I once knew of grown men that had no say over their lives, complacent and trapped in the misery of their own making. It horrified me endlessly but I would listen carefully as they tried to justify their predicament: “You must understand,” they would plead with themselves, “she’s the boss!” and we would all laugh raucously. Nothing is funny, of course, but such predicaments require humour to placate the rage. “Want another beer?” he asks right on time and I just smile and nod. I have learned a long, long time ago to leave the grown-ups alone: When you have spent a lifetime weaving the traps of misery tightly around your life, the kindest thing someone can do for you is to leave you alone to it. Sometimes, it is too late. When I get the time to be alone with my thoughts, my journal, I ask the empty pages the question that’s been bugging me all afternoon in-between beers and niceties: How does one end up trapped in such predicament? Before it’s too late for me too, I plead. The page whispers back: The horror of direct experience.
(more…)Category: Attention
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My attention is reserved for important things
Attention is a hot commodity in the new economy: The new economy doesn’t want your money— Just your attention. Mark Zuckerberg wants your attention. Elon Musk wants your attention. And even that person you went to high school with 13 years ago but rarely spoke with wants your attention. Everyone is dying to get your attention including me except you. You don’t seem to care much about your attention, to value it as much as Silicon Valley does. Or that person you went to high school with 13 years ago. You give it away freely, waste it on the most banal and useless things all day long day after day: Social media is banal and useless. Why are you so careless with your attention? Do you know what your attention, if reserved for important, necessary, useful things, can do for you?
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Another, another, another year (mostly) spent offline
All my dreams came true this year. I even met someone offline. I loved hearing him tell the story: “We were at a comedy show and there is this woman heckling from the sides.” I smile coyly. I am that person. They say it’s impossible now to meet someone IRL, that I need the apps. We all do, they say. I try the apps and I’m exhausted by day two. The avatars wear me out; I delete them. I will not go back. I cannot go back. It has taken me between 3 to 12 years to get here— depending on how you look at it. To get to where they said was impossible. Things are just different now, you know, they look at me with that sad-knowing smile. I smile back to placate them. There are no rules, of course, only consequences. I know that and I choose my consequences very carefully.
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There *is* something wrong with you
The first time I hear you can smoke inside the casino Downtown Detroit, I can’t believe my ears. “You’re lying,” I say to him in disbelief. He’s more than happy to show this Canadian girl what else the Land of the Free can offer, including the right to smoke indoors— in designated areas but nonetheless indoors. You smell it long before you see the people pressing buttons rapidly with a cigarette dangling from their mouth. I feel like I’m in a movie from the 70s, the only other time I have seen such things before. It’s a new feeling. He’s looking at me pleased, wondering how someone can be so delighted by such simple things. I’m wondering who’s wearing diapers so they won’t have to leave their slot machine for bathroom break. And for my last weekend in Detroit, as a farewell— knowing I will probably never make it back to this part of town again— I get all dressed up and Uber my way downtown to the casino. I sit by one of the slot machines, pull out a cigarette, and I look around. This is allowed, I assure myself. I smoke two cigarettes just to be sure. I don’t touch the slot machines. I have no desire to. I look around and wonder how people can lose so much of their lives to these obnoxiously loud machines with their dizzying bright lights. The casino feels like death to me. I only came here to exercise my right to smoke indoors. I leave.
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I’m not the crazy one here!
“Babe, what’s the passcode?” I ask coyly. I’m prepared for war if I don’t get what I want: The passcode I asked him to set to turn my smartphone into a dumb phone, and made him swear up and down he would never give into none of my pleadings when I’m desperate for a quick dopamine hit. He takes his duty seriously; he tells me no. I am devastated. “Babe!” I begin. He looks at me and without a single word says you asked for this. “You are so mean!” I wail. I pout. I threaten of all the things I have the power to deprive him of. He won’t budge. I give up. Underneath my internet-withdrawal induced tantrums, beneath my desperation to escape into the World Wide Web, I smile. I’m grateful for this dutiful man that cares about me enough to care about my crazy obsession with getting offline.
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time spent offline goes offline
Get in loser, we’re going offline! time spent offline, the Substack newsletter, turns three today! 🎉
Since talk is cheap, and all writing really is is just blah, blah, blah, blah, blah— trust me, I exhaust myself too— we are taking time spent offline offline. You for real, right? This isn’t just an exercise in theory and speculation. This ain’t a dissertation, baby. If you want to theorize, speculate, philosophize, there are far better places on the internet for that. time spent offline is about… well, it’s about spending time offline. A declaration of what is truly important, what really matters, through your actions. A commitment to reality; your reality.
There are no shortcuts. No gimmicks. There is no magic waiting on the other side of hours spent reading about time spent offline.
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Do you really want this?
time spent offline is not for everyone. In fact, it’s for a very select few delusional and foolish enough to dream of a reality beyond the digital noise they say is just life now, you know. And the thing is you almost believe them. You can’t fathom what the alternative could be, if there is still one. There was Before, of course, if you’re lucky enough— old enough— to remember. But Before is no longer, is it? And even if you are courageous enough to give up your smart smartphone, your work might require it. They will even give you one at no cost to you. You chuckle to yourself: It’s true what they say, you can run but you can’t hide. The digital is everywhere. Indeed, that’s just life now.
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(Reasons to) Get off social media
One of my favourite ways I spend time with my Gen Z sister is getting on her socials and going on memory lane. We look up people from the past, present and we gossip: It is an absolute delight. “OMG, what about so and so?” I screech and she grabs her phone from my hands to look up their profile. “Here,” she passes her phone back to me and I scroll and scroll; remembering, reminiscing, making commentaries: “Omg, I remember her when she was a tiny baby!” My sister warns me to not accidentally like photos of people we have no business remembering. I’m careful and curious. It’s fun to dig, to find out what happened to people. Lucky for my curiosity and love of gossip— casual or unconstrained conversation or reports about others— people post so much about their lives on social media for our casual entertainment.
This happens once in a while.
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You know what to do, why don’t you do it?
Why do you say you want one thing and then go and do the opposite?
What is wrong with you?
Why do you spend evening after evening, weekend after weekend, scrolling from the same spot on your couch, while putting off your goals, hopes, and dreams until tomorrow? (Tomorrow never came.)
Why do you let Silicon Valley trick you so easily? Yeah, read it. All of it.
Why do you allow social media to monopolize your free time and attention so easily? If the cats are so cute, go pet some. What the hell is wrong with you?
Why is your attention so easily tricked, bought, and sold to the highest bidder? What do you get out of it? Connections? Really? To who? While ignoring your spouse, children, and god knows what else for another cheap dopamine hit from the avatars. If it wasn’t so sad, I would laugh at you.
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Angry and curious
No Older Notifications
One time, after a day spent flailing around people, going from one plan to the next, intoxicated with the feeling of being seen, heard, understood— the feeling of belonging— when I got home later that night I felt disappointed because there were No Older Notifications on my phone. I felt lonely. Despite all the time I spent around IRL people, I was sad there were No Older Notifications from the URL people living in my phone. Frustrated and fascinated by the workings of the human psyche, I chuckled to myself. As I contemplated this bizarre experience, it came to me that my brain trained over the years to equate attention and belonging with the buzz and ding sounds of Instagram likes and Facebook notifications still craved the banners and buzzing sounds signifying I am wanted, I am important. This is the reality of time spent offline. After almost seven years spent without social media, without the news, and a dumb smartphone— a radically disconnected existence in a digitally caffeinated world— I still psychologically crave the validation of the online world. I check my email too often and I glance at my phone too many times desperately hoping for notification dopamine: No Older Notifications. I used to hate myself for this. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! I get curious now. Why?
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time spent offline 