Walruses seem to have a few things figured out. Laying on a beach in massive numbers all over each other, making noises, getting in the water from time to time. Particularly that first part; some days I want to lay in a big pile of people, even if there is intermittent tusk-gnashing and body-slamming. I don’t want that today, though. It’s a cool morning in the second week of July, and I’m content to be not-particularly-Walrus-ish today. A slow morning with a late breakfast that won’t come for a while more. Solitary, with words on the side.
I was asked recently what I would remove from the world, if I could remove one physical thing. I went with my gut and said every word ever written, including the words physically stored in computer memory. I’ve thought about this answer a lot ever since. Is it ironic, as I like to write, and enjoy having and sharing a record of my writing? I think, on-balance, the removal of all existing words would be a beautiful thing. Humans might act like walruses running from a polar bear, they might just lay on the beach. But the threads we hang onto from the past and recent times via language might need a jubilee, a reset. Memories might even be erased of their word-content, depending on The Removal’s interpretation of brain-word-storage, so that we really do become sound-making-walruses. But it feels more likely that our memories and ability to communicate in words would be maintained. And therefore, we might be able to reconstruct many of the texts that would be lost (and at least some of the software that would have been unwritten). We would be starting over in some ways, though. Writing might become more precious, the experience of a moment more viscerally experienced as it hasn’t been researched and described in advance.
I miss the winter. I want to breathe in ice-air from cross country skis. It’s a strong sign that summer has come on strong that I’m daydreaming of the snow. And a good sign that I’ll make a decent walrus.
Roman Ryan 