of time currently is there is no denying two facts: it passes and things change over it. Cells move around my body, atoms move around the univers, etc. and other grandiose things.
All that remains is data. Effects from our causes. Paper, books, words, rotten food, closed doors, decaying bodies, preserved skeletons, golden records flying through space…
C.S. Lewis claimed that the people of the Middle Ages were bookish. He hasn’t seen the people of the 21st century.
I suspect that this mode of communication will one day break down. Regardless of whatever else happens, when the end comes there’s no saving 1s and 0s travelling down a wire and magnetic forces can only last for so long.
Clay tablets, man. Clay tablets.
I’m finding talking to be a complete waste of time. Even thinking, at this point, is dubious.
One can spend their life on autopilot and it makes little difference than the one who spends their life fighting against the odds. The difference is only in the romantic tragedy of the fighter.
We’re not remembered. We’re not mourned. Life moves on.
Memories get corrupted by bitrot and eventually they are vanquished by death. Nothing remains.
Get over it.