We construct or simulate the future with our evolved memories of the past. We don't have chronological memory. There isn't a mechanism in our minds that keeps track of the order of our memories. We have to logically figure out chronology. We have to compare events to standards with known locations in time and compare the dates. i.e. I was this tall when X happened and I was taller when Y happened. It is a rule that people only grow taller, therefore X happened before Y.

When we remember, it is like we are experiencing the events again. The same neurons are firing as when we first experienced what became a memory. When we re-experience these events (remember) we are also adding the inputs of our current context. These are adding to and changing the meaning of the memory so that the next time we recall the memory these will be lumped in with the original memory, and maybe crowd out other less significant associations. In this way our memories are evolving. Speaking anthropomorphically about the brain (mind), it seems that our minds don't care what actually happened in the past, they are just trying to add to a working model of reality. If reality is changing then our memories of our experience of reality is changing along with it. This would be a more adaptive view of the function of memory. Accurate memory of past experience isn't as adaptive as memory with editing and revision from subsequent experience.

The more we recall events of the past the more we are diluting the past with the present. In short the past isn't as real as we think. Sure it happened and we can reason what must have been true about it, but we don't know with too much certainty exactly what we experienced right at that time. In this way the past is perhaps as unknown as the future.

Why I'm not creative

Why do I want to be creative? There is something completely unromantic behind the romance. it’s a machine who’s job it is to make a mystery around itself. A fog machine. My machine is broken, its supposed to create art but it only creates great pretentiousness. I hate everything I wright eventually. Its 1 in the morning and I am staying up to make something I hate. I want something that is beautiful and symmetric, not linear and easy, something like a constant meandering train of thought, is what I don’t want. Man this is like meta-pretentiousness, I’m pretentious about my pretentiousness. In the end I need to just stop, and just run and be the machine that I am. I cannot create. I can only mix and match at random. To me it might be creative.

So nothing is truly creative, I cannot just come out of the womb and create something with meaning. How is anything created? To us humans, things are created, things seem to have come out of nothing, the origins of things seem to be a mystery, that’s creation. I wanted to atomize love, I wanted to understand it completely, maybe understanding it destroys it. Maybe the fog can only exist if the machine it covers remains hidden. Fog is just something that covers something. I want to create something, but I cant really. Maybe I need an evolutionary algorithm.

Evolution is the only way to create something new. At the heart of an evolutionary process is a random number generator. Those don’t REALLY exist. But, to our statistical minds they do. When I think about meaning I picture a web floating through the air. There is a complex structure of interconnected nodes. They all lead to each other, but they are not anchored to anything. How can I make something creative that can go beyond the web? I can't; beyond the web is meaningless. In the end all meaning is reduced to a tautology. A is A. That is why life is ultimately meaningless. That is why we invented god. He anchors the web and lets us believe that there are an infinite amount of nodes to connect to this web we live in. Time goes on forever, infinity replaces the tautology. God is the great fog machine. Fog is a necessary precondition for his existence. My problem is that I made the fog disappear by thinking about its maker. I wasn't smart enough to realize that understanding it, made it not make sense. Infinity is supposed to be a mystery. The iterated games we play depend on their being no limit. Meaning depends on us not really knowing there is a limit. When we are sitting in the middle of the web trying to surmise the entire web from our vantage point, as soon as we realize there is a boundary at the edge of the floating web the entire universe collapses and the web contracts into A is A.

This is how I feel about creativity. The reason I hate everything I write is because I know that infinity doesn't exist. This is such a lie, it would be easier and more genuine to just say I hate what I write because I know I am just advertising. I am a fractal; a recursive pattern of pretentiousness. No matter how much I want to be creative and genuine, there is a deeper peacock motivating it. I have alternating layers of creativity and pretentiousness. The bottom layer is pretentious. If I could believe that there was a deep mystery and random number generator, an infinite complexity, then maybe I could be genuinely creative. I could write something good. This is such a linear piece of crap.

The guy in the red shirt is obviously right handed.

"POOP ON MY HEAD! POOP ON MY HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAD!!!!"

siamese triplets?

My biggest complaint about these boots is that they hide the wearer's tapered jeans. For all I can tell she's wearing flared jeans (I actually know better than that...but what if?)