Back before we were all bathed in glowy, glow of
we were bathed in mangled trees; lignocellulosic fibrous material; paper. Hard copy.
My parents sent me a box of personal history in the mail awhile back and I have been looking through it a little bit here and there. Scraps of stories, dream diaries, poem fragments: the work unfinished. Sorting through it all in itermittent burst of curiosity prevents me from breaking down into tears. Though, I just might as well. Some items I pick up and literally throw them down because they evoke such strong memory - feeling. I browse bits of paper that record my decent into madness in my hometown, my travels in the UK and the US, my uncomfortable history in NYC... paper that reminds me of how much struggle I have gone through- right to the present. To still struggling. Plain, embarrassing evidence that I have tried to create and live in a reality kinda skewed from the common baseline. Tried and have found very little success in it. I have bank records with all those little, unfeeling numbers to prove that much. The sum of my life in a pile of burnable paper - not even neatly leather bound.
Since falling in to the Web, I've been putting out doubly intangible thoughts. The world is saved from the clutter of marked up objects. But the clutter of thought? It is still a hanging lead fog. Servers hold the bytes instead of shoe boxes and scrapbooks somewhere in the world. The claw marks of effort are there... Wildly unnoticed, surrounded by 7 odd billion other claw marks...