This was 8 years, 3 months, 22 days ago

for a moment I wanted to post something about these things I was looking at, thinking about; for example the union of locks, door strikes, iphone apps, the regulation and orientation of bodies in space -- and then got to thinking about this again, this site, blog, etc.

It's been so long - since, say, 2002 - that I've been doing this thing, this posting-of-text online. enough time spent suspending reason or intent in mid-air, leaving it hover. for whom is this for? who reads it? mostly just me, myself, this kind of shared archive of introspective musings.

this is as close of a reason I can muster up: the gel of the internet is this fixative, sealant, epoxy, amber, a kind of encapsulation/hardening agent that solidifies my words into being. it's on the internet; there's no going back. and as such these points are little dots in time, anchored moments that I look back to. which would explain, why, writing this all in a text file somewhere on my computer would have less valence. instead I am inscribing all of these words on the side of a boulder in some remote location hundreds of miles away from civilization. or: this is being engraved on the side of a brick wall on some manhattan rooftop somewhere, technically open and visible but barely looked at.

in general spatial metaphors fail to describe the linked/contorted topology of the internet, the way that access to obscure/hidden items is immediate, so that "obscurity" within the internet really means rumsfield's "unknown unknown", since nothing on the internet is inaccessible other than by ignorance. and so to some extent this website thrives on -- what -- a veiled access? limitedness?

which is to say. only you are reading this, and not many others. at least for right now.

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and if I should desire to create a 'blog' (which this is not, and isn't not), then what would that be? inner musings catapulted into the exterior world. a shift in modes. do I continue this casualness, these slung around run-on-sentences? this looseness to me is a celebration of language-formed-out-of-usage as well as a kind of mark borne out of the intimacy of ritual, habit: the way pans and knives can shoot across stovetops and cutting boards, sliced onions shot through the air, nonchalant flick of the wrist, a tossed gesture. that was loose loose loose.

but slowly I am starting to appreciate a formedness, a tightness. in the way that a meticulously pre-researched diagram for the trans-mongolian railroad allows the creation of free travel, loose play. imperfect parabolas in the air created by projectile motion arising out of the taut dormant potential energy of a compressed spring, a tight bowstring, dormant gunpowder lying in a chamber, the muscle of the arm coiled against your chest, fingers poised above a keyboard, the tip of a pen just barely not-touching a surface.