Half Digital
Kenji carves wood. Traditional. His father taught him. His grandfather taught his father.
He's sixty-eight. Lives in Kyoto. Retired carpenter.
Except now he stops halfway. Carves the top smooth. Perfect curves. Traditional. Then leaves the bottom pixelated. Like digital blocks. Like the wood is corrupting.
His son asks why.
"Don't know."
"But why ruin it?"
"Not ruined. Just different."
His son doesn't get it. Kenji doesn't explain.
Just keeps carving. Smooth top. Blocky bottom. Half analog. Half digital.
Been doing this two years. Since his wife died. Since everything started feeling like it was dissolving.
His daughter visits from Tokyo. Sees the carvings.
"Dad, these are strange."
"Yeah."
"Why the blocks?"
"They're pixels."
"I know. But why?"
"Because everything's turning into pixels."
She looks concerned. He doesn't elaborate.
Just keeps carving.
His shop is full of them now. Bowls. Figures. Boxes. All half-smooth, half-pixelated. All caught mid-transformation.
His grandson comes over. Twelve. Plays video games. Looks at the carvings.
"These look corrupted."
"Yeah."
"That's cool."
First person who's said that. Kenji feels something. Not sure what.
"You want one?" Kenji asks.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
His grandson picks one. A small bowl. Smooth rim. Pixelated base. Takes it.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
Kenji nods. Goes back to carving.
His friend Takeshi visits. Looks at the work.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Just carving."
"But the bottom—"
"I know."
"Why?"
"Don't know. Just feels right."
Takeshi doesn't push. They drink tea. Look at the carvings together.
"They make me uncomfortable," Takeshi says.
"Good."
"Why good?"
"Because I'm uncomfortable."
They sit in silence.
Kenji carves another. Smooth top. Then takes the chisel. Makes it angular. Blocky. Pixelated.
Perfect.
His daughter calls. Says he should see someone. He says maybe.
Doesn't see anyone.
Just keeps carving. Half smooth. Half blocks.
Catches things mid-dissolution. Mid-corruption. Mid-transformation from one thing to another.
His wife used to say he was too traditional. Too stuck in old ways. Now he's making things that don't exist in old ways or new ways. Things caught between.
Maybe she'd like these. Maybe not.
Doesn't matter. She's not here.
Carves another. Figure. Human. Smooth head and torso. Pixelated legs. Like it's dissolving from the bottom up.
Good.
---
In São Paulo, Marina makes things from plastic bags. Weaves them. Ties them. Creates shapes.
She's forty-one. Teacher. Lives with her mother.
The shapes are weird. Not quite sculptures. Not quite crafts. Just plastic bags tied into forms. Colorful. Synthetic. Ugly-beautiful.
Her mother asks why.
"Don't know."
"But why plastic bags?"
"Because they're everywhere."
She has hundreds now. Hanging from her ceiling. Filling her room. All different colors. All plastic. All synthetic.
Started after her father died. Found his collection of bags. He saved everything. Couldn't throw anything away. When he died, Marina found thousands of plastic bags. All folded. All saved.
She couldn't throw them away either.
Started making things instead.
Her sister says it's hoarding. Marina says it's art.
"It's trash."
"It's both."
They don't talk much after that.
Marina keeps making things. Ties bags together. Creates forms. Organic shapes from synthetic materials. Natural from unnatural.
Her therapist asks what the shapes represent.
"Nothing. They're just shapes."
"What do they mean to you?"
"That everything is plastic now. Even the organic stuff."
The therapist writes something.
Marina goes home. Makes more shapes. Ties more bags.
Her mother says the room is too full. Marina says she knows.
Doesn't stop though. Just keeps making.
Her nephew visits. Eight. Likes the shapes.
"Tia, these are cool."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They look like aliens."
"Maybe they are."
He laughs. Helps her tie bags. Makes his own shape. Messy. Imperfect.
Marina keeps it. Hangs it with the others.
Good.
Her friend asks if she's selling them. Marina says no.
"Why not?"
"They're not for sale."
"Then what are they for?"
"Nothing. They're just here."
The friend doesn't understand. Marina doesn't explain.
Just keeps making. More shapes. More bags. More synthetic forms taking up space.
Her mother gets sick. Marina takes care of her. Still makes shapes in between. Ties bags while sitting next to her mother's bed.
Her mother watches. Doesn't comment anymore. Just watches.
Marina makes a shape. Ties it. Hangs it.
Her mother says: "Your father would have liked those."
Marina doesn't say anything. Might cry if she does.
Just makes another shape.
Her mother dies three months later. Marina finds more bags in her mother's room. Hundreds. All saved. All folded.
Just like her father.
Marina cries. Then starts tying.
Makes more shapes. Uses her mother's bags. Uses her father's bags. Ties them all together.
Synthetic family. Plastic legacy. Everything organic turned into something that won't decompose.
Good.
Kenji carves. Marina ties. They don't know each other. Never will.
Just keep doing what they're doing.
Wood becoming pixels. Bags becoming shapes.
Everything transforming. Everything caught between.
Smooth to block. Organic to synthetic. Analog to digital.
All of it halfway. All of it stuck.
Never finished. Never complete.
Just existing in transformation.
That's about it.
That's what's happening.
