What are we if not noise?

For those who can remember a time when it could only be done through millennia-old tactile formats such as ink on paper, the imagery evoked by “writing” are of words tracked out, indelibly, across a physical surface.

Only the metaphor of writing remains. Writing’s physicality has been romanticized away into the ephemerality of the Internet. Now we distill our thoughts directly into the Cloud.

Once technology enables people to upload raw consciousness into the Internet, will this play of getting our thoughts together with words still be considered writing? Which of our youngest will reminisce the physicality of fingertips flapping gently over a membranous keypad?

Does the physical experience of writing have any intrinsic value? Should it be cultivated, set apart, preserved as an artifact?

Having been liberated of the finality of physical form, what is writing? And what about all the stuff that got left behind?

If words and thoughts are essentially the same thing, writing is the active objectification of thought.

Objectivity is a backward-facing statement of position that facilitates the differentiation of and comparison between presently available options. It helps negotiate response to stimuli, based on our internal backlog of experience, memories, and calculations, lessons learned and not.

I feel awkward, writing about the edge of my own understanding. The subject’s elusiveness necessitates utility, measuring words like a house painter works with masking tape and paint. But I don’t paint houses, I paint paintings, where the focus is on the topographical build-up of all things house painters avoid — the sedimentation of experience into lines, edges, and consistencies; the convergence of time undeniable, through a mix of material reaction to human instinct, perspective, curiosity and decision. The detritus of subjectivity.

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