you know & i know no-one is reading, so: this is a safe space, right?
facts: my memory blips aren't getting better. i've drawn things i don't remember, and i've written things that don't cling to the gumline of my stupid-ass mind. that bothers me-- but since you don't exist, who's to know or care. a couple days ago, i had just arrived at work, and i couldn't remember whether i'd just locked up my bike less than five minutes previous. a month and change ago, i walked home after having forgotten i rode my bike to the store & left it locked there
what's the point of writing this stuff down, and re-reading, if the mechanisms of self-reinforcement don't function as previously understood? why am i making lines on paper if this stuff isn't going to stick?
you can say history, or the value of art, or whatever, but i know-- and even not knowing you, i know you know i know this shit --that history is a faulty-ass machine for generating vast omissions, and art can't have any sustained value in a system that doesn't see any purpose in remembering the preterite
that's cynical & self-pitying, fer shure. which ain't the game for me, right now. i'm just irritable because my hands hurt & i don't have any real confidence in my ability to make art, and capitalism is just a capitalized -Ism that's never meant anything real to me. art is what i know how to do. art is what i chose. the memory thing is depressing, but no more depressing than any of the Real Shit i'm not going to type here, because i don't WANT to remember some stuff
hey. not giving up. just admitting it's hard to give a fuck, this morning
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