Ghost In the Machine

In episode X, we dive into how digital traces of those we've lost... like contacts and voicemails... shape our grief and connection in ways physical mementos can't. Join me as we unpack what it means to hold on to these digital echoes and how they influence our sense of presence and memory.

Written and narrated by Gary Naccarato.

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Topics include attention, focus, mindfulness, digital distraction, creativity, memory, and the impact of technology on the nervous system.

Transcript

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My husband and I have two good friends out in Joshua Tree. Several weeks ago we drove out for the weekend. The four of us were going to a small concert. John Doe from the band X. After the show we were catching up, just bullshitting. They had mentioned several months back that a friend of theirs who didn't really have much family left had passed away. It fell on them to get his house and property in order. Go through everything, decide what to save, what to sell, what to donate, what to throw away. And there was a lot. This didn't take place over a weekend, it took place over several months since there was so much to tackle. They said something that struck me deeply. Their friend had several large boxes of family photos, not just a smattering of photos, hundreds, generations of memories. Their friend left very clear instructions about the photos, which was a bit strange since there really weren't many instructions or requests made. He was adamant that all the photos, all of the physical memories of his time, his family, his history be burned. He did not want them to end up at a garage cell or a swap meet or storage unit somewhere out in twenty nine palms. He wanted to control the outcome, even if that outcome was erasure. Understandably, they said they struggled a bit with the request, so they kept a few for themselves. Frozen moments too beautiful to destroy. But they ultimately honored his request. A fire pit, an unusually warm spring evening, and embers burning bright before slowly going dark, carried away on the wind. Welcome to the Art of Clarity, a podcast about creativity, the nervous system, and the strange ways the modern world competes for our minds. I've mentioned in past episodes that I'm fifty-seven years old. Because of my age, people passing is becoming more common. My dad and stepmom, a fellow hypnotherapist who actually lives just down the street, my husband's best friend, a co-worker who I had a complicated relationship with, and more, friends of friends, someone I used to know years ago, now seeing on social media that they are no longer with us. It's a constant at this stage in my life. But the thing I find interesting is that while I'm scrolling through the contacts in my phone, clearing out old numbers, people who no longer matter, doctors I haven't been to in twenty years, when I come to one of those who've passed, I always pause. Midreaction, I'll pause. I'm in the rhythm of deleting, and I have to catch myself. Then a strange feeling of loss and guilt washes over me, and I pass them by untouched. And it's not just me, I've heard other people bring this up as well. They just can't bring themselves to delete contacts of those that are no longer with us. And don't even get me started on old voicemails. Which brings me to something else I've always found fascinating. You can watch a gangster film, an action movie or horror film, people getting taken out left and right. It's like watching a video game. Most films don't even use practical effects anymore. The ultraviolence is often completely computer generated now. Digital blood, digital flesh, bone made of ones and zeros. Little reaction, little emotional residue. But the second a dog is put in danger, the second a dog gets caught in the crossfire, I'm out. Almost everyone I know is out. Which makes me wonder if emotional connection has less to do with realism and more to do with intimacy. Familiarity, recognition, attachment. Certain things bypass abstraction and hit us somewhere much deeper. Because they feel connected to us specifically. Maybe that's why an old voicemail can feel more emotionally overwhelming than an entire box of photographs. Certain things bypass intellectual processing and hit directly at attachment. My dad collected cars and pocket knives. When he passed, keeping the cars was out of the question, no room to store them, not wanting to worry about upkeep. They were sold. His pocket knives went into a large box and were given to me. They sit in my attic now. I love them. I go up there every so often and look through them. They of course remind me of him. Him growing up and spending time in the woods hunting. Later Mr Fix anything. Then the boss man. I can relate those pocket knives to different eras of his life. I can project a vague timeline onto them. I hope to always have them, but if I'm being honest, if I had to choose between my dad's collection of pocket knives or his contact information still sitting in my phone along with several saved voicemails, I'd be hard pressed to choose. I may actually choose digital over physical, and I'm not entirely sure why. It doesn't make sense on the surface. Why does a tiny digital artifact sometimes feel more emotionally alive than physical reality? Maybe it's because a contact in your phone from someone who's past still implies the possibility of future contact. That's why deleting them feels different. A photograph or my dad's old box of pocket knives captures the past. A phone contact subconsciously implies the future. Even when I know deep down there will never be another call, some part of me still resists letting go of the possibility. A photograph quietly says this happened. A contact in your phone quietly says this person still exists somewhere in your world. Their name is still there. Their number is still there. That structure of connection still exists. Delete the contact and suddenly you are acknowledging something final. Not memory. That's why we hesitate. And voicemails may be even more powerful. A voicemail isn't static like a photograph, it's active. Breath, cadence, timing, personality, someone speaking directly to you from another moment in time. Almost like preserved consciousness. Even more so than a VHS tape or old video of someone you love no longer here. Video, moving image often feels archival, ceremonial, historical. It's something you visit. But a contact or voicemail exists inside the active operating system of our current life. Your phone is intimate, it's immediate, you use it daily, it's active, almost alive. You carry it everywhere, you touch it constantly. It's where your present day relationships live. A VHS tape says this was. A voicemail says I'm still here waiting. Even if rationally we know that isn't true, voicemails tend to be more casual, unguarded, personal, intended specifically for you. They preserve relationship dynamics, not just memory. Voicemails are often mundane. Hey, call me back. Don't forget to swing by target on your way home. I'm just now leaving the gym. But they paradoxically feel more alive because that's how real life actually sounds. It's not cinematic, it's not curated, just existence unfolding normally, which can be devastating after someone is gone. Video feels trapped in the past. Voicemails and contacts feel suspended in the present. That's why they hit so hard. This also connects to the way social media memorialization feels so strange to many of us. Facebook birthdays for the dead, suggested memories, Spotify playlists, text threads that remain frozen mid-conversation were being haunted digitally in the modern world. Not in a hoarse sense, but in an emotional sense. Technology is reshaping the architecture of our grief. I was cleaning out old voicemails the other day on my phone, scrolling year by year, twenty twenty six, twenty twenty five, deleted. More deletions. It had been a while since I had gone through my voicemails, obviously. Then twenty twenty two. Hey Gary, just checking in on you. Call me back and let me know you're doing okay. Bye. A saved message from my dad. I read the transcript, but I couldn't bring myself to listen to the actual voicemail. But it's comforting to know it's there when I'm ready. This is Gary Naccarado, and this has been The Art of Clarity. Thanks for listening. If any of this resonated, feel free to share it or pass it along. To learn more about my work or to get in touch, you can find me on my website. I'll see you next time.