On Declarative Memory and Knowledge

Declarative Memory and Knowledge are, most simply, the things that we know that we can tell people. This set of memories and knowledge is composed of Episodic memories and Semantic memories. Episodic memories are born of experience. I was hit by a hockey stick, so I can recall the episode and have the knowledge that yes, it does in fact hurt to be hit with a hockey stick. Semantic memories, conversely, are learned by other means. There are roughly 300 million people in America. I've never met them, so I have no idea that this is actually true. However, I believe that I have this knowledge because the sources of the information are 'reliable.' I have found, however, that it is possible to merely possess Semantic knowledge without allowing it to govern your actions. This, I believe, is the source of "knowing better." I am plagued with semantic knowledge that fails to govern my life. We have all learned so much from others: from parents and peers and role models and teachers and strangers and books and movies, but what is it that we really know? How much of my knowledge actually affects my life? I'm finding it's less and less each day. I wish I could say I was replacing it with episodic memory, but it seems I'm just letting go of the things I had once learned in favor of something else. Something deeply flawed and, in that, deeply human.

Language Barrier

I want to draw. I very genuinely want to fill this page with breathtaking images that resonate deep within the aesthetic nature of the reader. I wish so completely that I could translate the wild images—so vivid and lifelike to me—from my imagination to this page. But I'm afraid. I lack confidence. I have a language barrier, and my inability to communicate effectively—to draw fluently—shatters me. It must be so discouraging to grapple with a language gap of that magnitude. To be screaming the answer in your head—to know everything you need to know and be forced to keep it in, to yourself, alone. To be surrounded by people that expect you to communicate and to only be capable of staring—appearing sad and ignorant and rude. Who can that person really be? The limits of our language make the limits of our world. My world is only in words. It seems almost like a curse—giving me the tools to create boundless worlds but no way to open the doors to let people in to explore. I suppose they have classes for this sort of thing. I'm afraid I'll just learn to see what they see. I'll lose what I want before I achieve it. It's counterfactual, I suppose. If I was never able to communicate and I learn the wrong language, I have still grown. Losing what you don't have isn't losing at all. I guess I need to learn that.

Who Am I?

Ask yourself "Who am I?" Do you have an answer? Which genre does your answer fulfill? I'm a developmental psychology researcher: occupation. My name is Justin Lee Cochran: legal designation. I'm a romantic guitarist and poet: hobbies. I'm an English Education major at Michigan State University: temporary career with aspirations and spacial designation. That's all meaningful information, but is that—any of that—truly indicative of who you are? I struggle with irrational rage: vice. I return physical pain tenfold using only words: ability. I'm Joa's best friend: affiliation. I'm a fast learner and a diligent worker: attributes. What is that question asking? Who am I? I suppose the question begs consideration of context, but then only when asked of another—Who are you? is much simpler that Who am I?. What composes personal identity? Is it similar across individuals? Across cultures? Who am I? The guy with the fountain pen: belongins. The one writing in all of his free time: habits. 6'3" Caucasian male: physical description. None of these are necessarily unique to me. Does that mean I cannot be unique? Despite the vast and growing human population, it is not apparent that any two, unrelated individuals have shared a genetic construction. Perhaps science answers the question, but it offers no comfort to those that ask Who am I?

Photographs

What is the function of a photograph? What is its purpose? A ray of inward flowing light—a disjunct plane in an otherwise complete world. We stop events, stop time, to realize the photograph. We create memories that are based around the camera, does the camera not become the memory? Are all photographs false memories created to fuel their own worth? If the photograph serves to help us remember, should we not simply engage in more memorable events? If we need the photograph to share our experiences, should we not simply become better story-tellers? Why? Photographers remove objectivity in the communication of stories and memories. Do we make the assumption that our peers are unimaginative? Or simply value truth over art? There is an art to storytelling—perhaps our insecurity pushes us to offload the responsibility of storytelling onto images. "It'd be easier to show you... You just had to be there... You should've seen it...." Do these mark the inability to share events verbally? What have we lost?

Coffeehouse 5

It's not warm. Certainly not quiet or peaceful. It's not about any single individual. It's certainly not to do with the five dollar cup of murky water. But something happens there, something unique. Absolutely filled with phones and tablets and laptops, but somehow connected. Not by the wifi, don't be facetious. That girl walked here, you can see it in her boots and jacket—covered in snow. He drove—his keys are on the table. He probably parked in the structure out back. It's not for the music. We're not waiting for some great event that only happens here. We just are. Here. Alone, but together.

ZX2777

A hundred—a thousand—a million people running back and forth and back again. Moving out, coming back, getting lost. Only sharing a desire to go. To leave. To board and sit and wait and be somewhere else. Everyone goes to go. A gathering of people that can't see one another again. A million—a thousand—a hundred—just one. Fleeting human contact. Frost on warm glass. Gone, gone, gone.

Manifesto

I'm not sure how I want to structure this—or these, I suppose. I want each to approach a particular topic. Not one overall, but one each—a single and unique effect. Who knows? Maybe I'll develop a them or motif subconsciously. I do wish to be somewhat removed from the writings. They certainly won't be anecdotal. At least not directly. I think I will make you—the reader—a character. I might address you from time to time, but I'll try to keep you anonymous: these are not letters to the readers I'm hoping for. These writings will be the things that I know. They aren't true things or things only I have to offer, just what I've learned. I'm not sure who I'm writing for either. It's hard to believe I'm writing for you: you're no one. I guess, if you're reading this, you must be someone. Maybe I give you hope, maybe we're both lost and while you read this, we're lost together. Maybe you're a writer and you appreciate my prose. Maybe you want someone to know without knowing. Maybe it's just for me. "You" could just be a construct by which I am allowed to explore dark, undiscovered rooms—the torch I carry on my travel through these pages. Who knows? Do you?