Life log + dive log

The memories we keep of ourselves are continually shaped by our retelling of them. We may not realize it, but events as we know them probably never happened in the way we think they did. Each time we run a particular file in our backup, something is disturbed as the connection is made yet again, and that memory will not be equal to the one that stood there before.

Ted Chiang has a short story about this his anthology book Exhalation. It’s about a world in which people have the option of recording everything that ever happened to them in a Life Log, and recalling events instantaneously as needed. This, of course, is not without consequences: causing stress on weak relationships when arguments are settled with recourse to hard facts.

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Blessed be the fruit

The clock is creeping towards five o’clock as I write these words. Jola came up to check on me, wondering what’s up with my sudden stillness. He’s a smart dog, getting used to the strangeness of these pandemic days. Time and time again he wonders why people in different rooms of the house suddenly start talking to walls. And why on earth do walls actually talk back? A mystery for the entire dogdom. Don’t trust a talking wall, they figure — never trust what you can’t smell.

This fourteenth of may was the fifth anniversary of my arrival to Santiago de Compostela after a month-long trip. With each passing year, an increasingly more distant version of me managed to do it, and the heart-aching longing for those days turns into a simple remembrance. Not having been troubled by other problems in the interim is a blessing. Here’s to five more years of such. I’m looking at you, Covid-19.

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Static

My recent YouTube history has been kind of a deep dive. I’m continually surprising myself with how talented some people can be. Programmers fascinate me. Competitive programmers in flux are a wonder to look at, as they bring an algorithm to life with muscle reflex and ingenuity.

I didn’t know procedurally generated games relied on “noise maps” to make their universes come about. Made me think about all that background radiation left over from our universe’s start, and wonder how many worlds can be found within the static. How many stories can be strewn out from all that true randomness? An infinite amount of monkeys… you know the drill.

I’m operating in a fugue state, zoned out, not quite there, like my brain’s on autocomplete mode and all the suggested words are wrong in a funny way. I have a lot of work to do in the following days, and all of it involves me sitting at my desk, obsessing about my writing, always worrying wether I’m short on the tools I need.

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Ants and spiders

This won’t be a well-thought out post, I’m warning you. I’m merely using it for an exercise of procrastination and practice, unrelated to current moods and all-around seriousness of these days. My English needs oiling, you see — I haven’t written very very long time.

I felt the urge to make a kind of self-involved blog shit nobody cares about, me included. I’ve mastered the art of rolling my eyes with this kind of stuff, and yet here I am, making a conflicted fool of myself and wasting your time, all in a beautifully packaged mess.

I can’t even begin to explain the confusion inside my head right now. I’ve been hammering away a novel for the first time in years, and it makes me feel incredibly good. It’s a great feeling when you bring new pages to life, even though they may be completely rewritten and disowned by the upcoming revisions. Using a little transparent plastic tube thingy with a metal ball to carve meaningful symbols on the unsuspecting page is a strange predicament.

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The failure artist

There’s Erdinger, doritos and monopoly on the table, as our wolfpack is playing amidst a cloud of happy smoke. While we recover our bodies from a day of snowboarding at a cozy Airbnb, a white landscape gazes at us from the window.

This was my first time snowboarding, and, as you can imagine, I’ve fallen. A lot.

I’ve tumbled like wet clothes on a washing machine. I’ve shaken like an astronaut on reentry. I’ve stirred like a martini, rolled like a Royce, felt my brain pole-dancing on its skull as I fell face first on a white sheet of snowish ice.

I’ve hit the softened ground face first, ass first, God knows what else first, and on those rare instances I flew a bit, as I twisted mid-air before the inevitable impact, I knew — this was one of the greatest days I’ve ever had.

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Spiraling in blood

Feeling like he could be sick on the fucking bus at any moment, Charlie closed his eyes and tried to tame his stupid stomach. What a fucking disgrace it would be, and all thanks to the pills he took this morning. Fucking pills. Fucking teeth. The anesthesia could disguise the pain of ripping a vile tooth from the bone, but the feeling of ingrained uselessness remained.

What a fucking mess of mouth, the dentist must have thought. With a couple of stitches on the new crater, and a never-ending flow of blood to swallow, Charlie traversed through a sea of people on the smelly, noisy, disgusting bus station. As he sat down on a disease-ridden waiting room, where time wasn’t the only thing passing, he pulled the phone from his pocket.

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