I’ve spent the day once again buried beneath piles and piles of my own self. All kinds of things beyond last night’s “Oh, I forgot I wrote that book!” have turned up. Lists of languages I’d forgotten I was translated into. Articles and reviews I’d forgotten I’d written. Resumes listing jobs I forgotten I’d worked. Notes I forgotten I’d taken and ideas I’d forgotten I’d had. Decisions I’d forgotten I’d made.
The folder I’m working on now is one of my “archive” folders into which a whole bunch of things from 2000 to 2007 were thrown. It’s bizarre, a kind of trip into past thoughts, past selves, past possibilities, and past limitations.
Some of the blog posts I used to make were fabulous. Some of the things I never got around to posting were even better still. I don’t know what happened to me. I guess I grew up and got stupid.
This is the sort of task that is very nearly beyond me, even now. This is like excavation, like research, like a biography of someone else that I’m trying to write and struggling to make heads or tails of.
Trying to figure out where all the disparate little facts of my digital life should be filed and how they should be named shows me how very strangely diverse my life has been. It has consisted of precisely everything thus far, and each thing in sixteen drafts and surrounded by correspondence!
I’m going out. There are still about 3,000 documents to open, rename, and file. That’s for tomorrow. And probably the next day as well.