-- William Gibson, All Tomorrow's Parties
Found an old archived mailspool, probably messages from 2000 to 2003, sitting in my ~ on gibson. Had the great idea of importing it all into Mail.app and sorting through it.
What is it about the holidays that make us be stupid for things that stopped mattering twofold on the other side of Sol, revolutions ago?
Sometimes it shocks me how little things seem to change, but mostly it just makes me tired.
Like how memory is just a tree, neurons burnt with language and whatever other low-level operations make you, you. How all those old associations never go, and are hard-pressed to fade when you keep reinforcing them; potassium ions whispering through the channels of these learned responses (everytime I hear "Raining in Baltimore" or "Sour Girl" or "The Bad Touch" or "One Headlight" or "Invisible City" or gods forbid "Amphetamine"; everytime I dream of a desert lined with pine trees; everytime I touch a UNIX box and remember how weird it all seemed at first, and then how natural; when I first got the idea for system; how I left sand and saguaro for snow and trees, cobblestones and diners; all of these things that have come to define me control me, and all of them, all of them, have a single common thread running through them).
I shaved my head again. Just because.