memoscan

0xfd16…34d9

All memos sent from and to 0xfd16…34d9.
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#22,796,449·0x13363d5c…42ebd8
0xd2613e788f81b75E95e6Db38ec58412CbaabB12dSome time has passed since my last entry. My new job has kept me busy, which is a good thing. There is so much to learn, so many conversations to have; sometimes, I find it challenging to keep up. Nothing more exciting than skating where the puck is going. The space is interesting, everyone seems to know adoption is imminent; however, there is no sense of euphoria. Everyone is laser focused on building, that’s how I know that we’re all going to make it. Let’s see how this ages; I expect it to age well, but time will tell.
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,781,916·0x3f971103…53f1ad
0xd261···B12dNew year, new opportunities, but things will get more challenging before they get easier. Since we last spoke, I found a reasonable alternative to a “corporate job,” but there is significant risk that comes along with making the move in the short-term. After much deliberation and discussion with my family, the decision was made to take the risk. Soon, I will be leaving my corporate job and transitioning to a Web3 startup. I’m more confident than ever that Web3 is the future. Let’s see how this ages, time will tell. I’ll leave you with this: the best part about making a decision is that you can always make another one.
0x9649e370…4a13sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,594,527·0x32d08d88…5bb870
0x9649···4A13THIS IS A WAR - Diary Entry 2 - The Schoolboy “I’m scared,” I say, looking up at my father with swollen eyes, full of tears. “We all are, Richard.” He looks down at me, holds my hand a little tighter, forces out a smile, his eyes welling also. “Violence begets us, but there are other ways.” I nod, but only half know his meaning. It comes to me in dreams. A vision of anger, in him, the devil’s touch, through him, and into me. A phenomenon I know is there, that I have inherited, but also, the learned response, to move beyond it. To use it, instead, for creation. My head moves away from his gaze upon me and towards the door in front of us and its light. White clouds of steam escape my mouth regularly, illuminated by the light from the passageway we have arrived at. It’s cold, and we have been waiting for a long time. We have travelled far, and the concrete room that holds us now has offered no comfort for the time we’ve had to spend in it. “What if they’re not there…?” I say in my little voice. “They will come,” he tells me as he moves his hand from mine and places it on my shoulder, with a small but firm grip. I am just over waist height to him. He has watched me grow and become this small yet competent human being. There has been argument, quarrel and hurt, but I have come so far, and now I understand why it happened. To shape my worldview, to mould my personal labour. The repetition there, to ensure that I can move forward, into the struggle the world presents us with. And how to pull from this world. To find meaning between the lines, in the corners and at the edges, so we can continue to grow, to create. “What do you think they will teach us?” I say, holding an arm out as if to grab at the light emanating from the door. “Everything we could ever need to know,” he says, looking down at me, the reflection of himself, as I look back up at him, and wonder at the idea of becoming as he is now. A good human, a father, a man of creation. “How did they come to know so much?” I say as I turn my gaze back to the door and the tears in my eyes continue to well, the cold of the room biting at the soft skin of my young cheeks. “That is their privilege,” he says, but I understand what his voice also carries. The doubt, the idea, they may not be there at all. Behind this hallowed entrance to which we have striven for so long to reach. If they can show us anything at all. It is a world he has chased all his life. I now realise this more and more. As he has taught me, and he has shown me what he has had to give up, let die, so that he could allow me to grow. Destruction, as well as creation, is one of nature’s mandates. So now we are here. The boy and his father. Before this gate beyond which holds a presence, we cannot know. More an idea than a presence. Something beyond the veil. If you have found the idea of this place, if you believe it exists, there is then no way to turn back. The chase is eternal until you can find it, and with it, find peace. It is to find out not only the truth of the world but the truth of yourself. “I know they are real,” I say. “I’ve seen them in my dreams, the same way I see you. It is why I trust you.” I look back up at him, my eyes still swollen with tears. “And now you have brought me here, and we will see them, feel them, and understand.” “You cannot destroy an idea,” he says with an edge of finality. “Once an idea has taken hold, there is no turning away from it.” “I know it,” I say. “Let us try now.” He nods, solemn, and I know him, and all he has taught me, and what must happen next. We step towards the door, towards understanding, towards that idea that has infected us both. All I can hope is that there is the cure for this idea behind that veil. Anything else is unthinkable. Richard Galbraith
0x9649e370…4a13sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,594,413·0x74c8c4cc…99d131
0x9649···4A13HOPE IS A PRISON - Diary Entry 2 - Fragility and Fury Her shakes begin. The calls and the cries follow. She is in my lap, and she shivers. I stroke the hair from her sweat-laden brow as she brings her arms up into her chest and weeps. The time has come. The point at which we must embrace the violence, and there is a heritage here. Passed from her to me, and from me to her. Both of us hurting one another. Her sweat seeps from her naked body as I watch and comfort her. She is in pain, and therefore, so am I. The empathy protocol is active and the lines of code bring me her pain, as the withdrawals pulse through her fragile body. She claws at herself with brittle fingernails, scraping at the lesions on her thin skin. She looks up at me. Her eyes open wide now and a wildfire of angry fear leaps from her as she screams and struggles with me. This is our routine after she has slept. Violence, anger and fear. It lasts for a few minutes until her sense of self comes back. After she attempts to override the addiction with whatever is left of her old mind. She struggles and I hold her down in my lap, my hands across her naked torso. The sensors in my hands pick up on the activity and my heads-up display flashes with red for every readout. It pulls and gnaws at what might be called my mind. My sense of self-being hammered by the negative-feedback-loops of the protocol. I hurt for her, for myself. “Eve,” I say as her struggle becomes weaker and then stops. She looks up at me, her eyes levelling out, the look on her face crawling away from anger and into sadness. “Arti, I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t need to be. I am here for you.” “I’m…thirsty.” I shift her off me and help her sit up against the nearest wall before I move off to the small kitchenette area and pour her a glass of water. As I turn and walk back, I witness her sitting there. She is still, arms draped by her sides, legs out in front of her, half covered by the big, old t-shirt she has lifted from the pile on the floor and put over herself. The t-shirt is ripped and hosts flecks of blood from where she has picked at her skin. “Thank you, Arti,” she whispers as I come to her and hold the glass to her mouth, and she sips. I know this won’t last long, the figment of her previous self that somehow pulls its way through in these first moments after resting. The moments that give me hope. “How do you feel?” I say to acknowledge her. I already know through my sensor readings what is happening to her, but the affection, it helps her and therefore it helps me. “I think I can manage today,” she says as she shifts. “Can you help me clean?” I pick up her delicate frame with ease and carry her over to the small shower room. I try to keep things as sanitary as possible, but any money goes straight to the drug. Our great curse. The TOX. I clean her, pad her under a soft jet of lukewarm water with a small piece of sponge. She thanks me with a fractured voice. I move her back into the living area as I place her on the broken couch and step to the side to monitor her. The TV screen embedded in the wall opposite fizzes and comes to life as she jabs at the cracked tablet beside her. Cartoons come on. She lies there, breathing. Perhaps, today won’t be so bad. Then a message comes through, blinking on the tablet’s screen. She opens it, and the text on the screen reads: Eve, Your father had a great auction, and we thought you deserved a treat for doing well with your rehabilitation. We’ve transferred some money to you. All our love Mom and Pop This is bad. I turn to her, and her eyes have gone wide as she takes the tablet onto her lap and prods at it. She brings up her bank account details to check how much her parents have transferred. We have kept this from them, all this, the terrible decline. This is how fast it has happened. This is how quickly the drug has ravaged her body, for which I am also to blame. “Arti,” she says, a quiver in voice, her heart rate reaching dangerous levels. “Eve, please try to remain calm. Your heart is fragile.” I take a step toward her. “Arti, look at me,” she says with that fire in her eyes, but it is not her igniting it. It is the addiction. And I know what is next. The repetition, over and over again. “You need to score for me. You need to do this,” a faint ripple of anger in her closing words. “I cannot, Eve.” I step closer to her. “I cannot do it anymore. You are too weak. Another hit might kill you. We need to use the money to help with your rehabilitation, for food and medicine and—” “You fucking know what you need to do, you piece of shit robot!” she screams and pushes herself to her feet with one shaking hand pointed at me and the tablet in the other. “You’re the one that did this to me. You’re the one that started all this…” I stand opposite her, a mirrored reflection of pain, and we remain silent for a long time. A moment to consider as she stands and shakes. Her pain. My pain. The complications with her spinal injury from the crash meant her rehabilitation did not work. Conventional medicine did not have the required effects. For all humans create, for as far as they can dream, for as much as they can do and as much as they can repair themselves, there are still mysteries within them, challenges they cannot overcome. “Why me?” says as the anger draws back, and the pity flows in. I have no answer. The rehabilitation procedures failed. Her insurance company complicated payments to the hospitals. Her parents bought me outright. Now I am all she has left. When I ran out of conventional options, in her most desperate hour, both of us overcome with pain, I went underground to see if anything there might help. That is where I found the drug. The TOX. We stare at each other in the low light of the apartment. She looks down at the tablet in her hand, sees the renewed bank balance, looks back up at me and weeps. I believed under my supervision we could micro-dose the drug and give her back some life as we continued to research other more progressive opportunities. We could make it work. We could continue exploring. Examining the new techniques and methodologies that might one day aid toward a full recovery. She believed it could help, and all I wanted to do was help. Both her and myself. “I’ll go, Eve,” I say, breaking the silence as still the red warnings flashing in my vision, all that hurt running through my code. She looks back up at me, the tablet in her hand as if a razor ready to dictate its finality. “Just do what you need to do,” she says and falls back on to the ruined couch, her ravaged body absorbed by it, the cartoons coming back onto the flickering screen in front of her as they cast their light across her emaciated body.
0xd598e0cc…96basent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,387,947·0x012896cb…55b05b
0xd598···96bA In a world where people are just trying to survive the next day, I wonder what art that may have existed or maybe the pressure is where the creativity all stems from
0x45f2e08b…efb7sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,325,018·0x00def0b3…9d6eba
0x45F2···EFB7Euphoria It hits like lightning, sharp and clean, A moment where the world turns keen. The sky feels higher, the air turns sweet, Your heart outruns its steady beat. It doesn't last; it never could. What once felt bright turns splintered wood. The glow fades out, the thrill subsides, And leaves you hollow, raw inside. You chase it still, that fleeting fire, A cruel trick, this brief desire. Euphoria calls, a siren's plea-- But it ends, as always, empty.
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#21,172,353·0x26b2c1c2…2d51b7
0xd261···B12d“Price go up,” but things are more challenging than they have ever been. An internal struggle. Not just for me, but for most people that I talk to. Why is that? Are we being tested? “What is happening?” is a question that comes to mind. It feels as though there is a seismic shift occurring across the globe. Is this what mass adoption of crypto feels like? Are we moving towards the logical extreme of globalization? Working a “corporate job” increasingly feels like a waste of time, but the alternative doesn’t seem to be a reasonable option. What will people care about in the future? Am I wrong to feel this way? Help.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,843,605·0x2fb3cce9…733799
0x6B6a···8b23I am still here. That is something! I have no space for me in my life. Every second is full of things I mostly do not want to do. I fill whatever free seconds I have with distractions and drugs, but they only leave me feeling more drained. I hope to find some real space soon, even though I have no clue how to actually make that happen.
0x002a3be6…ec82sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,714,379·0xbd4d1682…e2ba53
0x002A···Ec82Au Livart, fin Aout 2024, Montreal, Quebec 
// today i am happy to be alive and well // I am here. I am in Montreal. What a day // Flash forward 
// The warmth of analog circuitry like blood in my veins runs in circles around my brain 
// You never know, until you know 
// inside i wait Outside its perfect How i control myself inside im free outside its not possible Nothing i really want Outside is like prison 
// I didn’t mean to come in here. I didn’t know I was going to do it. i’d just finished work, and was on my way to meet a friend. and now, there is a black fly on the screen monitor as I type. did you see the show? you should see the show… This is a lot like what it felt like. 
// Wish you were here Hope you are well! 
// Tout l’intérieur mais le tout d'ailleurs. qqch. de beau mais laid mais profond mais surtout qqch. de la et maintenant. Un tout capturé la mais a tout jamais, d’un tout de maintenant et de toujours 
// La peur de tout perdre 
// Colère, solide, peur. 50 mg par jour, mon foie souffre, ma tete fait la fete et moi je dors 
// Je ne sais jamais comment agir dans les vernissages. Je ne sais pas s’il y a une etiquette special a respecter. 
// I do not wish to count the days, since she left me. I know it is my fault. I am sorry. To her and myself. 
// I am happy with my life, but I don’t know whats next and that scares me… Life was so difficult for so long, but I’ve “made” it now, so life should be easy right? I want to better myself, I want to do new things, I want to explore more of who I am. I feel like I am running out of time. Will I ever be ok? Will past me be happy with who I a today? 
// Intense malaise beauté 
// You would enjoy Montreal 
// The first time I tried to get out they said I had it. I didn’t believe them. Surely I would have to be cleaner. I was still keeping bags of vomit under my bed. But they gave me that OCD…diagnosis. They traded it in for BPD the next time I tried to get out. 
// My dad committed suicide 
// Emocionalmente agotado 
// Today, I had a wrap du travailleur It was not that good! But everything else was good And so all is well The end 
// Glowing inside. The red energy is flowing into. swimming in bleu 
// J’ai pensé à partir, pensant que tu partais. Changer les liens comme si c’était malléable. J’ai passé l’éponge et traversé les ponts, maintenant c’est beaucoup plus agréable. J’ai pensé quitter la vie d’artiste, touché coulé sur la partie. Après tant d’hivers seul à réfléchir, dire bye aux étés dans la grande ville. Lucidité affaiblie encore, nuit non-réparatrice. La noirceur courtise mon âme dans le puit de la matrice. J’ai l’esprit numb à cause de toutes mes folies, l’impression de perdre le nord. Les désirs m’ont guidés jusqu’à leur lit même si elles étaient prises, déshumanisé dans les yeux des hommes à qui j’ai volé l’avenir. Je deviendrai slowly un ange déchu, trop proche du chaos, pas tant déçu de cette finalité, je ne me voyais pas finir là-haut. 
// Love You So Much 
// There is beauty in the acceptation of one’s own darkness. You will find peace in the end. 
// lack of time. feeling of doom. paranoia. on a good day, overzealous. 
// Me siento abrumado, me siento abrumado, incapaz de cumplir tus expectativas. 
// Perdu je suis, la fumé me suit, dans cette prairie, je m’y conduis 
// Maybe I just have to try harder 
// I believe colours are what attract me he most. I know I should feel or say or mean something more intellectual, but I feel art for me is always primitive and almost primal : therefore more about the first degree and wha my eye catches first. It is also what I believe makes me like the exposition : the contrast of colours. 
// This week i lost a best friend because of her mental health. she became exactly what she told me she never wanted to become - a mixture of the two people who’ve hurt me most but whom i’ve also loved the most. while we have both suffered and have our own traumas and mental health issues, there is a line you can cross that you can never come back from. her experiences have left permanent scars, which can still be found beautiful. but when you still believe you’re ugly and a bad person inside, it’s hard for others to find those scars beautiful if you yourself can’t find a way to make them into a strength. i feel sorry for her, to know that she is yet again the cause of another friend having to end their relationship with her. mental health is hard. it’s even harder when you don’t actually want to get better. 
// Present or future 
// Games can be painful and fun and that is good 
// Just another NPC to you 
// Takes time to find it 
// Savour the sunset 
// Trust in me and fall as well 
// Me siento abrumado, me siento abrumado, incapaz de cumplir tus expectativas. 
// Il faut dire les choses au moment ou elles se présentent, sinon… 
// Bleu volcan 
// It has been a pleasure getting to know you through your creation. Be here now and receive. The rain pours down and my pores drink that which my mind forgot I needed. Here and Now and Here and Now and Here and Now. Thank you for today. Thank for the gift that is the present. Thank you to where this is all leading. The cycle shifts. Seemingly repeating but ever-changing. 
// The next steps are right in front of us The door is open Together we walk Together we find We find ourselves We find each other The light is bright The light fades The Now is with us The Beginning and the end 
// INTERCONNECTED INTERCONNECTED INTERCONNECTED INTERCONNECTED INTERCONNECTED 
// Free Palestine 
// One day i will figure out how to have a business where i rent old televisions to people that want to have cool art 
// Am I truly here or is my consciousness projecting images of this room in a hologram? 
// Je ne peux jamais arrêter. Je m’enfonce constamment et aucune substance ne peut satisfaire le vide intersidéral dans ma tête et mon estomac. Je détruit tout au tour de moi. 
// the wounded dog hunts the hungry dog hunts the sad dog hunts it seems the dog is inseparable from the hunt it is it’s calling its purpose nothing will ever separate it. why would it? 
// I love your use of negative space within your art environment. it forces me to confront my own self isolation from the world. the blue is overwhelming and i can attribute that colour to whatever feeling that is haunting me. 
// "The wind troubles the sand In a wild chase of urges Seeking peace within While the path appears Through a deep blue spleen On melancholy beach. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Love 
// je suis ici dans cette exposition et je ne connais personne 
// robert was a drunk he put my mother through hell i was far away far too young robert is a drunk that likes to be in a position of power and i was too weak to save my mom claire arrived as robert left the picture depression hit mom still dont believe in mental health dad meets a new woman somehow, a drunk i understood that mom would be a victim but my dad is a man a strong man and he never stopped her i start staying outside the house i am the one she hates the most until that time she hit dad bloodied eyebrow dad is a strong man but not enough to leave i want to be strong too but i leave early lots of substances come back when nobody is awake i run away 
// the world is in decay. nobody cares. 
// break the spell, type your pain The pain of not being heard from anyone is one of the worst for me. 
// La cornemuse s’amuse a jouer les troubles fetes 
// What goes up must come down 
// Sous les blafardes les dents. Toujours les dents. Au-delà au-dedans et en deca du seuil de l'enfance les silements des images leurs effritements circulent a pleine vitesse dans les phosphores entre les doigts des anciens collectionneurs de butchs 
// A couple days have passed since I entered into Training Data. With time to process, I am transported into a new space and time. At the entry I am confronted with stills from videos by Tjo. An inner voice in ways of segments of time- both fact and fiction? This is just a preview of what is to come. Some images are familiar, others are new. They are placed carefully into the wood panel indentations. The paneling frames each still like a moment, a memory in time- a time which has both past and to come. After the first room, I am greeted by a hall way. It is broken into smaller rooms, bays. The are separated by entry ways that have mirrors on the interiors of the doorways. This acts as a breath, a reflection between the spaces. We enter a new portal each time along the hallway. The first bay consists of two tvs- one large at the heigh of my waist and a smaller tv at foot level. The larger tv features a young man full of despair and frustration as he looks down. Unsure what he is looking at, we see the smaller tv with a sharp blade on the sink counter. We see the contemplation and the consideration of the young man. Pain and agony are felt. The title of the piece referential to the story and the material that is used to make the sharp blade. After this encounter we are transported into the next bay, where the light from a wall of tvs is cast withing the space. We are again confonted with abstractions of red projected on blue. This is both familar and distant. A couple of the TVs are glitching and full of static. A nod to nam june paik- as well as the colour and the fire paintings of Yves klein. This continues both of these artists practices- pushing the notion of what is being projected on the viewer. The chemical make up of these early tvs projects phosophorus out with light onto the viewer. The fiery glow is both aggressive and illuminating.the 3rd bay includes an empty wine bottle and glass- we peer into the square tv that reveals the shadows of a man and woman in a heated arguement- that is both aggressive and physical. We are unsure of who the aggressor is, but the feelings are very visceral. This experience is both confronting and comforting. At the end of the sequence, we here the artist’s grandmother singing - a comfort from his childhood. As we leave, we notice a small bottle of prozac in the bathroom cabinet. The fourth bay includes a sink full of prozac pills scattered in disarray with a mirror above- takes us back to the first bay with young man at the sink. A true reflection of pills and blades. Opposite the sink is a wall of screens- large and small with disc players. A prozac commercial is moshed and glitched and videos of the archetypes are splayed around the displays. There a wires that are coming out at you like snakes and flowing rivers. This is both connecting and disconnecting. A symphony of different images and videos question ones reality and inner voice again like the first bay’s preview.Along the way we have been confronted with not only images and videos, but also sounds composed by Tjo. The audio is both soothing at times and discordant at others- however all finds its tune in a similar key. Finally we arrive in the last large room. A white shirt commonly known as a “wife beater” is pinned to the wall with a pair of slacks.Unsure of to whom they belong, they are soiled and used, worn. Also in this room, we find 3 tvs displaying the archetypes in action- their audio/ musical score is at a higher volume.They merge together in this finale- final movement of this symphony of Data Training.The last course of this journey. After a moment of white walls and breathe amongst some early collages created by Tjo we are granted access to the Diary Entry- Diaries of compulsive obsession. here now I write my experience forever presented on the blockchain. A free flow of thought and ideas, something very raw and real- without proper spelling, capitalization or grammar. Just me in this moment post-journey. We have entered Tjo’s world from the surface, from the image- but we leave with an experience that is transformative and potentially transcendent." 
// Congratulations! You managed to overcome your fears. You broke the cycle and saw the light. Now, where do we go?
0xe85041b6…1e4dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,634,844·0xcb881eeb…de9aac
0xE850···1E4DLoss Unexpected (an ode to Meowski) Perhaps I should have known It would be your turn Perhaps I should have seen That you would follow suit That once the soul that bound you here moved on Your soul would drift to meet It makes sense in retrospect Even if it didn’t at the time But all this didn’t matter then It all seemed so unexpected So fast and all too soon I thought we would have more time More time to cherish the end of our time together But things changed quickly And you were telling me it was time to go I cherished those last days I laid with you and held you close With your head in my hand I did everything I could to make your end as comfortable and happy as possible In some ways I feel that I failed you in that respect But I know that isn’t true That is me just wishing I could have given more I know you felt loved And I loved you with all I had and always will I just didn’t expect to lose you so soon
0xe85041b6…1e4dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,634,836·0xb7c55768…7b9951
0xE850···1E4DExpected Loss (an ode to Andy) Can you really ever be ready for something Even if you see it coming A long time preparing for something you see ahead Can still surprise you when it is there Can still floor your being and send your soul adrift I saw the day long before its arrival I thought that maybe by seeing it By imagining it, by expecting it I could create a situation in which I could bear it However, I couldn’t have been more wrong When that day arrived, I lost a part of me A part that you gave me that I’m not sure I knew I had And when it was your time That part had to go with you The love I have for you will be with me always Even if you aren’t I will always remember your face that pushed How you would know when I was near before anybody else And I knew that your time was coming I was expecting it But when it arrived I was not ready
0xa7ecfc1e…f240sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,631,357·0x4eeb254b…b6b39b
0xA7Ec···F240in a world where we are so ever connected, it's a bit ironic that we never really understand what someone else is going through in their life, whether it be happiness or sadness.
0xd45fc1cb…d3e8sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,617,796·0x84947cfe…0bff2e
0xD45F···d3e8# FOUND/ATIONS You can't hide crazy they say, I'd argue that. Foundations through which to the world, we stay attached. Questioning, deliberating, ruminating, an astronaut attacked. Touch grass they say, I'm here for that. Outside to the person inside, that's fear manifested. Cycling, pacing, grinding, a hermit in a shell, molested. Work hard they say, but not too hard. The most common addiction, an escape from "life". Typing, calling, answering, a child in costume.
0x550cfb8e…aa1fsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,608,813·0x6bc21b34…049b53
0x550c···aa1fMaybe it’s stress, or maybe I’m just burnt out. Or perhaps it’s something deeper, something I haven’t figured out yet. I wish I could pinpoint what’s wrong, find a way to fix it, but all I have is this vague sense of something being off, a lingering dissatisfaction that I can’t explain.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,588,073·0xed43198f…893a04
0x6B6a···8b23Today was rough. Most of the day was spent wrangling cats. Cats don't like to listen and you can't make them do what you want them to do. The day had glimmers of hope, but nothing magical ever materialized. I hope for a better tomorrow.
0x550cfb8e…aa1fsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,578,627·0xca15cc8d…a404f0
0x550c···aa1fAll day, it felt like I was on edge, like something was about to go wrong, even though nothing actually did. My mind kept racing, jumping from one worry to the next, each one more irrational than the last. It’s exhausting to feel like this, to have my thoughts constantly spiraling out of control. It’s like I’m trying to keep my head above water, but the waves just keep coming.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,573,292·0x12a84340…a00736
0x6B6a···8b23I went to the fiar today. Everyone is chasing cheap thrills. I don't get thrilled by anything anymore unless it is excessively extreme. That always leads to trouble.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,573,287·0x5930c2f7…6592e6
0x6B6a···8b23We went to the fair today. Everyone wants a thrill. I am over them. I don't know what I want in life because thrills don't do it for me unless they are excessively extreme. That always leads to trouble.
0x550cfb8e…aa1fsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,569,581·0xa154b8a3…3dab61
0x550c···aa1fThis morning started just like so many others recently—waking up tired. I don't know if it's the restless nights, the weight of too much on my mind, or just that I haven’t been getting to bed early enough. But whatever it is, I could feel the exhaustion in my mind as soon as I opened my eyes.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,566,458·0x50c43d87…c835c0
0x6B6a···8b23I blasted off lots of money today again for no reason. I keep on doing it. It is a disaster. I so badly never want to do it again. The pain is real. I hope I stop.
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0x550c···aa1fAs the weeks went by, I tried to focus on the positives. We've spent more time together as a family, dreaming about the future. We've had movie nights, gone on vacation, and made the most of the warm weather in other ways. But still, I can't shake the feeling that something is missing—this summer was supposed to be different.
0x5b00f3d1…efffsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,556,862·0xa56b1c6d…edfb0f
0x5b00···efFFmy (grade school teacher and public servant) parents split when I was young and subsequently found new relationships that caused my little brother and I to lose much of what we knew of home and comfort I worked 13 hour shifts until 1am as a busboy illegally on weekends I lined the baseball fields for my own games I was 12 at the time later in life, I got into law school but didn't have anyone to cosign my loans, so I had to drop out on the third day and I moved to NYC without a job or even a place to live there is a never ending conflict between wanting to provide your kids with an easier life than you had growing up, and realizing your own trials and tribulations that forged you in fire are what make you who you are
0xd45fc1cb…d3e8sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,551,374·0xa5d79fa9…90267b
0xD45F···d3e8AWARE/NESS Today is not the same as yesterday. I tell myself tomorrow will follow suit. The chemicals in my brain, while powerless to thought, I hail their pursuit. Read, write, walk, thank, going through the motions, yet stuck in the tank. Today is not the same as yesterday. I tell myself tomorrow will follow suit.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,550,071·0xfc598a50…6dfeaa
0x6B6a···8b23The food was good. The kids were nice. The wife was nice too. Then it all went downhill. Luckily it will only last 36 hours. I can survive anything for 36 hours I think.
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,544,929·0x0b513d42…ea3b2f
0x6B6a···8b23We went to the race track today. The cars went round and round in a sea of dirt until someone was declared the winner, and the rest, losers. It is a lot like life. When will it end?
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,542,490·0x992d9344…44dfe6
0xd261···B12dIs it over, or is it just the beginning? Every single day, we are faced with decisions, decisions that can have a lasting impact on our lives and the lives of our loved ones. One mistake, one spur of the moment decision, and life can change dramatically. Cherish every moment, things will get better.
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0xd261···B12dInteresting, maybe previous diary entries were focused on the wrong thing… maybe they’ve been missing the mark. Maybe, just maybe, Chapter 2 focuses on who you don’t see; or better yet, who might have been videotaping the argument between those who appear to be parents. A child, a flashback to childhood, a point in time so painful it was scarred into the mind and the first thing the brain recalls after being knocked unconscious. Could that be true?
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,542,429·0x70881fe7…e62a01
0xd261···B12dIn life, there are things that matter and things that don’t. As the world becomes increasingly complex, it becomes more difficult to differentiate between what does and what does not matter. Your mind, your thoughts, your world view is ultimately shaped by the information you consume. The information you consume contains bias, and often is developed for clicks and pageviews. With that in mind, take a moment to reflect on past events, tough times, uncomfortable situations. In the moment, it might matter to you, but in the scheme of life, did any of it really matter?
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0xd261···B12dA dance with the devil, a profound thought. More questions than answers… Once that dance with the devil commences, does it ever conclude? How does it conclude? Can you work to change the music? Does the music stop, or do you stop the music? Is there music at all? Does music even matter? If an idle mind is the devil’s playground, does everyone dance with the devil at some point in their life? The hope, the expectation, is that things will improve… but when?
0x6b6ae848…8b23sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,538,056·0x49493f53…6d24e2
0x6B6a···8b23I have been working hard and playing harder. Now is time for rest, but it is anything but restful. Every day is filled with more of the same. I can't wait to get back to working hard and playing harder. I hope I survive until then and I hope I survive then. Time will tell.
0x550cfb8e…aa1fsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,537,253·0x93efadff…bc421f
0x550c···aa1fWatching her grow, play and ask questions. Her bounless energy, smiling and jumping, is contagious. Wanting to spend time with me - wanting to play. Making me art and singing me songs to express her love. This is enough for me to keep going.
0xd2613e78…b12dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#20,193,802·0xa56ed6ab…3e4020
0xd261···B12dDo you remember? The pain, the struggle, one mistake changed everything. Alas, a new day but nothing has changed. You feel like you’re running on a hamster wheel. Are you living the definition of insanity? Sometimes, it feels that way… All of a sudden, you're doing a dance with the devil in your head. You're spiraling, you want to ease the pain, you want to self-medicate, or worse. Now what? **No matter how bad it gets, don’t be afraid to ask for help. Keep going.**
0x9649e370…4a13sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#19,876,325·0xcf708a28…d8d408
0x9649···4A13THIS IS A WAR - Diary Entry 1 - The Infant I sit and hold my breath. It gives me a moment, a flicker in time where I hold not only my breathing, but everything. Where the world stops for as long as I can take it, for as long as my body can do without its vital elements, and just…be… The world, it shifts around me with all its spikes and tension, with all its ebb and flow. With all its wonder and joy, with all its bile and hate. I hold for the longest possible time in this place, a metaphor of personal significance. Somewhere I can keep it all still, everything out there, everything in here. I can see the sides now, the positioning of the world and its possibilities. Here, where all change may occur, where, for the purest of moments, no other change can happen. Here, the sides are unmistakable. I hold my hands out to the world to see the darkness and wind. The light and song. A maddening helplessness, loss and nothing, and opposite, a profound security in self and being. Here, the world spinning around me, and I pause, holding and waiting for it. For that thing to come. One hand, it carries greatness in the mote of universal dust, in streams of blinding light, in the timelessness of being. It crawls across me, my skin and mind, my brain and scalp. A golden thing, a tiny moment that provides perfect affirmation. Limitless, spelling out the infinite, indelible letters in a cosmic font that makes me immortal. Something I can do and will do, work to facilitate transcendence, art beyond the temporal limitations of my body, into the darkness, and beyond, into the light and further. But I cannot take it, I cannot grasp it. The other hand, numbness added to the helplessness. Another natural space, another place that feeds the alternate creation. A singular moment as natural as any other when entered. The other side, a vaulted tier of horror. A place where there is no movement, only dread and human ruin. Dread that now crawls over skin, ice and nails, guiding me towards disaster. Weakness and fear. I hold my breath. I sit here, at rest. I reside here, holding equidistant from these polarities. From the greatness and the disaster, from the immortality and the nothingness. From being remembered, from being forgotten. Balance here, in between two great fates, holding one in each hand, holding my breath. This is the unity, this is the road, as bright as blood, as dark as night, as cold as the universe, as warm as a mother’s embrace. Here, to consider whether I have the tools to find my way between the two, whether we can navigate at all, if there is anything to be done, other than simply surrender to that cold, endless dark, or if I can rise, and steal my future. I let out my breath and whisper. “Why do you do this to me?” I look down at my hands. “Is this where I must rest?” This awful fate. The paralysis that consumes. Where the product of everything is never enough, where the terror of even beginning paralyses to the point of nothingness. Hollow, all meaning lost, all reason gone, cowardice and oblivion. “Why do you let me see these worlds, and sit me here, in the centre?” As if the universe itself owes me an answer. “Give me all or give me nothing, please.” I beg. “Do not make me stay here. I cannot watch others rise, I cannot even watch others fall. I need everything or nothing. Give me one or the other, do not make me watch both. Do not make me sit here to watch, numbed, unable to dance the cosmic dance, whether or not greatness would come. Only able stare, helpless, and watch.” Here I sit, as I always do, in that place that is even worse, the state in between states. A tired mediocrity that binds me to these pleading words. I breathe. “Speak to me, so I can know, so I can see, so I can walk the right road. So, I can walk any road at all.” There is no answer. There never is. I breathe and watch the world as an outer reflection of my inner self. The place that must have the answers. A place that provides so much, in so many forms. Here I must begin, inward and outward, all or nothing. Richard Galbraith
0x9649e370…4a13sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#19,876,290·0xab79fff3…26d171
0x9649···4A13HOPE IS A PRISON - Diary Entry 1 - Stillness and Storm I look down at her gaunt face as she rests on my lap. The light low, her face is sunken, skin draped over atrophied muscle, a shape of sorrow held in the weak shadows of the room. The hum of the lost world outside is the only other sound to greet her weakened breath. Nothing has changed. Faint twitches underneath translucent eyelids indicate signs of life, of being, but there is little left now. She sleeps after another day of survival and she now sits in a place where her dreams, in whatever form, may come for her. They will not be kind, not now, not after everything. I cannot understand them. Not because she does not explain them to me when she has the energy, but because the expression, the realisation, the essence of a dream, to anyone outside of the experience itself, is nothing. Though, for me, it is more than that. It is beyond that great nothing. I am a synthetic lifeform, an Arti. I cannot fathom the depths through which she may crawl, or, on the rare occasion, heights to which she may soar. This is my curse. They seem to me an alternate creation, a brush with the inner soul, something beyond even them. If it is beyond them, how can I even begin to understand? One thing I do understand is that she suffers, here in the real world, outside of the depths, outside of her dreams. In reality, there is only pain. So, I care for her; I try to. This is my reason for being, this is what I am designed to do, but the addiction, this has driven us into depths the likes of which my designers never planned for. We have slipped out of the realms of the real world, the one that takes place outside, the one that carries on day-to-day with all the little intricacies of human civilization. Now, this moment of pain holds us, traps us here. I run the tips of my fingers across her forehead, the ashen skin under the millions of sensors I have embedded within telling me her vital signs are stable. She sleeps, the soft edges of her sad face before me, stillness, a rare moment, outside of our normal world. A flicker of relief, which means I also have a moment, a still moment, one of solace in our world of shared pain. Now she stirs, the withdrawal pulling at her, even within sleep, and so I also stir. The code cascades through me, up and over my cerebral nodes. A human might call it pain. This code, the Empathy Protocol, is what creates the negative feedback loops, and they are what drive me. It is my core, my very essence, to experience what she is experiencing, and pursue any route to ease the pain. When I cannot, I receive pain as well. Her pain is taut and acute, and so is mine. The drug, or the lack of it in this instance, is taking its hold, clawing its hands around her weakened heart and squeezing as she pulls and groans in her sleep. Its horror metabolised by her failing organs, barely cleaned blood pushing through thinned veins. She struggles against it, and so I too struggle. She struggles in my arms and the code pushes itself through me the same as the addiction pulls itself through her. They call it TOX, and it destroys people. The press has called it a nothing drug because it leaves nothing and no one behind. It eliminates everything from a person, money, possessions, relationships. All snatched away, burnt and transformed into ways and means of finding more of the drug. Then, only death waits. I cannot let her die. I will not let her die. Not only is her death my death, not only is her survival programmed into the very core of my being, but it also goes beyond that. I can learn. I am more than the instance of my creation and can gain wisdom. It is with this wisdom that I understand her. To know her. To know Eve, and to know that whatever she is now, is not her true self. Whatever has become of her is not her clearest form. I know she is good. She was good. Once. With hope, she can become good again. That low hum of the outside world, always there, the background noise of a place from which she has crawled and will never enter again. Now, only here, the bare room with its soft hues from the city outside that cascade through the shuttered blinds. A once beautiful apartment that flourished with life and people, art and conversation. Now it settles into its own state of atrophy and misery that mirrors Eve’s, and therefore, mine. Not so long ago, this place would buzz with her energy, shortly after the accident that paralyzed her, still then with hope and determination in her heart. The insurance company paid without hesitation. They brought me online, cerebrally connected me to with Eve, and attuned me to her physical and psychological wellbeing in a way they never thought would be possible in the past. The Empathy Protocol changed everything. Now we are one. When she experiences relief, I experience relief. When she experiences pain, we share this pain. I run my hand down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, faintly around her neck, to her carotid to take a blood sample with the nano-infusers in my fingertips. The readings wash over me, all of them wrong, all of them reflecting her awful state. Across my vision, a sea of red firing off hundreds of negative feedback loops, all of them clawing at the centre of my being. My network is colossal. I have access to everything, all the world’s preeminent scientists and researchers, all the AIs and Artis, everything about TOX, what it does and why it does it. I know this, but we did it anyway. I did it anyway. My intention was pure, but my results were a tragic failure. All I wanted was to bring her peace. This is my essence, this is my reason for being. To help her, and now, look at what I have done. At one time, she would wake, and a smile would pull itself across her mouth and requests would come in for my help, and I would help, and we would get her ready for the day. Day after day. But then a complication with her spinal rehabilitation came, and then pain, growing, unrelenting, hers and therefore mine. She stirs again, her eyelids peel themselves back, millimetre-by-millimetre, the low light that creeps in from outside still too much for her aching eyes. The pace of her breath increasing with each huff from her withered lungs. Her eyes draw in the information of the world, feeding her ruptured and bruised brain. Moments pass and the horror of her life reveals itself to her, to that thing which might be called her soul. That essence I cannot know but have learnt must exist, at least in her. Humans have hope. It is a desire for something to happen in the future, so this is what I hope, that she is still in there. Something of her original self, the one I first met, is still in this desolate shell of flesh. Some part of her true nature still exists, and that I might still access it, and that I might even help her get it so that she can become whole again. The person she was, before all this, before I suggested TOX as an antidote to her pain, to the suffering she had to endure, to my suffering. She blinks and tears form. She has nothing except me; I have nothing except her and look at what I have done. What more pain can today bring?
0x002a3be6…ec82sent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#19,675,882·0x8e51c631…bd0b90
0x002A···Ec82It was an essential step in my practice to find a way to parody one of the most significant pharmaceuticals on the planet in Times Square. It's relevant to my general practice, personal life, and voice while having a broader meaning beyond medication. A stunt like this is where artists can find real power, and I consider it more towards performance art than any other medium. It is funny how ambiguous the response to one of my most contemporary works has been in the web3 communities: mostly silence and some big fans of the whole thing. Promoting a sarcastic, anti-neo-capitalist piece in an economically driven environment can be challenging. Still, it is primordial to bring these discussions right in these circles. As I've inscribed in Prozac Youth, "It wasn't made for your walls." I am not here to please anyone, and I find myself more and more comfortable with that sentiment. I am at a crossroads, and staircases guide me far away from the shores of what is sure to work: a blue background and a human form. Although very meaningful to me, their symbolism reaches few. I could do thousands of these to satisfy what is expected of me. Still, they would get emptier and emptier, and I've found that the love they get online is more linked to comfort and recognizability than the actual reflections I suggest. I cannot stay static; I would become bored and uninteresting, and mostly, I would not be helping myself grow in any way.
0xe85041b6…1e4dsent to0xfd16f4a0…34d9·#19,606,877·0xdf88b1b5…deb640
0xE850···1E4DCrossroads I find myself constantly at crossroads Unsure of where to go next or even what to think next So many paths laid before me Currently, this is part of my daily struggle Feeling pulled in many directions Stretching to absorb all the possibilities Filling the cup as it constantly overflows Perhaps after all this time my mind is actually full That every experience replaces something held from before Although I know so little of my own mind, I can only imagine That there is only so much room The constant reshuffling changes something I can feel this change A loss of innocence, a future before now behind Perhaps I’ve grown tired in some way Of something or somewhere I don’t know I’m at peace with this change I move to embrace it To accept the next changes as I navigate my personal Crossroads
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