I think most people write because they don’t want to sleepwalk through life. Writing is a means of keeping memories alive. If you don’t record, paint or obsessively photograph or film every living moment, then why are you even here?
I write to stay alive as you forget what matters otherwise. That’s the one thing that scares me the most. Not being able to remember my stories for better or worse. I also want to keep a record of my changing. I am always changing.
School years are easy to remember if your parents keep hold of your jotters, paintings and teacher reports. Thereafter you have landmark birthdays with complementing photographs, graduation days and long hot summers doing nothing at all. Memories feel more tangible when your everyday life is administered year by year.
Only now I find months and years morph anonymously into a cloudy void. This year doesn’t feel any different than the previous four. I’m sure plenty of things have happened, but for some reason I barely notice the difference. Perhaps amnesia has set in prematurely because I’ve lived in the same flatshare for five years. Working as a freelance copywriter chasing unpaid invoices and ignoring recruiters is a repetitive trade at times.
Living as a layman in East London doesn’t provide much visual stimulation either. I’m sure the past few years would have been more memorable if I had gone backpacking in Chile or married a blonde jazz singer in Melbourne.
Alas, when I wake up in the morning there is no orchestral soundtrack accompanying my footsteps to the bathroom. My laptop screensaver is the same as the year before. Pulling open my black Primark curtains I see the same tattered plastic bag swinging from the communal birch tree every day.
Blogging provides a subjective personal history, and it’s a necessary one if you want to join up the dots. Skipped behind my bookcase lies a collection of diaries and notebooks I have curated over the years. With literary quotes squashed in the margins, I keep filling them out and dumping them alongside their older colleagues. A scrapheap of memories no one will ever read.
If I am lucky enough to have a family of my own, they’ll eventually be boxed and kept upstairs in an oak wooden loft. Maybe they’ll be sparingly reopened for an old quote or a nostalgic rummage through the past. Only to be put back in their place again, a handwritten contract with a young man that no longer exists.
Before I longed for a written legacy I remember being assigned a primary school project to recreate the standing stones of the Picts (an ancient warrior tribe in northern Scotland). The Romans called them the ‘Painted People’ because of their elaborate monstrous tattoos embroidered on their chests. On building Hadrian’s Wall in 128 AD, the Romans essentially formed an ideological frontier that stated civilisation lay down south.
Just like the Picts, we express our stories in equally vivid and complex ways, but I don’t think any of my A.I descendants will be recreating any of my blog tales.
My skipped diaries are physical reminders of my narcissistic desire to be exhibited just like the Picts. While stone circles remain visible, our digital archives could easily be wiped out by a nuclear inspired electromagnetic pulse (EMP).
Electrical magnetic storms have the ability to destroy our civilisation just like fire pulped the ancient scrolls of Alexandria Library. A world without Wi-Fi would be nasty, brutish and short. Don’t try and order a pizza on your iPhone when it happens.
Bit rot – the slow deterioration of data software such as floppy discs may render our digital civilisation useless to future historians. Cloud-based services are worthless if technology moves so fast that you can’t even open them. Unlike calfskin vellum’s and hardback books our collective knowledge requires constant software upgrades just to remain accessible.
While it probably isn’t a tragedy if my ex-girlfriends emails are unable to be read by future generations. I still want to keep them alive somehow. By taking one glance at them you hear the voice of another person, someone still alive but lost forever.
Writing to me is one of the greatest human inventions, holding us all together, providing an emotional bond with the dead, living and unborn.
Change is the one constant on a writer’s journey to the recycle bin. It doesn’t matter how eloquent your thoughts are in the twenty-first century, all it takes is a server failure and your life’s works will become robot.txt.
If I wanted to preserve this blog it would be wiser to print it off and laminate it for safe keeping. Your future memory palace is more likely to be sourced from handwritten notebooks than your Facebook archives.
All this superlative technology and ancient rock symbols carved with a chisel will out last us all.