Author's note: these were some scribbles patched together from two notebooks. It is oddly cranky, rather harsh towards the writer and reader. But it was a fun little piece to pick up, put down, and pick up again. The writing feels natural, as if it were written in almost one sitting. I like that style, and I think I can improve it. One day I will link these to readings I am doing at the time, because I can already see some of the influence of my then-current reads bleeding through.
It was a morning like any other. At sunrise, the city looked as though it had yet to fully build itself for the coming day. I blinked and an hour passed. These days I snooze my radio and promptly forget what song was playing - even if it was one I enjoyed. Was it Johnny Cash this morning? Or a U2 song?
"The fight for the Internet is on!"
The newscast forces my daily dosage of Fear into my veins. It is not novel, we've long worshipped our Fears to rescue us from depths of despair and despondency. Technology remains our narrative overlord today. AI, Big Data, Blockchain - all the industry buzzwords from the last decade continue to be weaponized against anyone with the audacity to express their human thought. The poor who blame technology for their plight. The nationalists who lament the perils technology exposes their people to. The workers for thinking their company should care about them any more than the CEO's mother can manage to care for him.
I've heard, with good reason, that these technologies carry the potential to cure us of the ailments of modernity; that they can and will clean up the mess made by these screens' ancestors. Yet every attempt seems to assume that a fresh mess must be made first before any other mess can be addressed. If it takes a dozen years for these grinning kleptomaniacs to force a 1% decrease of poverty - from today's number, mind - they, backed by a militant society of consumers, will applaud their own efforts, demand a further dozen years of power, and probably charge us for the courtesy. Maybe they, like many of us, have simply given up.
It was not long ago that problems needed to be solved. Now “addressing” is all that is needed. How quickly we allow our Traditions to dictate our trajectory. Supply Chain Complications at one time wanted to be erased. Now we pump more complications into it and hope to keep up with "how it's always been".
And struggle to keep up we must. There really seems to be little else to it. Again and again, our radios wake us up, we continue to consume, and pray, some might even work, for things to improve. We all collectively take that next step to the grave and struggle to express our gratitude for the privilege.
Are our modest jobs worth it? Or our creative passions? Our loved ones? They will need to be if we wish to overcome this Listless Age. Our blind consumption will buy our very purpose from us if we aren't careful. Maybe this can be avoided by concerning ourselves with what we believe in. But for those of whom it has already happened, may God be with you. The next purpose we find may very well just be another product.
But you digress, Siebold. You've again fallen victim to the fallacy of a know-it-all. Busy thinking thoughts to be repeated as wisdom. Busy trying to write in voices borrowed from the very books lying in front of you now (read and unread). Busy. Just. Complaining.
Who put that news on in the first place? Who snoozes twice each morning without fail? Who jumps headfirst into their screen rather than writing down dreams, ideas, or even the songs playing on Radio Veronica?
Address some symptoms of your own shortcomings before diagnosing the ills you claim to observe. There is no elsewhere, and you've a diminishing supply of elsewhens. Learn from your books, don't just strive to mimic them.
"Unless every smallest detail in your daily life is in harmony with the high ideal you have set before you, you will not succeed"
And look at that. I am certain of neither where this quote came from nor why it is sitting here in my notebook. If that does not plainly illustrate a sense of your somnambulance, Siebold, showcase to me what exactly will.
