ARC.001 — Voice: Human After All.

There are nights
when the world sleeps. I write. And it's not a metaphor. I have a
tres pares de cojones
kind of insomnia. I usually wake up around three or four in the morning. I make myself some coffee, and at that hour, there are only two options: to mull over the questions or to start answering them.

I don’t write because I have answers. I write because there are questions that keep me awake at night. For a long time, I thought those questions were about Parkinson’s. Over time, I came to understand that they weren’t about the disease, but about what the hell it means to be human. About the energy that ignites you and the apathy that buries you. About the autonomy that expands you and the dependence that humiliates you. About the dignity you defend and the indignity that spits on you. About the love that ignites you and also tears you apart. About the sensitivity that opens you up and the insensitivity that isolates you. About the empathy that drains you and the selfishness that traps you. All at the same time. All mixed together. All profoundly human.

Parkinson's is not the issue

Parkinson’s isn’t the issue. It’s the place from which I write. For a long time, I could only see what it was taking away from me. Parkinson’s doesn’t just take away your movement. It makes verbs more difficult. Starting is harder. Continuing is harder. Speaking is harder. Sleeping is harder. Thinking is harder.

The disease doesn't always stop you from doing things. What it does is drain a lot more energy from you just to do the exact same thing. They designed it well, that bitch. It knows exactly when to make you pay. It raises the cost of living for you. It doesn't kill you in one blow. It charges you in installments. It keeps raising the interest rate.

And you have to give her credit for one thing: she’s absurdly consistent. Few people work with as much discipline as she does. My friend kept sapping my executive function. It became harder and harder to get started, plan, make decisions, and stay focused.

As I was closing the doors

But it’s not all that bad. As it closed some doors, it seemed to open others. I don’t know what happened. I just know that I started noticing things that had previously escaped me: my body, shifts in energy, emotions, light, noise, silences, the little details. How long it takes to get a shower going. How hard it can be to pull your keys out of your left pocket. How daunting it is to order a beer when your voice refuses to come out. The difference between being able to do something and the price you pay for doing it.

My body became a seismograph. A seismograph detects movements that other instruments don’t record. Mine began to detect a different kind of earthquake: the ones that occur inside people and don’t show up on any scale. With that seismograph, my way of understanding life began to change at the same pace as my sensitivity. I stopped seeing objects and started wondering what they made possible. It’s a question that, once it arises, never goes away.

That's where Human Notes comes from

That's where Human Notes comes from. For years, I thought design was my profession. Today, I suspect it was just the language I was learning to talk about something else. I won't study products. I'll study what happens when a designed interface enters a person's life.

Corporations have a brand voice. I have a nervous system that fluctuates far more than any brand manual. If you're looking for a manufactured voice, talk to the marketing department. If you're looking for a real person, stick around and get used to the contradictions.

I don't know if this will end up being a book, a method, or the weirdest experiment I've ever done. All I know is that I'm not going to keep asking myself these questions in silence. Since I'm stuck with this body, I'm at least going to strike up a conversation with it. Because there's still a lot of fun to be had, dammit.

A diagnosis isn't necessary

You don't need a diagnosis to understand all this. All it takes is having had, at some point, a day when your body wouldn't cooperate. In the end, we're all looking for the same thing: a little more energy, a little more independence, a little more dignity, and a little more love.

Design is language.
Life is the theme.

Human, after all.