“From famous artists to building contractors, we all want to leave our signature. Our
lasting effect. Your life after death.
We all want to explain ourselves. Nobody wants to be forgotten.”
– Chuck Palahniuk, Diary
so maybe that’s at the root of my sudden need to be an active participant in creation. to just make. things. clothes. memories. accessories.blog posts.
is that reason enough?
i’ve been thinking about it–the compulsion to create. to stack words on top of each other. to make passageways with stitches. to photograph. trying to capture something. trying to leave something behind. trying to make a night worthy of being remembered. was there enough beer? was there enough laughter? trying to have meaningful discovery-filled conversations. trying to make the necessary changes happen, for a better future. is this, also, a motivator behind an idea i’ve given birth to, sparked by another woman’s inspiration?
is it the allure of immortality?– which, actually, doesn’t hold that much appeal to me. (life would be a much bigger tragedy if it lasted forever.) so why are we all so terrified of being forgotten? of not having made an impression. in print. on canvas. in mathematical formulas and calculations. in genetic division.
i’ve thought, for a long time, that procreation, the need to have chidren, plays a large role in this desire to exist and not be limited to time, to borders. what better way to prove you were here than to have you blood. your genes. your nose. your smile.pass on and on and on, ideally, forever. maybe that’s a reason behind more than just the parental cravings to bring miniature versions of yourself into this earth. what better form of creation, but life, is there? creating life. between some man’s semen, my eggs, and the nest of my uterus–we are capable of that. of creating life.
and somehow, somewhere, things only somewhat make sense until i realize this is so incredibly vain. to think that there should be reason for us to be remembered. what have i contributed that makes me worthy of immortality? probably nothing that will remain for more than a few generations, if that, maybe. why is there even the need for my face, my name, for any trace of me to remain? more than inevitable death, i think i worry far more about making sure this life, my life, hasn’t gone in vain. (is this something we all share? in that, are we all the same?)
i think of those people who have marked history–Da Vinci, Einstein, Mother T; for some reason i don’t think they did what they did, achieved what they could, to make sure they were forever written into history books. they must have had some drive, some meaning, some race against time to accomplish all the little things that somehow has come to affect my life.
maybe trying to be remembered isn’t about an attempt to escape the Grim Reaper, maybe it’s about not having completely fucked up. not having thought at all. not even having had tried to make a difference.
what’s my first step going to be?