Last Updated On June 23, 2018

 

Searching for someone to fix my drive Text message, God up in the sky Oh, if you love me, won't you please reply? Oh, can't you see that it's only me, your dirty computer? -Janelle Monae

 

 

I’ve been feeling a shift coming on.

I’ve been experimenting with my habits.

And appreciating how truly entrenched habits can be.

They can perpetuate in complete ignorance of changing conditions or welfare of the host.

My habits are like water bear tardigrades.

I’m finding my online life is having deleterious effects on me.

I used to be witty on social media- quirky, pithy, funny. But I’ve lost the ability to be virtually charming- which is a notch above my “in writing” charms and far exceeds my “in real life” charisma.

I, at first, chalked this up to busy-ness or low level depression. But I think the root of it is that nothing is funny anymore.

I know how dramatic this sounds and this isn’t some drawn out “flounce and bounce” from social media.

My adrenal glands are exhausted, my serotonin levels unresponsive, I am virtually flat-lining.

I used to reap so much inspiration from my online time- so many snapshots, stories, laughs, and discoveries. I got to feel socially engaged without the energy tax of actually socializing. I got to share in a way that felt both safe AND exhilarating.

Wait a minute. BOTH safe AND exhilarating? What sorcery is this? Is this post modern prometheus even natural, Mr Zuckerberg?

But I’m finding the ride is grinding to a halt. My predominate emotional response to social media is: Nothing Matters.

Not only is nothing funny.
Not only is reality a dumpster fire.

But Nothing Matters.

I don’t matter. You don’t matter. Art doesn’t matter.

Everything is constantly escalating, spinning, screaming, and vanishing.

And nothing fucking matters.

I think I can visit this world
As needed.
On my own terms.
Like a macabre amusement park.
But I can’t live there and my art can’t live there, even as inviting and safe and exhilarating as it is.

***

Unrelated.
I’m kidding, nothing is unrelated.
I decided to write a book this weekend. Because, like, whatever, its raining and stuff…Which is interesting because I’ve had trouble working up a head of steam to write about anything of late. I’ve been skipping rocks over a deep depression since Bourdain checked out. I’ve been cycling through a “nothing matters”-“why bother” logic ellipse but I guess if the question is:

“WHY ART?”

Then the next logical query is:

“Why NOT art?”

And this flipside is what suspended my orbit.

Because what if *stay with me here* WHAT IF…
This is actually the BEST time for art.

When we are inundated and fatigued and scrambling.

When our culture lacks any kind of perspective, patience, or consensus about value.

When we have more important things to do and better things to argue about and moths in our pockets.

When the animals are eating each other and the freaks look just like the rubes and the tent is on fire!

This IS the best time for art!!

Because its not about the price of admission anymore. Its not about playing the odds for success anymore. Its not about creating a “masterpiece” anymore. Because all these paradigms have lost their relevance.

Let us dance between the drops of melting vinyl!

Prior to the new world order I was like:
Maybe tons of people will read my work!
Maybe I’ll be a late in life success story!
Maybe nobody will give the lame excuse that reading text on a screen gives them a headache even though they manage to power through and post endless articles that I should give a shit about if I were a good person and hey, they love me, you know, the “idea” of me but they aren’t going to risk eye strain for me…

But the joke will be on them when I’m paging through my book, feet propped up on a discarded Tidy Cat container and floating on my private island of trash in the middle of the ocean after the polar ice caps melt. My cover art will absolutely POP against the backdrop of refuse. I will instagram that shit.

Maybe we can pass my book between the bars of the detention center! And we can reminisce about the dull normalcy of a simple headache and that “eye strain” was even a thing. We can hold it by the spine, keeping our place with grubby fingers, and marvel how someone bothered to make this floppy thing full of words yielding neither fame nor money- just one of those last vestiges of free will and escape…And we’ll laugh and laugh.

Or maybe I’ll airdrop my books on the world upon my deployment into the Space Wars! It will be an act much like placing a flower in a muzzle. Nobody on Earth will care whether my book is good, they will just be so glad its art and not bombs.

See? Its time. Why ART? I say, why the fuck not ART?

 

Last Updated On June 23, 2018

 

Searching for someone to fix my drive Text message, God up in the sky Oh, if you love me, won't you please reply? Oh, can't you see that it's only me, your dirty computer? -Janelle Monae

 

I’ve been feeling a shift coming on.

I’ve been experimenting with my habits.

And appreciating how truly entrenched habits can be.

They can perpetuate in complete ignorance of changing conditions or welfare of the host.

My habits are like water bear tardigrades.

I’m finding my online life is having deleterious effects on me.

I used to be witty on social media- quirky, pithy, funny. But I’ve lost the ability to be virtually charming- which is a notch above my “in writing” charms and far exceeds my “in real life” charisma.

I, at first, chalked this up to busy-ness or low level depression. But I think the root of it is that nothing is funny anymore.

I know how dramatic this sounds and this isn’t some drawn out “flounce and bounce” from social media.

My adrenal glands are exhausted, my serotonin levels unresponsive, I am virtually flat-lining.

I used to reap so much inspiration from my online time- so many snapshots, stories, laughs, and discoveries. I got to feel socially engaged without the energy tax of actually socializing. I got to share in a way that felt both safe AND exhilarating.

Wait a minute. BOTH safe AND exhilarating? What sorcery is this? Is this post modern prometheus even natural, Mr Zuckerberg?

But I’m finding the ride is grinding to a halt. My predominate emotional response to social media is: Nothing Matters.

Not only is nothing funny.
Not only is reality a dumpster fire.

But Nothing Matters.

I don’t matter. You don’t matter. Art doesn’t matter.

Everything is constantly escalating, spinning, screaming, and vanishing.

And nothing fucking matters.

I think I can visit this world
As needed.
On my own terms.
Like a macabre amusement park.
But I can’t live there and my art can’t live there, even as inviting and safe and exhilarating as it is.

***

Unrelated.
I’m kidding, nothing is unrelated.
I decided to write a book this weekend. Because, like, whatever, its raining and stuff…Which is interesting because I’ve had trouble working up a head of steam to write about anything of late. I’ve been skipping rocks over a deep depression since Bourdain checked out. I’ve been cycling through a “nothing matters”-“why bother” logic ellipse but I guess if the question is:

“WHY ART?”

Then the next logical query is:

“Why NOT art?”

And this flipside is what suspended my orbit.

Because what if *stay with me here* WHAT IF…
This is actually the BEST time for art.

When we are inundated and fatigued and scrambling.

When our culture lacks any kind of perspective, patience, or consensus about value.

When we have more important things to do and better things to argue about and moths in our pockets.

When the animals are eating each other and the freaks look just like the rubes and the tent is on fire!

This IS the best time for art!!

Because its not about the price of admission anymore. Its not about playing the odds for success anymore. Its not about creating a “masterpiece” anymore. Because all these paradigms have lost their relevance.

Let us dance between the drops of melting vinyl!

Prior to the new world order I was like:
Maybe tons of people will read my work!
Maybe I’ll be a late in life success story!
Maybe nobody will give the lame excuse that reading text on a screen gives them a headache even though they manage to power through and post endless articles that I should give a shit about if I were a good person and hey, they love me, you know, the “idea” of me but they aren’t going to risk eye strain for me…

But the joke will be on them when I’m paging through my book, feet propped up on a discarded Tidy Cat container and floating on my private island of trash in the middle of the ocean after the polar ice caps melt. My cover art will absolutely POP against the backdrop of refuse. I will instagram that shit.

Maybe we can pass my book between the bars of the detention center! And we can reminisce about the dull normalcy of a simple headache and that “eye strain” was even a thing. We can hold it by the spine, keeping our place with grubby fingers, and marvel how someone bothered to make this floppy thing full of words yielding neither fame nor money- just one of those last vestiges of free will and escape…And we’ll laugh and laugh.

Or maybe I’ll airdrop my books on the world upon my deployment into the Space Wars! It will be an act much like placing a flower in a muzzle. Nobody on Earth will care whether my book is good, they will just be so glad its art and not bombs.

See? Its time. Why ART? I say, why the fuck not ART?

Last Updated On June 23, 2018

Searching for someone to fix my drive Text message, God up in the sky Oh, if you love me, won't you please reply? Oh, can't you see that it's only me, your dirty computer? -Janelle Monae

I’ve been feeling a shift coming on.

I’ve been experimenting with my habits.

And appreciating how truly entrenched habits can be.

They can perpetuate in complete ignorance of changing conditions or welfare of the host.

My habits are like water bear tardigrades.

I’m finding my online life is having deleterious effects on me.

I used to be witty on social media- quirky, pithy, funny. But I’ve lost the ability to be virtually charming- which is a notch above my “in writing” charms and far exceeds my “in real life” charisma.

I, at first, chalked this up to busy-ness or low level depression. But I think the root of it is that nothing is funny anymore.

I know how dramatic this sounds and this isn’t some drawn out “flounce and bounce” from social media.

My adrenal glands are exhausted, my serotonin levels unresponsive, I am virtually flat-lining.

I used to reap so much inspiration from my online time- so many snapshots, stories, laughs, and discoveries. I got to feel socially engaged without the energy tax of actually socializing. I got to share in a way that felt both safe AND exhilarating.

Wait a minute. BOTH safe AND exhilarating? What sorcery is this? Is this post modern prometheus even natural, Mr Zuckerberg?

But I’m finding the ride is grinding to a halt. My predominate emotional response to social media is: Nothing Matters.

Not only is nothing funny.
Not only is reality a dumpster fire.

But Nothing Matters.

I don’t matter. You don’t matter. Art doesn’t matter.

Everything is constantly escalating, spinning, screaming, and vanishing.

And nothing fucking matters.

I think I can visit this world
As needed.
On my own terms.
Like a macabre amusement park.
But I can’t live there and my art can’t live there, even as inviting and safe and exhilarating as it is.

***

Unrelated.
I’m kidding, nothing is unrelated.
I decided to write a book this weekend. Because, like, whatever, its raining and stuff…Which is interesting because I’ve had trouble working up a head of steam to write about anything of late. I’ve been skipping rocks over a deep depression since Bourdain checked out. I’ve been cycling through a “nothing matters”-“why bother” logic ellipse but I guess if the question is:

“WHY ART?”

Then the next logical query is:

“Why NOT art?”

And this flipside is what suspended my orbit.

Because what if *stay with me here* WHAT IF…
This is actually the BEST time for art.

When we are inundated and fatigued and scrambling.

When our culture lacks any kind of perspective, patience, or consensus about value.

When we have more important things to do and better things to argue about and moths in our pockets.

When the animals are eating each other and the freaks look just like the rubes and the tent is on fire!

This IS the best time for art!!

Because its not about the price of admission anymore. Its not about playing the odds for success anymore. Its not about creating a “masterpiece” anymore. Because all these paradigms have lost their relevance.

Let us dance between the drops of melting vinyl!

Prior to the new world order I was like:
Maybe tons of people will read my work!
Maybe I’ll be a late in life success story!
Maybe nobody will give the lame excuse that reading text on a screen gives them a headache even though they manage to power through and post endless articles that I should give a shit about if I were a good person and hey, they love me, you know, the “idea” of me but they aren’t going to risk eye strain for me…

But the joke will be on them when I’m paging through my book, feet propped up on a discarded Tidy Cat container and floating on my private island of trash in the middle of the ocean after the polar ice caps melt. My cover art will absolutely POP against the backdrop of refuse. I will instagram that shit.

Maybe we can pass my book between the bars of the detention center! And we can reminisce about the dull normalcy of a simple headache and that “eye strain” was even a thing. We can hold it by the spine, keeping our place with grubby fingers, and marvel how someone bothered to make this floppy thing full of words yielding neither fame nor money- just one of those last vestiges of free will and escape…And we’ll laugh and laugh.

Or maybe I’ll airdrop my books on the world upon my deployment into the Space Wars! It will be an act much like placing a flower in a muzzle. Nobody on Earth will care whether my book is good, they will just be so glad its art and not bombs.

See? Its time. Why ART? I say, why the fuck not ART?