Sunday, September 08, 2019

Moving Forward

It's taken me awhile to figure out how I want to proceed. Almost 20 years ago, and far beyond that, capturing fleeting feeling and memories, documenting them, shooting them into the was a time honored human tradition.

For thousands of years there are humans out there that cannot help documenting their existence for one reason or another. In some cases, the documentation is fully consented to, an act of life defiance to live so exposed, so open. Nin comes to mind with her radical truth and willingness to shed all her words into the world for her life to be an experience that can be experience by others. There are paintings in caves that are millions of years old, documenting ritual and life, to be sure. However, artists have been found, and we know that even back in through ancient ages someone was telling a less conventional story about humans in the world in favor for the more personal story of one's personal connection to the world.

My world is a strange strange place.

Through pages and pages of this database, my way of skip rocks along the void, I have documented pieces of myself from a variety of ages. Some of those mes are terrifying to relive and I steer away from finding my words then and there and remembering who that was. Some of my words bring great joy and a sense of my absurd duty to the world to keep existing in a state of constant adventure. Some of me are bittersweet. Some of me are falling in love. Some of me suffer through death. Some of me suffer through heartbreak. Some of me dance. Some of my connect with the universe again and celebrate the connection.

It is me though. It's mine.

The survielance state is something I have always been aware of. If we are honest, we have all always been aware of the survielance state, but the overarching and most human expectation of all is that one person, this person, me, is not nearly important enough to be the trained spot in the ether that the state wants to watch.

We were naive.

We are still naive.

And so lets us continue. I have no illusions about what continuing to write could mean but I know what the absence of writing does mean in real physical ways. There is no loss, because I remember, but I like so much recalling it through the lens of me real time, she who was there who is different from I who am now and from she who will yet to be.

It's all paradoxical, continuing makes no sense, and yet, I'd rather have the reality of the exposure of my life and history than nothing at all. A fear of remembering or being remembered makes no sense anymore. Even if we are so insignificant that no one really has considered looking, some ancient years in the future, maybe those will be the scattered pieces of humanity that matter more. Big events are impossible to avoid. The subtly of the human experience to be found in our smaller lives, in a single moment, in my single moment, is far more interesting a discovery to be had, one that can only exist if it is being created.

Thus, the tapestry must continue.

Perhaps it is no longer in order.

Perhaps it will no longer make sense.

Did it ever really make sense?

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