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Delaying Validation
posted on 2022-09-21 16:21:00

There's this timeless idea of delaying gratification. I want to narrow down a subset of this concept; validation. The two are intertwined in creative exercise, when you make something there is a burning desire to share it with others. The problem arises when the creation is half-baked, incomplete or low-quality. The craving for validation is weak, but enough to urge occasional spontanous creative delves. To maintain that initial level of dedication and quality for any reasonable period of time is impossible. The process will be thoroughly unenjoyable as the focus will shift to the product. This shift accentuates the need for instant validation which leads to a pre-emptive publication of sub-par material. Nobody wins. A deepening sense of dissatisfaction will tug at the consciousness, and the audience will be disappointed at best. The core of the problem is not the craving for validation, but rather the failure to supress it. Too much or too little validation is detrimental, so too from the wrong sources.

I think an illustration of a symptom of this, (taking note of the broader context within this article) was best made by phf on #pest in the short form of a quote from Ivan Chesnokov;

"WHY YOU WANT RAIL FOR KALASHNIKOV? IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH AS PROCURED FROM IZHEVSK MECHANICAL WORKS?"

"RIFLE IS FINE. YOU FUCK IT, IT ONLY GET HEAVY AND YOU STILL NO HIT LARGEST SIDE OF BARN. GO TO FIRING RANGE, PRACTICE WITH MANY MAGAZINE OF CARTRIDGE. THEN YOU NOT NEED DUMB SHIT PUT ON SIDE OF RIFLE."

But just how much validation is actually required to sustain creative exercise?

This is a difficult thing to answer, I am inclined in the direction of a metric over time in proportion to work achieved; the most work that can be achieved is when large volumes of validation are recieved after a long period of time, ideally upon completion of the project in question. Anything shorter tends to stunt creativity due to the aforementioned conflict with process and product. This of course, imposes an artifical barrier to tasks inherently reliant on feedback for their completion, (not unlike programming or design) which is when the challenge of discipline comes in.

I am not deluded; There are no shortcuts to discipline. It is simply an accumulation of moments of self-control, of which there is no magic pill, and no margin for error.

tl;dr: stop fucking talking about doing shit and just do it.

Books
posted on 2022-08-06 04:39:00

I had a sudden moment of clarity, not 10 minutes before the writing of this post. It dawned on me that my digital library is almost entirely of philosophical wankage. The few texts on practical knowledge are esoteric in nature; Electric Arc Lighting and a Holley Carburettor Tuning guide. Even the former provides little in the way of practical advice, rather implementation specifics and figures. This posits a grave concern, for all the knowledge of philosophical idioms won't actually contribute to me accomplishing anything.

This is, with upmost certainty, the path of the solipsist.

It's far too ironic to produce nothing while maintaining a false pretence of philosophical grandeur. If any of my ideas are worth noting, let that be demonstrated with the results of my labor. It is well within my reach to choose the path of the polymath. And so, the search for a datum is over: I mark my own, fine-lined in soapstone.

crtdaydreams
posted on 2022-07-19 19:42:00

Organic delusion; a product of non-fiction and fantasy.

There is a very real element to this cruel, wanton abate.

Each minute of each hour of each day my temper wanes.

"Fire, quench, fire and quench again. Steel on steel."

Too soft and and it mushrooms, too hard and it's brittle.

As I spew text to terminal, I linger in the flames.

The dragon revels, for his throat burns with envy.

Might I only scorch and seer?

Irreverrence, not insight; a doubtful complex.

Not unlike a lotus-eater in Vulcan's hollow.

So, The aberration in the monitor haunts.

May wisdom of ages guide my disquiet soul, from a solemn slumber of crtdaydreams.

Anamniseis
posted on 2022-05-03 12:05:18

I don't keep photos.

At least not until late. Which is a strange thing to say in this era dominated by media, moving pictures and audio-visual stimuli, but it's true. It's an absence I'm only really questioning now. Throughout my youth and highschool years, I have vehemently rejected photos outside the yearly school ones. I've avidly avoided being in them, shying away from the flash. To me, everything exists as memories. I don't see my silicon-plastic amalgam as a second hippocampus.

Primarily because of a philosophical refute. In my mind, anything worth remembering will always remain. It's a convoluted submission to the inevitability of death. I have accepted that one day I will die and all my memories, my experiences, the subjective nature of existence itself to me will be gone. So rather than hoarding material memories in a feeble attempt to deny death it's hold over `me'. I made the conscious choice to enjoy the present. To enjoy memories as they are made, and instead of remincsing over the past, to forge ahead and make new pasts. To exist in the present.

It is only now, a creeping regret burgeons on the edge of my consciousness. Whether to say this regret is perhaps a rational by-product of ``awakening'', or merely an indicator that I'm not making progress. I hang onto this thought. I'm not making new and meaningful memories regularly, so perhaps this lack of definitive progress is a root. Even so, the lack of a point of reference makes tracking progress difficult, if not much near impossible.

From this perspective, it clearly becomes necessary to leave a trail of bits for the future self. An anchor of sorts. To discard the past is the pull the bricks out from the bottom of the keep. In defining myself I need to keep a record, and the pictorial medium if serviced correctly can be far more evocative than 13 pages of drivel. Of course, with all things, it's wise to use discretion. Even then, the right medium may not be enough, a certain skill and feel for the art is required to producing a meaningful anchor.

To further elaborate, an anchor could be anything that one considers definitive. A milestone. A goal. Hell even a habit. The key element is it seems to be more effective in a succession. A milestone isn't much good on it's own, two goals make a game, etc. Hopefully this might mean a venture to these other mediums for expression.

So, do I regret it?

A little.

But regret is reserved for the `would-haves' and the `would've-beens' and change is in the left pocket of the present.

The Operators
posted on 2022-04-24 23:20:34

Pointy spires dotted the landscape. The blackened sea conjuring a primal emotion of fear and awe. The mighty blow of industrialisation that swept across the continent was now a force to be reckoned with. Established in nature, it's presence indicative of progress. Men of eons ago could not have dreamt such wild fantasies of soot and tar. The rich smell of burning coal sparked an excitement in his belly, lightning in his eyes. Max worked the engines. He was de facto an operator. The tact and skill with which he did his work was unparalleled. He could feel the machine. He was there to feed it's hunger and quench it's thirst. He knew it's workings inside and out, it's quirks and it's shortcomings. A symbiosis of man and machine had occured.

In the world conquered by the silicon transistor, an artifical schism has emerged. No longer can man nurture machine, for he does not and cannot know it's workings. Powers at be declare it an infringement upon their throne. A barrier between operator and machine has been erected where it ought not to stand. A façade of security brought about by a silent assurance. They cry out ``in the name of public good!'' Behind a wall fenced with banners of liberty. Paradise is but for men who stagnate. Laws unto ideas have brought us here, and those disillusioned with this have sought to gnaw at it's roots. For a time at the turn of the century there existed a fleeting union. Machines that expressed themselves in ways only experience can comprehend. A period of uncertainty waning on the edge of consciousness. Ultimately, Symbolics succumbed to the façade. Now only a husk remains.

The dream of paradise lies in all mens hearts.

We're All Human After All
posted on 2022-04-24 10:29:29

For the longest time I have been deluded.

I built a mental shrine, placing many others on a pedestal, synchronous with an almost ``deification'' of their abilities and personality. Coupled with an amorphous state of consciousness, this delusional framework was built upon the guise of anonimity. a la "anonytardism." This is not to be misconstrued with a laymans definition of anonimity, I'm pursuant of a deeper meaning. Almost a fundamental archetype -- an affect not recognized until the damage has been done.

Over time an irrational burden of paranoia emerged from the crust of countless hours of self-preservation. Existence revolved around a survival instinct characterized by amoebic behaviour. A phobia of ego itself. The onset of this frame is blurry. It's cause elusive. Most likely a product of reclusion and social rejection thoughout early childhood years.

The continuation of such a fickle state is a conundrum in the very least. Often a temporary cure would be found in some fleeting creative outlet: the externalization of a uniquely memetic construct that provides a reference for self -- An "Anchor" if you will -- to a previous iteration. Akin to a crude software update where the only thing changed was the README file.

The most subversive aspect of this epidemia is in the dissolution of ego. The remaining vaccum is filled with a crass mimicry of idols. In a cruel and twisted way, elements pertaining to a complete persona are mashed together to form the shell of an identity. Cohesion is irrelevant in such a malleable structure and often the lack of continuation is noticable. This is at least the point I was at.

I am led to belive that there is a further point in which the remaining dregs of the ego are snuffed out, leading to the horrific state in which the entire process itself becomes unconscious. Not a single original thought, action or mannerism.

Even now, I believe writing this is an integral step in the "reversal" of this affliction. Albeit it pales in comparison to the revelation that set it in motion:

I was afraid that most people don't care. The reality is: they don't.

0xCDD
posted on 2022-04-23 21:15:59

This is the first installment in 0xCDD. Like all good things, it must eventually come to an end, there will be a finite cap of 0xcdd (that's 3293) unique posts before this site and all of it's content will be archived and no more posts will be made. This nature should mean the quality of an individual post, article or series will be of the highest standard I can provide. I will strive to write regularly and write well, and if you see what you think is a mistake; please point it out on IRC. Only 3292 left to go.

This blog covers updates, self, philosophy, literature, lisp, comfy, anonytardism

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