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the archive(s):
issue no. 6:
Flat Like the Pancake/ Daniel Spitzberg
I have trouble with my hands. They want to draw and paint and photograph and write about it all. Neural momentum keeps the impulse coming hard and strong. And for what? To scratch notes in my mental notebook. The trouble is this: my amoebic, amorphic memory maintains everything in a form I can swim through in thoughts, but when I try to extract what I find, it comes out flat and full of gaps.
Who else has my pair of eyes and ears? Right you are. So creating vessels to communicate these things in is hopeless too much is never enough to capture the beast in its environment. A photo deflates it until it becomes a Sea of Dirac, leaving a slice so thin that it is invisible from the side. My hands are distilling what my brain holds through a sieve of lenses and photos, leeching into the amoeba, making it remember how things happened differently. The photo starts to become the memory itself. It is sharper than anything you can remind me of, or anything I can remind myself of. Memory works in funny ways.
It's not infinite, but it's not limited it's just something I'm building, and, well, have a look. See if you can help me build it.
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