Far above and deep within

I thought long and hard about this space, and what to do with it.

As the pile of things that occupied this writer during a season-spanning absence grew larger, the thought of not writing here hung around my neck like a noose. Under such pressure, the spark for it couldn’t catch a flame. A depleted mind can only bend words so far, and depleted I was. Still am, to be fair (but on the mend).

So, what does it mean for this newsletter - for writer, and readers?

Life is messy, you see. Earth is catching up with the messiness of humanity and starting to spiral too. These are not normal times, so are we expected to act normally? To do taxes and hop on a quick call as if the Sahara isn't flooding and half of the world's lungs aren't on fire?

So I propose, dear reader, that we chill. Let’s read and be read when the planets align. I believe—have always believed—that stories won’t save you in a zombie apocalypse, but they’re a survival mechanism nonetheless. Stories can be anything. Not just epic tales, but any reflection of your humanity and sensibilities you put out into the world. Pieces of us that we share with others. There are stories in words, brushstrokes, musical notes, conversations, and daily strolls.

So this remains a space for stories, in many forms.

There’s something soothing about history museums. Sharing air with ancient objects makes you wonder how they didn’t turn to dust, how they’re still there, solid and whole, transporting us to a time before time.

Recently, I revisited a museum and stared for a long time at an ancient Egyptian false door, a slab of stone carefully carved. I could see the marks the tools left on stone, and it struck me—not for the first time, and hopefully not the last—that someone, a talented and dedicated someone, picked up a chisel one day and carved that stone. And because they did, we know they existed. Similarly, thousands of years before us, someone wanted to register something they saw, and they experimented and found a way to paint it on walls; to show it to others after them, to tell them it happened, and they were there, and they were witnesses. Every braid in ancient fabric, every dip in an oxidized copper ring, all the result of people's imagination.

History is a record of stories told over and over again, people sharing little pieces of themselves, visible or not. That false door is not valuable because it proves an artist existed; it is valuable as a piece of history, the mark of someone else's tomb in a fascinating death ritual tradition. But the marks are there, the humanity of it visible on the surface. Even if you look at a well-known artist's work, you can still see a bit of them. And it is a big honor and a great responsibility to be able to leave your mark, however subtle.

When we talk content creation in this great era of the 2020's we don't think in such terms. We say digital footprint as a bad word, like we do not want anyone to know we were there, or that we f* up like any other human being. We say we are making content, because things will be chewed and spit out in seconds, and no one expects to ever look at them again—at least, not until the next good content comes. So why call them your marks, only to hurt yourself with the realization that they mark sand under relentless waves? But you are making a mark; you are telling stories, you are putting a piece of yourself out there. It is scary and vulnerable to be just you when the internet is a place best suited to be nobody. Forget whether or not all content is art—the point is, we are trying to bypass the permanence of history and, by doing so, we forget it. We forget the lessons we try to teach each other because the lessons are expendable, we barely register them. And soon enough, we're erasing humanity from content altogether, with AI making art instead of the aforementioned taxes.

Then we circle back to the person that picked up a chisel and carved a slab of stone for a tomb. They were probably commissioned by someone else, perhaps the tomb owner, and earned money or ration for their work. Just like any 21st century artist, they might have gotten requests from their customer, to picture someone with longer legs or add a favored god. Maybe they complained about not having creative freedom; or that the commissions had to be delivered faster and with less quality, and they were not paid enough. Perhaps, if it wasn't for the chain of events that led some European to take their slab of stone from its homeland, their work was never meant to be seen more than once by a select group of people. Perhaps they knew that and cut some corners, and now their so-called sloppy chisel marks are displayed in a museum.

Yet I, and many more, stop there and think of history and stories, and what legacy we leave behind.Weirdos.