Saturday, February 02, 2019

Absence

It's the times.

The times makes it hard to write. The times make me feel like I'm not even here anymore. I'm so much inside the fact that everyday is so much bigger. Every day so many more things are happening that make any little thing I do, any little adventure I have, seen entirely unimportant in the context of it all.

I have fits and starts of writing.

A card catalog of thoughts that are strings of words that are moments that I wanted to remember that are now little scratches on a napkin here, a collection of 1s and 0s in the binary that are more digital flotsam collecting fractions of energy from the universe to keep existing until they don't.

Random elements that are me in the times.

The Times have become so huge that nothing seems important. The Times as they are allow us to collect and catalog the flotsam of our words, experiences, existences in a way that history has never seen so prolific before. The masses who have become contributors, weighing down under a million bytes of data the collection of the hive mind that is the now. The NOW, like the Times, so documented: where every word is meaningless and full of meaning and everything is persistent at the speed of this now.

It's crushing.

It's crushing to find a voice in with either of these pressures. And with a voice is a danger, because we have the ability to search through that crush so much more effectively than ever before. If words have become power to some extent, they have also become the chinks inside of our existence that can any moment become your present, your now and your doom. 15 years ago we revealed in exploring a world through communication without barriers.

10 years ago, we became friends with the world.

2 years ago our passion for the greater, larger, world, to leave a thousand pieces of ourselves in on the digital canvas screaming "I am here" became the weaponized ammunition of a thousand downfalls. Some greater than others. Some less than you would think.

We thought we knew so much, together.

In all of that, my desire to express hasn't really gone away, it's just full of fears of what I say and who might see. But then, I've never been much for keeping the words from flowing. The absence hurts more than the presence.

I turn to a friend and I say "You know, in the hundreds of thousands of tablets we have, the greatest volume of writing produced by humans after they figured out how to write, the majority of it is transactions. Receipts. Hundreds of thousands of ancient records describing what we bought and what we sold. Nearly ninety percent of the cuneiform tablets we have unearthed are nothing but that."


Saturday, November 03, 2018

The Andes

I am in love with the Andes.

If I have a choice of where I end, let it be the Andes. Something about the mountains there speaks to a part of the soul I can't express.

The peaks reach.

So.

Hi.

Each step more.

Go higher.

Be higher.

But.

Each.

Step.

Higher...

Higher.

Struggle in it.

Calm yourself.

Try to breath.

Chock on your effort.

But the mountains.

And.

The.

Mountains.

Rising up around, in a circle. You at the bottom.

In the valley look up.

Struggling.

Climbing.

Pushing forward.

But the mountains.

The struggle.

The Andes understand.

The Andes have been where you have been in.

The know.

Undewater drowning in the moment when you are nothing. Submissive to the...

And suddenly, forced up..pushed up...saved. This warm thing that brings you something like peace and you change and you move, and you think nothing of it.

Until flat surface boils in ways that make you terrified. Your are an explosion waiting to be. And then you are. Hot and cold and ash and gas, beautiful and terrible. Whole and destroyed. Rescued and changed.

The Andes understand.

They have been there.

Tengo calor.

Tengo frio.

It's always when I leave the Andes that I feel the most at home.