11:24pm. 27°C. System offline, all communication endpoints detached. Not a recipient anymore for tonight.
Eyes closed, looking inward, trying to filter out and ignore the noise of the city.

Rain would be really nice right now. Rain to wash away the dust and the heat of a glowing day. Rain to cool down the system a bit. Somewhere in there, circuits are running idle now, temperature just slowly going down. Side effects of processing a vast flood, a massive and constant influx of data. Challenge #1 being filtering – as early as possible sorting out that load of pointless, irrelevant data, noise keeping the signal polluted. Challenge #2 being processing what’s left then – extracting actual information from a by far smaller volume of data, mostly unstructured, filled with inconsistencies, contradictions, omissions.

Noise is the most impertinent of all forms of interruption. It is not only an interruption, but is also a disruption of thought.
– Arthur Schopenhauer

Systems repeatedly stuck in near-infinite loops while trying to resolve conflicts and making sense of this unreliable input, only sure thing being that this data doesn’t really provide sufficient information to overcome uncertainties. Other systems trying to compensate for the fact that uncertainty actually becomes bigger the more data is being processed. Self-regulation failed. Control structures gradually losing control of itself, generating nonsense instead of viable output. A needle of a compass lost in a magnetic field continuously changing its direction.

Eyes closed, still looking inward. What do complex systems see when in deep dreams? What’s a computer system running in idle state – meditating, simply leaving input come, be around for a while, float by?

Possibly not. At times it’s not too bad to retreat from being a recipient, just for a while. Let input calm down. See thoughs calming down, too. Will the noise fade away, too, with day slowly turning to night? Maybe. Eyes opened. It’s dark. Few lights out there. Few sounds.
And a scent of rain.

Places of old

From the Book Of Travels, Vol. 2, Chapter 5: “[..]Time travels? They say there’s no such thing… I disagree. Though, it might be different than people would expect. This is not your old, clichy trip through years forth and back, causing confusing by seeing things unseen so far, or making your own life difficult by travelling back just to stumble across your grandmother in her 20s. It won’t just work like this. Maybe it doesn’t work for everyone, after all. It’s just … different.

Maybe it’s just a matter of places, a matter of a certain mental state, of a certain kind of life to live. But it’s possible, and, same as space and time are continuous, it moves you through time by travelling through space. Essentially, it’s about going back to places of old, to places you’ve used to spend a long time in, until you eventually had or wanted to move on for whichever reasons.

Maybe it will not get you to the future, but it will certainly get you to the past. Take a step back, breathe deep, and see them around… maybe by then you’re about to catch a glimpse of your childhood self, running around in meadows chasing butterflies and grasshoppers under a bright blue sky in what seemed endless summer holidays, school and most of the things to worry about being as far away as the few thin white clouds crossing the horizon. Not yet very much thinking about time slowly moving forth, at the speed of one day per day, on a steady course, carring you with it, ready or not. Wrestling imaginary dragons between skies of blue and fields of green. Chances are it’s a just a vague pictures, schemes from a memory, like old fading prints, but maybe it feels closer, more real in a quiet evening.

Maybe you’ll, by then, also spot your late teenage self. Summer again, but later in any possible way. Proud as can be, most of the schools so far just left behind, including driving school. Cold streetlights. Blue nights. Long past midnight. Unreal perception of suddenly being behind the wheel of a car. Long distance driving, or what you by then used to see as ‘long’. Strange teenage Romeos dressed in leather jackets, jeans, sneakers, searching for both willing Julias and a style of their own while cruising the dark hours of summer. Long nights, early mornings, strange hours of getting to know oneself. Glorious days at least while looking back at them, knowing that a load of things tend to look more glorious in a moment of flashback. For sure it’s a trip back free of sadness or melancholy, free of regret or looking for time spent on nothing all along the way. It’s a trip back being at least content, or even better grateful for things as they were and as they are.

Maybe, yet, there is that crucial moment back then, back there, when that childhood self, that teenage self of yours become aware of your presence for a moment, stop chasing clouds or nighttime birds for a moment, and glance, stare at you, and be it just for a short moment, making you shiver a bit until you see it’s you looking at your current self through their eyes… What would you see? What would they see? How would they see their common later self, at this point in time? Would they be happy, pleased, proud, surprised, glad with how things went? Would they recognize, run for you, embrace you? How much if so?

Maybe it’s no time trip at all. It’s a reflection. A strange trip, or even more just the idea of a trip, flashing through your mind for an infinitely short moment on a sunny afternoon while visiting places of old.”

That’s where the passage ends. So does the flashback, short and intense as it was. He closes the book, and, slowly moving it back to its shelf, gazes out of the window where clouds race by through a stormy day of Spring…

awake for days

Night moving on fast again. Still close to 7 Celsius, seemingly leaving behind another winter that wasn’t. Windows opened wide, to not just hear but merely sense the air cooling down, the wind, the city outside. A fair amount of windows opening to the wide backyard, filling the night with noise, light. Even more noise from the streets on the other side of the buildings. Sleep’s still quite a bit away out here. And so night passes, with time being spent on the things to do late at night. Giving in to these things – wine, strong incenses, music, the dark outside. Not in order to ignore a certain massive understanding of “reality” of these days, and the fear, confusion and complexity it brings. But in order to accept it – and yet leave it aside, filter it out just for a while, break it all down to a bunch of concepts and ideas a little less complex…

Pessoa. Jaccottet. Rilke. Hesse. Written poetry on paper. Annotations, thoughts, vague ideas, written, on paper too. A moment to rediscover skills and interests that seemed lost somewhere all along the way. This is the moment to leave marks on the pages of old newspapers, to do scribbles and sketches , the moment to forget about being totally untalented at doing either of these and to still do so for the sake of it, because it seems appropriate, because there’s a desire of doing so, because it just feels so good for a moment?

And maybe at least that very moment will make for a good photo posted to Tumblr later on, a strange approach to preserving things by having them spread far and wide no matter how ridiculous or personal they might seem or be. That’s, then, what will remain once the morning’s closing in again: An bottle of Merlot, half emptied. Sequences of songs to follow through the day not completely unlike echoes fading away. A bunch of unsorted thoughts, more loose ends for an ever-growing pile of unused fragments of random inspiration. And a handful of grainy, desaturated shots on a carefully filtered timeline.
Starting points for thoughts for the next nights to come.