Ankle Injuries - Fujiya & Miyagi. Just how awesome is this animation made out of coloured dice?
A chance meeting. Sprinting through the milestones of time past, quantum leaping into how our world will look like in 3D. Pauses without the awkward awkwardness. I’ve been spending so much time alone these days - it was good connecting with someone older, wiser, more mature. All the best, EC.
I’ve always been intrigued by how scent is so closely linked to memory. A random whiff in the air can suddenly bring to mind the freshly laundered clothes of someone you loved. Ikea wouldn’t be Ikea without its new furniture smells. Sniffing freshly baked bread can take me back to childhood days visiting the neighbourhood bakery with my mum. It’s true, nothing triggers nostalgia and memory quite like our nose.
Which is why I enjoyed Scents and Sensibilities: The Invisible Language of Smell, one of the talks at the World Science Festival 2011. It’s funny, fascinating, and covers many different facets of our undervalued olfactory organ. I only wish there was an accessible, reliable way to bottle up the smells I want to remember.
Oooh, new books! Initially only planned on getting Colleen Jones’ Clout, but after leafing through Seductive Interaction Design, I’m way more excited about reading that.
It is along this line that your life passes: all you perceive and all you imagine is firstly experience, but immediately escapes from the infinitesimal present and begins to recede into the past, the province of memory: not the opposite of forgetting but a form of forgetting. And eventually, all of your experiences will be forgotten completely, as you live or, more finally, once you have died.
There is an inflection point, so to speak, for memories as they travel further into the past. At this point, they begin to inspire nostalgia. Nostalgia is the admixture of sentiment and sorrow that we feel as we begin to see how a memory fades; it is provoked by the sudden awareness of the rate of decay of a memory, and is as bittersweet as the last encounter with someone dying.
- The pleasure of nostalgia: we yet remember, we savor an experience again, we substantiate ourselves with memory.
- The pain of nostalgia: we see that memory is fading, we are reminded that we are fading.
- The sustained ambivalence whose irreducible tension makes nostalgia beautiful: it is their disappearance that makes memories beautiful, that imbues them with more beauty the more they fade, the more tenuous our connection to them becomes. We recover them as smearing photographs from water, as notes forgotten in pockets, and this is when they seem most full of meaning.
- Is our own mortal disappearance similarly related to the meanings we ascribe to lives? Would the end of death be as problematic for meaning as total recall is for happiness? Is death an enabling limit for experiential creativity? Without its redaction, would all narratives collapse?
We tend to assume that what determines which memories provoke nostalgia has something to do with the content of the memories. For example: it would be typical to suspect that a childhood toy might, or a photograph of an old family home. But we are often surprised to find that something quite trivial, quite unrelated to what we valued emotionally (then or now) can catalyze severe nostalgia. Perhaps it is not the content of our memories at all that determines which provoke nostalgia, but instead where they exist on this line, how faded they’ve become (a process which happens completely asynchronously with respect to “real” time).
If so, you might express the situation thusly: a memory induces nostalgia when it is X% decayed. You might then note that for different people, or for people at different stages of their lives, this number X varies; it might reflect not a static number but a relative proportion of time elapsed in one’s life to time elapsed since the memory in question; given their personal habits of memory, people might fall into separate categories, categories about which the field of existential mathematics would presumably have much to assert.
One occasionally feels nostalgia for experiences as they happen, before (or, technically, immediately as) they become memories. These experiences tend to be particularly intense ones, rich emotionally and perceptually, dense with sensation of many sorts: visually beautiful scenes, times of deep social delight, moments of love. Perhaps the phenomenon of instantaneous nostalgia reflects that those experiences are so vividly-felt, so broadly resonant, that the moment they pass into memory the rate of decay is too much to bear.
That is to say: ordinary life is reduced even as we experience it into schema which memory manages to preserve more or less to our satisfaction, but when we are fully alive we feel painfully the chasm between the present and its preservation in our faulty recollective apparatus.
Does this mean the more one is able to live in the present, aware and attentive to life as it occurs in the moment, the more dramatically memory seems to fail, the more pitiful its sketched outlines and summary slides seem to be? And how does revisiting memories affect their journey along this line? Don’t we develop memories of memories which then begin their own disappearance? And what of orphaned memories? Isn’t it the case that nothing is as mysterious as memory, as what it means for happiness, awareness, identity itself?
If I hadn’t joined Rebel Bootcamp, I wouldn’t have realised that I am actually quite adept at making excuses – “rationalisations” that stop me from pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
I’m not sure why we sometimes feel compelled to share how rotten our day or week has been with our online friends. It’s easy to slip into bitch mode, bang out a few heated words into that ever-inviting Status Update box (“What’s on your mind?”), see your rant appear on your Wall, then cross your fingers and wait for a response from your FB buddies. Sometimes we vent because we’re truly mad; other times I wonder if we do it to get attention, to validate a sense of superiority (“I’m right, that idiot was wrong”), or because we just like pity parties.
I struggled for a while earlier because I wanted to say that this has been a shitty week. But of what news value is that? Apart from letting people know that they probably shouldn’t stare if I flare my nostrils at them, why do I think it’s my Facebook-given right to share both the ups and downs of my life, without caring about how it might make others feel? Bad energy begets bad energy. The less of it in our News Feed, the better. So what can we do to distract or comfort ourselves?
My cure arrived in the form of a book, Where Children Sleep by James Mollison. It’s an excellent distraction when you’re feeling all crapped out. The pictures of children from around the world — along with their bedrooms — are telling. There are the lucky ones, born into privileged positions and surrounded by iDevices, while those born into poverty or war-torn countries are stuck for now with an uphill battle with life (not to mention social/psychological problems later on). In light of these less fortunate kids, your problems are probably not so bad after all.
Thanks to the OK Go guys for yet another awesome video - this time in HTML5.
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