Red rain boots
We've barely begun to form the first memories of the year. Those that, in December, which now seems so distant, might come to mind. We'll wonder if they're from this year, or from another, or much further back. Especially if we're not part of that group of people who remember dates and places exactly as if they were reliving them each time. Especially if we're among those who remember absurd dates and minuscule events, if one can even consider each of our lives insignificant. In a diary, historical events are mixed with the events of personal stories. But, in the end, all stories make up the history of the world. And although we may believe we're the center, perhaps we should ask the volcanoes or the Universe. But our History, the history of humanity, is told with all its biases, and the account that has been given is so subjective that if those who lived it could whisper it in our ear, we'd burst out laughing. And crying. As happens when we listen to memories. The real ones and the ones we invented over the years. Now we know how to measure time, but when we were young, the days seemed much longer, and our goals, if we had any, were in such a remote place that they seemed impossible to grasp. Some are still there. Waiting for us. Without us waiting for them. We've stopped wanting some things to want others. It's a blessing to be able to choose our desires.
Much of what happens during this new year will be like living in an old year because we continue to yearn for peace and love, which never reign alone in the world. And who knows what peace and love are when everything is redefined again and again? And if we don't redefine them, AI will, this many-headed monster that makes us think and will return us all fired up. When we had surrendered ourselves to the algorithm as the driver of our destiny, now we must adapt to what AI offers us, which we still don't know what it is. But, being the good humans we are, we're wary of the unknown, proving the terrible saying "better the devil you know than the devil you don't." We're in a new era, but new eras also grow old. And what worries me is the traffic beacon scam. It's like an old-fashioned scam. When they make you feel like an idiot, it's infuriating, no matter the year. It doesn't expire. Neither the scam nor the anger. Being taken for a ride never goes out of style. And there's no way to fix that.
For some time now, when the world seems to grow old for me, and it happens often, I take refuge in analog universes like that of the MoominsMymble, characters created by the Finnish author Tove Jansson, experience all sorts of things and interact with many other beings in an imperfect but possible world. I like knowing that they "exist." Even though they build crooked houses and don't shy away from contradictions or problems, there is a habitable, kind, and generous landscape. Reading their stories is comforting. Because, as Dr. Alisia Grace Chase, professor of art history at the State University of New York, explains in an article about Tove Jansson, "Mymble, one of the alter ego From the author's fiction, she offers advice to those who tend to worry or become anxious: "Lie down on a bridge and watch the water as it flows; or waddle around in a swamp in your red wellies. Or, stay indoors, all snuggled up, and listen to the hammering of the rain on the roof. It's very easy to have fun."
A new year begins. I hope you have your own personal Moomins to retreat to. Come on.
