Let me tell you a little bit about my writing process.

I have an idea. It can be anything. A point I want to make in an essay. A scene to fix a hole in a story.

I think about while I’m doing other things. Washing the dishes. Driving to the store. Walking around the block.

I get really excited about it.

I sit down to write. One of two things happens now.

Either nothing. Or 3,000 words of incoherent dribble.

I get upset. I erase everything. If there was anything to be erased.

I sulk.

I get a new idea.

Rinse and repeat.

~*~*~

Writing is the only thing I’ve ever been good at, which is alarming because I’m not even very good at that.

Oh, I mean, I’m good. I fucking know that. No false humility here. I am very talented. I’m just not good at doing what I’m good at. I talked about this a little more in depth back here, but I’m going to talk about it again today.

While I’ve seen a steady decline in my ability to feel strong, personal emotions since I finished puberty, I think it’s gotten a lot worse in the last few years. I’m sure a shrink could have a lot of fun figuring out why this is and a pharmacist could have a lot of fun doling out pills to make it better. But I think there might be a pretty simple explanation.

Blogging.

Writing an essay and writing a story are two very different things. Narrative essays don’t get much play in the blogosphere. It’s informational and persuasive essays that make the rounds. If people want to read a story, they crack open a book. They read blogs to get advice or learn something new or interact with like-minded people. All of those things are lovely, but they require a different part of the brain that writing stories to touch people’s hearts. (I don’t know if that’s literally true, but you know what I mean.)

I err on the side of the cerebral anyway, and I’ve come to the conclusion that trying to be a blogger and a fiction author is not the best combination for me. Even being a blogger and a creative non-fiction author hasn’t worked that well for me; I’ve had a list of nature essays-to-write in a box in my closet for the last five months. My novel is lurching along like Frankenstein’s monster, unwieldy in it’s inability to communicate emotions rather than lofty ideas.

A few weeks ago I had the privilege of meeting Tom Franklin. He gave a craft talk at my school, in which he talked about he can’t write fiction about his religious upbringing because he is still too angry. He said that you can’t be angry when you write fiction. Non-fiction, yes, be as angry as you need. But if you’re angry writing fiction it’s going to show through and be a distraction from the story at hand. You’re going to create caricatures rather than characters.

When I blog, I often write about things that make me angry. But rather than being cathartic this often just riles me up. I can’t transition smoothly from a blogging tasking to a novel-ing task because I’m just too agitated. Even when I’m not that angry though, I can’t make the leap. Once the logical side of my brain is switched on, it won’t switch off. It keeps from going to the quiet places where good fiction bubbles up from.

If fiction is so hard for me, then why don’t I just give up? I’m good at writing things that get people riled up; why not just do that? Well, I enjoy doing that and there is a time and a place for writing like that, but it’s not my dream. Telling stories is my dream, not making points. So all of this has been to say that I think I need to take a summer break. School is out and I don’t need that critical part of my brain. It’s a good time to dive deep.

I’m not saying I won’t write at all. If something really moves me, then I will. But I need to take the pressure off myself to be a blogger. It’s not what I want. I want to be a novelist and screenwriter who has a blog to connect with his readers. I know I don’t write very much anyway so it’s not like I even need to make this announcement for you. But I have to make it for me so that I’ll know that I’m serious about taking this break. So I won’t feel bad tomorrow that another day has gone by without a new Scroll. I only want to feel bad if another day has gone by without progress on my novel or my screenplay or my short story collection.

In the future, I want to orient my site more toward that goal of being an author platform. But I don’t want to worry about it right now. No point in having a platform if you don’t have a fucking book. So that’s where I’m at right now. If I feel the urge to write I need to put it toward my fiction, and this blog is just too good of an excuse to put that energy toward something else, something easier for me, something that requires more thought than instinct. Alex has been telling me for a long time that I think too much to be a werewolf anyway, so I need to get away from that. Need to go into the wilds of my own heart and see what I can find. I’ll still be around the Internet. This isn’t the dreaded digi-sab.

Another factor in this decision is money. I don’t have any. $1.34 last time I checked. After reading this post from Niall Doherty about why he killed paid access, I’ve given up on blogging for money. It’s just too smarmy for me. I had an idea I was going to try to launch this summer, but I’ve scrapped it for the time being. It would just be another distraction from the work I really need to do. If I’m going to make it as a writer, it will be as a novelist or screenwriter. Not as a lifestyle design blogger. So now that I’m on the verge of going back to a job, my time for writing is going to be cramped and every second I can muster needs to go towards my book.

But because things are so dire – because I really only have $1.34 right now – I am also going to follow Niall’s lead and put a Paypal Tip Jar at the end of this Scroll. I’m not asking for large handouts. I’m just asking for tips. If a break-dancer on the subway can do it, so can we. If you’ve enjoyed my writing here thus far, leave a tip. If you’d like to see me continue to write here in the future, leave a tip. You don’t have to, of course. I understand that you might have $1.34 to your name today too. But it’s there if you feel so inclined, and will be at the bottom of any future posts I might make. I really encourage you to read Niall’s post if you don’t understand why.

That’s it for now, folks. I’ve got work to do.

Thanks for every time your eyes have graced this page.

_______________________

TIP JAR:

Filed under: Scrolls, Uncategorized by chase 6 Comments »

Generally speaking, it’s poor form to tell someone how to do something you haven’t done yourself.

For instance, I would never dream of sneaking into a medical school and teaching a class on colonoscopies. I have no idea how to insert a camera into someone’s anus and wiggle it around their large intestine. It would be very poor form, indeed, if I were to do that.

But this is the Internet not medical school; when has form ever mattered? Telling people how to do things you’ve never actually done is pretty much that status quo. So although I’ve never been an A-List Blogger, I feel confident that I can teach you how to become one by the end of this Scroll.

It’s really very simple.

All you have to do to become an A-List Blogger is be somebody that other people wish they could be.

That’s it. That’s all you have to do.

“What about writing?” you ask. “Don’t you have to be a great writer?”

No. You don’t. Spelling and basic grammar will help you out, but blogs aren’t about poetry or lyrical prose. That’s why they’re called blogs. Blahgs. Blaghahahahgs. Blobs, I once called them and it caught on for a few weeks. Nothing called a blog can be pretty.

Blogs are about information. And information doesn’t have to be pretty, it just has to be clear. “It” being how awesome your life is.

I’m not making this shit up. Think about all the bloggers you know who have readerships the size of small big cities and who genuinely make a living off the money those readers give them for e-books with lots of white space between the very simple lines.

I used to want to be Everett Bogue. Back in the fall of 2010 when Far Beyond the Stars was alive and well. I was sitting at work one day, surfing the net for things to read while I pretended to work, and I came across this scruffy guy with shaggy hair who didn’t have to work anymore because he sold e-books online. I wanted his life. So I became a minimalist and started a blog and continued to be scruffy and have shaggy hair. I quit my job. Stupidest thing I ever did. I’m still paying for that mistake a year later financially. I was doing fine. Paying my bills. Digging out of debt. Up for a small raise. But I quit because I didn’t want to live my life; I wanted to live his.

This is the reason any blogger gets famous. They know how to make their life look better than yours. Ev Bogue would say this flat out. Still does. His Upgraded Minimalist Business guide is not for you if you “want to move to a suburb and get a mini-van.” All the cool kids are living out of bags, working from cafes anywhere in the world. If you’re not doing that, you’re not really living.

I’m not trying to pick on Ev in particular. I’m just being honest about the reason I started blogging. His spiel was convincing. He made his life look a thousand times better than mine. And I’m not judging him for it because that’s what bloggers do. That’s the work. When they ask you if you’re “doing the work” that’s what they’re talking about. Are you making your life look better than anyone else’s?

Are you somebody that strangers want to be?

You might be. It isn’t that hard to do considering how difficult daily life is for most people on this planet. Tell people you’re always Zen. Tell them you have time to do Yoga every day. Tell them you have a really organized desk. Tell them you don’t anything you can’t carry in a bag. Tell them you travel the world. Anything looks better than the life most people are living.

The Bible says thou shall not covet, but the Bloggers say “Yes, you shall. Otherwise we’ll have to go back to working minimum wage like you.”

Even minimalism – which purports to be about being happy with what you already have – plants these seeds of jealousy in the reader’s minds. But rather than things, they covet the lifestyle. They covet the freedom implied in living out of a bag. That was me. A year later, I regret my fling with minimalism. I miss a lot of the things I let go. Because I did it for the wrong reasons. Because I did it so I could feel like I was as cool and free as somebody else.

I paid $99 during a 72 hour Sale for a bunch of e-books that would teach me how to be a businessman. But I never wanted to be a businessman and I never read the books. I made it a couple of pages into Guillebeau’s guide before I fell asleep. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just saying it wasn’t for me. I don’t care about that stuff. I didn’t then, but I thought I had to if I wanted to be like them. And I wanted to be like them because they were better than me. They told me so all the time. “Quit your stupid job and work online like us! Be cool!”

I once went to an Art of Non-Conformity Meet-up where all I could do was laugh at all the people trying to be like each other. I don’t mean that in a mean way because I was there trying to be like them too. I just mean it was literally fucking hilarious. “You’re going to Chang Mai? Me too!” “Me too!” “Me too!” Everyone was trying so hard to be like somebody else they read about online that they had all become the same. I couldn’t tell anyone apart. Someone asked me if I was Everett Bogue. I might as well have said yes. I certainly wasn’t me.

A lot of A-List Bloggers out there will tell you that the secret to success is just being yourself. Of course, they tell you that! Because they need you to think that they’re just being themselves so you’ll want to be like them! That’s how they make their money! Their voice is saying “Be yourself” but if you read their lips they’re saying “Try to be like me!” Your desire to do so is their bread and butter, baby. There’s no way around it. Inciting you to covet is the great and noble work.

If you can incite people to covet your life, you will most likely make it big.

But if you can’t, you will most likely fail.

If people read about you and think “Oh, this person is just like me right now!” instead of “Oh! This person is everything I dream of being!” then you are most likely going to fail. If your only goal is to create an A-List Blog, that is. But if you want to make new friends, you’ll probably succeed. If you want to develop your craft as a writer by sharing your words with the public, then you’ll probably succeed. If you want to touch people through your stories, then you’ll probably succeed.

You’ll probably never make a shit-ton of money or have enough subscribers to brag about it on your front page. But you’ll probably succeed.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 22 Comments »

The first time I cried was the night I saw Titanic. I didn’t cry during the movie. I was 14. I was too busy laughing at the guy who hits his head on the propeller and wrestling with the mixed emotions that come from being seated next to your devout Baptist grandmother the first time you see Kate Winslet naked.

It would be several hours before it hit me. My younger cousin and I fell asleep on the hide-a-bed at out grandparents’ house listening to the movie soundtrack. I had a dream that I was in a yellow submarine (though I was not yet a fan of The Beatles) with Celine Dion and we were on our way to visit the wreck. It was a silly dream.

I woke up completely fucked up. I tried to wake my cousin. I tried to watch TV. In retrospect, I think I was having a panic attack. I curled up in a ball and cried and felt ashamed but also heroic because  it was the real thing that had wedged itself between my ribs and cut off my air, not some silly made-up love story that people only cared about because Leo was such a sexy little beast.

I became obsessed. My cousin too.

Some people use the word to “obsessed” to emphasize a strong interest in a topic. Uh-huh. It’s too embarrassing to describe in great detail. Let’s just say there were matching hats involved.

We read everything we could find on the subject in the spring of 1998. We started writing a novel that summer. I remember talking it over while we attempted to demonstrate with a pool raft that it was possible for two people to fit on that goddamn door if only one of them were smart enough to swim to the other side to balance the weight. No one needed to die. So fucking stupid. We could do better.

Within a year, we had a 360 page novel. Our parents didn’t quite know what to think of us. Mine made me show it to a local travel agent who was also a children’s author. She was impressed. She gave us some notes for revisions and encouraged us to submit it.

But I never did. This is what drove everyone I knew crazy. If we were going to be such creepy little kids, at least we ought to be famous creepy little kids with money, right? But I couldn’t do it.

I think a lot now about dragging it out, dusting it off, excising the blatant bits of plagiarism, and updating the kissing scenes with my increased knowledge on that subject. We could turn it into a pretty decent YA novel with a little work. Sometimes we joke about re-writing it completely now that we’re jaded grown-ups, spicing it up with opium addictions and kinky sex.

But still I hold back. It’s like it’s too personal even though there’s nothing in it remotely based on my life. My current novel is far more personal in the regard. But it doesn’t move me like that one did. I’m not saying it doesn’t move me at all. It does or I wouldn’t be writing it. But not like that. I don’t think I’ll ever feel anything like that again.

And I don’t even know why it felt like that then.

When I was sixteen, my long-suffering parents took me all the way to Nova Scotia to visit the graveyard where the victims who couldn’t be buried at home were laid to rest. When we arrived, there was a tour group there. I was standing there in the midst of all these graves trying to have this cathartic moment and there’s this guy with a lapel mic booming to a bunch of tourists about a grave marked J. Dawson. I flipped my shit. I ran back to our rental car and sat in the backseat and cried. Again, I felt ashamed. My parents finally managed to coax me out after the tourists had dropped off their flowers on the grave of a man whose real story would forever be overshadowed by Leonardo DiCaprio’s winning grin.

But all the words I ever had to explain those emotions are gone now. It’s like it happened to someone else and the adult me can only look at that kid and scratch my head just like my parents did. My only explanation for this now is that I must have put it all into that book. That over-the-top, sentimental, full of impossible heroics book. A historically accurate but absolutely silly book by a couple of silly boys who wept for people who had died before their grandparents were even born.

I am terrified to read that book. I just don’t know what to do with emotions like that anymore. By the time I went to college, those feelings were already mostly gone. It was just a fascinating historical event, but not something to cry over. Eventually, my parents boxed up all the books and the posters and the framed photo of Thomas Andrews and his family. I don’t even know where the box is now. In the barn, maybe. My manuscript among them. I imagine it glowing a weepy blue, causing mice and moths to weep uncontrollably when they try to chew on it.

I still feel strongly about things. I still cry an embarrassing amount over things that move me in books or movies or real life. But not like that. The Hunger Games made me cry, but not enough to throw up. Something I came very close to doing in that graveyard that day.

I’ve never finished a project since I finished that damn book. I sometimes worry that was it. My one-hit wonder that will never see the light of day. I fear that I experience all the emotions needed to write great fiction in one crushing, childish wave. All of it wasted on a book where the characters say heck instead of hell.

I didn’t write at all for years. I dabbled. Finished one screenplay during college because I had to. Started a lot of things that never took off. The novel I’m working on now is based on an idea I had in 2001, but never pursued. It was set in high school then because that’s what  I knew. When I took the idea out again I had to make it about twenty-somethings because I can barely remember what it felt like to be sixteen. Even so it’s been over two years since I did that and I’ve only got about 4,000 words, not counting the prologue that appears as a short story in Falling While Sitting Down.

Four thousand words. All of which were written in the last week.

After I saw Titanic on the big screen again.

I don’t know what that means. But there you have it.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 9 Comments »

I saw The Hunger Games twice this weekend. 

I cried both times during the same scene. 

~*~

I’m going to try my hand at lifestyle design today. In other words, I am going to try to tell you how to figure out what to do with your life.

Blogs of this nature are as innumerable as bugs in the wilderness at this point so I’m sure that somewhere out there someone has already said what I’m going to say today. But for the most part – based on the lifestyle design blogs I read before I realized life can’t actually be designed – bloggers tend to offer only minor variations on the same, basic theme.

“What should I do with my life?” you ask a blogger (or almost anyone else).

“What makes you happy?” the blogger (or almost anyone else) retorts with the gentle, white smile of someone who has done a lot of Yoga.

“Needlepoint,” you respond without hesitation.

“Then do that,” the blogger (or almost anyone else) gently cups your cheek and gives your face an encouraging shake. “Then do that.”

“Well it make a difference? My needlepoint?” You ask the blogger (or almost anyone else).

“If it makes you happy, then yes.” The blogger (or almost anyone else) pulls their palm from your cheek and holds it in front of you, lightly rubbing his or her thumb across their other fingers. “That will be $127.99. Namaste.”

~*~

I think we all know – no matter how much we wish we didn’t- that there’s something hollow about this world view.

It sounds great on paper. How should we live our lives? Why, doing what makes us happy, of course!

The trouble is that happiness is a very distorted idea in this culture. Nobody knows for sure what the fuck it means anymore. Some people believe happiness is the same as being content, while other people believe that contentment is a form of settling. They won’t take anything less than joy.

Do not get in between these people and their joy.

Seriously.

They might kill you.

~*~

Happiness in America is like language at the Tower of Babel.

Our culture has re-branded the word happiness in so many different ways that we can never be sure that we’re talking about the same thing when we use that word. We can’t even be sure of what it means to us.

What is joy? What is elation? Delight? Excitement? Fun? Satisfaction? Pleasure? Peace?

Happiness to some means earning a living wage.

Happiness to others means earning sixteen living wages in a month.

Telling a person to do what makes them happy is the socially acceptable response to “What should I do with my life?”

We have collectively given each other permission to do whatever the hell we want as long as it makes us happy.

~*~

I imagine this is how Panem was born.

For those who don’t know, Panem is the name of the “fictional” country where the Hunger Games occur.

I put fictional in quotes because we all know that Panem is America taken to it’s logical extremes.

Note that when I say logical, I don’t mean “right”. I mean that by the logic that already drives this country, a world like Panem is the obvious next step. In a country where black kids get shot for wearing hoodies and Muslim children get blown up by drones and the vast majority of people are more concerned about who wins American Idol and Dancing With The Stars…

There would be absolutely nothing illogical about taking two kids from every State in the Union and making them fight each other to the death on national television.

If watching it makes us happy, then why the hell not?

~*~

There’s this scene in the Hunger Games when a beloved character dies. (That’s not a spoiler because the whole point of the Games is that every player but one will die.) This character dies and the main character, Katniss, has the audacity to treat this character like a dead human being. She gets angry over the death. She weeps. She covers the body in flowers.

And she accidentally starts the revolution.

This is when I cry.

~*~

Monday night, I went to my Film Appreciation class. We watched a movie called Winter’s Bone, which also stars Jennifer Lawrence. She plays basically the same character as Katniss Everdeen, but this time in the present and in my own backyard. There comes a point about halfway through the film when this very hard character breaks down and weeps. She is in danger of losing her home and her land and without them she has nothing.

My professor paused the film at this point. He asked us to think about why this character was crying. After a few moments of silence, he told us that if we want to understand a person – a character or someone real – we have to know what makes them cry.

~*~

If you want to understand yourself, you have to know what makes you cry.

This is more important than knowing what makes you happy.

Happiness is ephemeral. Crying is concrete.

I’m not talking about what makes you cry tears of happiness. And I’m not talking about crying over a stumped two. And I’m not talking about crying over a break up or even over your grandmother’s death. Those kinds of tears are universal.

I’m asking what makes you cry.

Husbands beating their wives? Babies being aborted while others wait to adopt? Gay kids being bullied to suicide? Polluted rivers? Clear-cut forests? Iraqi babies born without heads because of our depleted uranium bombs?  Old people who paid their mortgage for twenty-five years losing their home because gambling makes some Wall Street guys happy? Police using lethal force on teenagers? Our government killing people with drones on our own soil? That Sarah McLachlan commercial for the Humane Society?

The list could go on and on and on and on and on. But you probably don’t need to read a list to know what it is. You probably knew what it was the second I asked. It’s the thing that makes you cry. It’s sacred. It’s always waiting just behind your lips.

But when you asked what to do with your life, they told you to do something that made you happy. So that’s what you did and you try not to think too much about the thing that makes you cry because you’re supposed to be happy. Life is all about being happy.

But the thing that makes you cry won’t go away. It’s always waiting in a dark movie theater to embarrass you in front of your friends. It’s always waiting in the middle of the night when you just want to count your money and go to sleep. And in those moments, you understand that you will never be as happy as they promise you will be because this thing that makes you cry will always be raining on your parade.

You ask me what to do with your life, and I ask, “What makes you cry?”

Go fix it.

That’s what you do with your life. That’s how you make a difference.

Fix the thing that makes you cry. And even if you can’t fix it, never stop trying.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 8 Comments »

“You can cut all the flowers, but you cannot keep Spring from coming.” ~ Pablo Neruda

The wildflowers are back in Texas, and so am I.

Until the end of the week.

Spring is a minuscule season in most parts of Texas. It literally lasts about as long as Spring Break. Then it’s summer. The wildflowers wither on stalks that quickly become indistinguishable from the weeds, and all are quickly mowed down to provide motorists with the best possible view of the roadkill rotting in the record-breaking heat.

But for the moment, Spring is in full bloom and for a little while it is possible to pretend that human beings are actually meant to live in this region. Tomorrow might be another story. Will probably be another story. This is the fascinating thing about Spring. Knowing that it can never last, it still shows up. 

Modern Man has a name for this. Futility. This is what we call actions that make no lasting difference. Flowers bloom and then they die. What was the fucking point?

But futility is a uniquely human concept, an idea born of linear time. Humans do not like to engage in actions that do not produce lasting results. (And when their actions don’t truly produce lasting results, they pretend they do anyway. For example, Halls of Fame, Tribute Bands, and Collector’s Items.) This is why humans measure time as a series of years stacking up on each other. This format makes it easy to track results.

But not all humans measure time this way, and I believe it is a safe bet that animals and plants are baffled by this way of thinking. And not because animals and plants have no concept of time, but because animals and plants and a few remaining human cultures are on the Earth’s clock and that clock is cyclical.

In a cyclical world, futility does not exist.

A human being watches a fawn struggling in the jaws of a wolf and judges that fight to be futile. Because the human mind wants to see a linear progression of events. The fawn struggles, the fawn breaks free, the fawn is not consumed. Sometimes that does happen. But usually it does not. Usually the fawn – once caught – gets eaten. Humans call this the indifference of Nature and we shudder at the thought of existing in such a backward state. We prefer Civilization with it’s Linear Time and actions weighted with purpose and meaning.

But indifference is just another invention of the Modern Man. It doesn’t apply to the world of fawns and wolves. They live in the cyclical world where life and death are always dancing in circles around a ballroom made of stones and grass and saltwater and snow. The fawn will be eaten, and the wolf will live. Until the wolf dies. Then grass will grow from that grave and a fawn will eat that grass and grow into a big, strong buck. Futility does not exist because this circle is the point.

Lasting results are the cornerstone of linear time measurement. Life processes are the hallmark of cyclical time.

But what does any of this have to do with you?

The belief in futility – the belief that there are actions which do not matter because they do not produce results – is a plague upon our species. When we think about embarking on a course of action, we ask ourselves if that action will produce measurable, lasting results. If the answer is no, we continue to sit on our ass.  We prefer to do nothing at all than to try to do something that won’t work. We call the minimization of futile activities efficiency. It is more efficient to just watch TV than it is to exert ourselves for a pointless cause. We believe that the result will be the same either way so we might as well do nothing at all. We tell ourselves we are conserving our energy for some endeavor with guaranteed results. Like eating Hot Pockets.

Results are not bad things. But they are tricky things. They don’t always show themselves immediately. They often appear in forms we don’t recognize. In short, results operate on cyclical time just like the rest of the natural world. This is why the only truly futile thing in life is waiting for the chance to take actions with guaranteed results. Results are wild things. They will come and go as they please. They run on their own clocks and measure time on their own calendars. Just because we cannot see a result does not mean it doesn’t exist. And just because a result doesn’t appear to last doesn’t mean it didn’t matter, doesn’t mean it doesn’t still matter, doesn’t mean it won’t continue to matter in a million years.

This applies to many things, of course. If you like, you can take it as encouragement to do whatever it is you haven’t been doing because you thought it wouldn’t produce results. But I’m thinking of something specific today.

Most people know that there is something horribly wrong with life as we know it. They know that we have to do something to change it. But they have no interest in doing anything to change it unless they know it’s going to work. They want guaranteed results. Anything else would be an inefficient use of their time and energy. So they do nothing. They are paralyzed by the mere possibility of futility.

Last week I attended an Occupy General Assembly on my college campus.  We weren’t just talking about national issues or state issues, but campus issues. Things that affect everyone who pays to attend this school. Things like how we were going to keep the administration from razing our nature reserve to build a Greek Village. Out of 11,000 students, nine people showed up.

That was disheartening. It made attending feel futile. If no one else was going to show up, why should I? What the hell are nine people going to accomplish if 10,991 others don’t give a shit? I should probably just stay home and read next week.

But I know there are more than nine people on our campus who care what happens to the Nature Reserve. I know there are more than nine people who are worried about their student loan debt. I know there are more than nine people who are afraid they won’t be able to get a job after they graduate. I know there are more than nine people who wonder if they’ll ever own a home. I know there are more than nine people who are terrified to get sick or injured because they have no way to pay for it.

And I know why these people don’t show up. Not because they are too busy or too ignorant to see what’s going on, but because they know exactly what is going on and they are afraid that this is not going to change it. They are afraid to show up and never see results. They are afraid to waste their time on something futile. And so they all stay home.

See why the idea of futility is such a scourge? It is a self-fulfilling prophecy. When we never get involved because we don’t believe we’ll see any results, we have guaranteed that we will never see results.

I don’t know if Occupy is the best answer to our problems. I don’t know if it will ever achieve the results we want. I am not 100% certain what the results we want even are. And this is no way meant to imply that anyone not specifically involved with Occupy is not doing their part. There are hundreds of way to make the world a better place.

But they have to be done. Even if they seem futile at first. Even if they seem futile forever. Because this idea that anything is futile is only in our linear-timed heads. In the real world, in the cyclical world, things unfold in circles and these processes are the point. Marching in Austin last fall changed me in ways I cannot measure, and for all I know it may also have changed the world. The results have yet to be revealed.

So I’ll show up next week when Occupy-my-campus meets again. Because when it comes to the American Spring nine flowers are better than none.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 2 Comments »

“But if we’ve become domesticates, who are our masters?” ~ Derek Jenson

~

Our new backyard turns into a swamp when it rains. This wouldn’t be a problem if our new backyard were in Texas where it only rains for ten minutes once a year. But our new backyard is in central Arkansas where it currently rains at least once a week and for at least four straight hours every time. These downpours quickly fill the careless tire ruts our predecessors left in the yard and spill over into the lawn, forming a series of Great Lakes that rival anything you’ll find between Illinois and Michigan.

This is problematic because we have two big dogs who need to pee and poop at least twice a day. Zamuray is the alpha of our little pack, rescued from the mean streets of East Austin and capable of making his own decisions. Alice is a hopeless omega who spends the majority of her life licking Zam’s mouth and making submissive postures at chairs, fireplaces, kittens, and anything else which looks slightly authoritative. While these two are fairly similar in body size and weight, Zam’s skull is considerably wider than Alice’s, suggesting a considerably larger brain and therefore greater intelligence.

Yet when we open the door in the morning to let them do their business, I can count on Alice to avoid each and every puddle. When I see her getting close to one, I simply say her name and she spins off on a new trajectory. I can pinball her all over the yard without hitting a single puddle, just saying her name in a warning tone. Meanwhile, Zamuray deliberately sloshes through every puddle in his path, often sinking ankle deep in black pits of sodden, decaying leaves. Nothing I say can stop him. Inside, he is a perfect gentlemen, but take him outside and he forgets his name. Splash splash splash I can’t hear you. Now I know why this sort of behavior pissed my mother off so much.

This morning – as Zam defiantly waded through the grossest puddle in the yard – I berated him for not being as intelligent as his broad skull suggested. I told him he wasn’t half as smart as his sister - and she’s a dumb blonde. He gazed sagely into my eyes, lifted his leg, and pissed on a tangle of briers. Because our yard isn’t fenced – just lined with an assortment of shrubs and trees – we’ve had similar issues with Zam darting into the neighbor’s yard and refusing to return. Once, when I took him by the collar to pull him home, he snapped at me.

If Zam were a human child, he would certainly have been diagnosed with Oppositional Defiance Disorder by now. There would have been frantic phone calls from his teacher about his anti-social behavior on the playground. We would sit with him in the principal’s office while she shuffles through his permanent record, telling us what a good, smart boy he is during class but that he just goes wild outside. Doesn’t respond to correction. Doesn’t even respond to his own name. Pretends not to year you. Humps his male classmates. Wanders off school property and poops in strangers’ yards. We would nod our heads and promise to talk to him, promise to take him to the doctor, promise to put him on some sort of medication to make him compliant.

I confess it infuriates me more than it should when Zam won’t listen to me. It drives me absolutely bonkers when he ignores his name and splashes through those puddles.  Alex tells me I am being too hard on him; I think she lets him get away with shit. He is the smart one; I expect better from him. Classic family dysfunction.

But today I had an epiphany while reading Derek Jensen’s book Dreams. Before asking the question I quote at the beginning of this Scroll, Jensen points out that the brain of a domesticated dog is significantly smaller than their wild counterparts. Subsequent research taught me that a domesticated dog’s brain is 25 – 30% smaller than a wolf’s. Further research resulted in similar findings about other domesticated animals versus their untamed counterparts. And as Derek Jensen points out in this book, we have made the same discovery about ourselves. Our brains are smaller than they used to be.

I scratch Zam’s broad skull with one hand, tickle Alice’s pointy noggin with the other. Could it be that the size of their brains is not a measure of their intelligence but of their domesticity? Zam is less domesticated than Alice but more domesticated than a wolf. Maybe his defiance stems not from stupidity but from a deep inner knowledge that my rules our pointless, that there is no legitimate reason for him to avoid getting his paws wet, that I am trying to force him to conform to a civilized standard that will never apply to his wild soul? And what about Alice? Does she obey my commands because she is smart or because she doesn’t really think for herself? Alice doesn’t need a brain like a wolf because Alice will never have to do the things a wolf does. I do most of Alice’s logistical thinking for her. I provide food. I provide a place to pee. I provide toys. I provide warmth. These are things a wolf has to figure out for himself. These are things more domesticated dogs can take for granted.

Again, I am not a scientist and this is not a heavily researched scientific essay. But there is a certain poetic correlation that cannot be denied here. After all, the wolf/dog is our closest historical companion. Our evolutionary stories weave around each other like the strands of some DNA we don’t actually share. If Alice’s brain is smaller than her ancestors’ brains because she evolved to let me do her thinking for her, and if my brain is now smaller than my ancestors’ brains then I have to wonder “Why didn’t my brain evolve to do all of it’s own thinking? And who is it counting on to do it for me?

Or as Derek Jensen put it, if I’ve been domesticated, who is my master?

I think this is the question that every human being has to ask themselves. You were born wild, but now you’re not. Why is that? Who did that to you? Who taught you to come when called? Who taught you to sit and stay and shake hands? Who taught you to eat when the bell rings? Who taught you not to splash in puddles? Who taught you not to leave the yard? Who taught you to piss in a porcelain pot? Who taught you not to eat with your hands? Who taught you that life was all about money? Who taught you that life as we know it is just the way things are?

I have more thoughts on this subject, but I want to leave it at this for now. Think about it. Leave your answer in the comments if you like. I love hearing from you.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 14 Comments »

Last March, I had the displeasure of meeting a very famous A-List blogger. I’m not going to name names, but you’ve heard of him. Everyone has. I only spent like 2.5 minutes with him, but that was plenty. He’s the kind of guy people travel across the country to meet. . He was the kind of guy who looks over your shoulder while you tell him what you do. The kind of guy whose hand shake feels like a sickly catfish trying to get out of your grasp. Call me old-fashioned, but if you don’t know how to shake a man’s hand without making him feel like you think you’re above him… then you probably think you’re above him. I didn’t like that guy. Never read another word he wrote. And watching a bunch of other bloggers fawn all over him like there was nothing off-putting about his limp hand or wandering eyes soured me on meeting other bloggers in general.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have judged the famous blogger so harshly had I not met Joshua Millburn the day before. We met for the first time in the parking lot at Torchy’s Tacos. He promptly hugged me. Now obviously, the circumstances were slightly different – Josh and I were intentionally meeting up so I could show him around – and it would have been disconcerting had the famous blogger also greeted me so enthusiastically, but you know, there’s a lot of middle ground between a bear hug and a dead fish handshake that the famous blogger could have occupied.

I met up again with Josh last night in Little Rock. Different state, same hug. This time Ryan Nicodemus was there too. Different minimalist, same hug. Seriously. These guys love to hug. The Meet-Up was basically just a two hour cuddle party. Or maybe that was just the seating arrangement at the coffee shop that made it seem that way… But yeah, don’t go to a Minimalist Meet-Up if you aren’t cool with hugs.

But if you are cool with hugs – or if you want to experiment with hugging in a safe setting with some nice guys – you should definitely catch up with Ryan and Josh if they’re rolling through a city near you on the remainder of the Minimalist Meet-Up Tour.

I admit when Josh and Ryan first started their site in December 2010, I rolled my eyes and said “more minimalists?” The whole minimalism thing had started to seem so smarmy by then. Everyone was selling their heirlooms on Craigslist so they could afford the next big e-book that would finally answer the question: “Do I have to count my socks separately or can I count all 372 pairs as one item?” What could these guys possibly have to offer that hadn’t been said a thousand times already?

I think the answer to that question now is genuineness. They do what they do because they care, not because they want to make a quick buck so they can run off to Chang Mai and get laid. I mean, they may want to do that at some point in their lives, but I think that objective – if it exists – is separate from the objectives behind The Minimalists website. Helping people is the point. For instance, while other bloggers are still charging $50 and up for their books, Josh and Ryan just lowered all their prices.

This tour is a great example of what I’m talking about – and no, they aren’t paying me off with cash or sensual hugs to say this stuff. When most successful people announce a tour, the tour is about the people doing the touring. They are gifting you with their presence in your area. They may deign to autograph your book or your breast or what-have-you. They may stand up and impart their superior wisdom to their adoring fans. They will definitely try to hard-sell you some new shit before the night is over. Not so with The Minimalists.

The Minimalist Meet-Up Tour is about you. Whoever you are. These guys aren’t on the road to give you the gift of meeting them. They’re on the road because they want to meet the people who make their blog a success. Because the measure of any true author is his or her awareness that their work is just a tree falling in the forest if no one is around to listen. Josh and Ryan are aware of this, and that’s why their the real deal. And that’s why you don’t want to pass up the chance to meet them if they’re coming to a city near you.

Because listen, if you’re going to be part of the digital world, you’re going to have a lot of disappointing, off-putting, and downright bizarre experiences meeting the people you connect with online. You’re going to meet people who discourage you and make you question whether any of the shit bloggers say is real. You’re going to meet a lot of people who are just in it for the money or the approximation of fame. You’re going to meet a lot of people who just see you as a potential client. You’re going to meet a lot of people who don’t know how to fucking shake your hand.

But if you meet The Minimalists, you’re going to feel a little better about the human species in general. And you’re definitely going to leave with a little more hope that the other people you read online are equally as legit.

And you’re probably going to get a hug.

Unless the truth is the Minimalists just really enjoying hugging me …

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 4 Comments »

“If a man builds a machine and that machine conspires with another machine built by another man, are those men conspiring?” ~ Ray McKinnon, The Accountant

Last week, I re-released the Scroll that once served as this site’s flagship post: The Evolution of the Cybernetic Werewolf. I had removed it from the blog at the beginning of this year when I decided to start completely from scratch, but I recently realized that without that essay, my werewolf motif might not make much sense to new readers. So I published it again with the caveat that it needed to be re-written because I no longer felt the same way about “augmented humanity.” But rewriting is hard, boring business. So I’m just writing a new Scroll to explain why I changed my mind.

But what exactly did I change my mind about? What does “augmented humanity” even mean?

Well, in blogging circles, the phrase is generally associated with Ev Bogue’s infamous cyborg phase and an e-book he released during that time titled Augmented Humanity. When I wrote the essay, I was specifically referencing the concept as I understood it in Ev’s book. But Ev was not the originator of the phrase; he was borrowing a term coined by ex-Google CEO Eric Schmidt.

The general idea is that technology – specifically, the Internet and the devices we use to access it – is becoming so ubiquitous that it is part of us now, and not just part of us but perhaps the better part of us. If you Google the word “augmented”, you’ll receive the definition: Having been made greater in size or value. So a technologically-augmented human then is a human who has been made greater in size or value by the technology he utilizes.

There’s little doubt that being constantly connected has augmented our asses, but let’s talk about value. Does the technology we carry with us increase our value? Well, it certainly makes us more profitable targets for pickpockets and muggers. But for once in this culture, the value at stake is not monetary but personal. The idea behind “augmented humanity” seems to be that humans who are plugged in all the time are becoming more valuable than those who are not. Before you disagree with that assessment, consider how often you hear the word “evolution” slip into conversations about technology. There is no doubt at all that many people – powerful people – believe that ambient technology will usher in the next phase of human evolution, and indeed, are developing new technology with the explicit goal of hastening this process.

From this evolutionary stand point then, a human being with a smart phone is more valuable than one without because the plugged-in person has made the necessary adaptation to survive in the information economy. The person without a smart phone is obsolete. Rather like the Dodo bird.

And what does it mean to be obsolete? Well, just try to sell a first generation iPod or even an iPad for the price you paid for it. It can’t be done. These items have lost their value. Likewise, the people who aren’t using the latest, greatest tech product to hit the market lose their value because it has already become so connected to the machines we use. Hence, the pressure to buy a useless new iPad when your iPad 2 works just fine. You don’t want to look obsolete when the firing squad comes in to announce lay-offs, do you? So you shell out another couple hundred bucks for a slightly shiner version of something you already spent a couple hundred bucks on.

Now let’s step back a second and think about Eric Schmidt. Schmidt makes money when people buy new forms of technology. Schmidt tells people that his technology is making them better, more valuable humans. People want to be better, more valuable humans. They buy technology. And not just Schmidt’s, of course. He’s only the person who said it out loud. Every man or woman who stands to earn a fortune by convincing us to buy a slew of new gadgets every years believes the same thing. Or benefits by pretending to believe the same thing. They’re smart people. They probably know it’s bull shit. But bullshit is money in our world so they keep shoveling it out and raking it in.

So let’s be honest. An augmented human, a better human, a more valuable human – in the eyes of Schmidt and his cronies –  is just someone who keeps buying their shit.

An augmented human isn’t a werewolf at all. An augmented human is the worst kind of zombie. An augmented human is someone who is so brainwashed by this culture and the CEOs who control it that they actually start to believe their gadgets affect their personal value. They believe they have made the adaptation necessary to gain admittance to the next phase of human evolution. And if you believe that you are part of the next phase of human evolution, then you believe – whether you know you believe this or not – that you are better, more valuable than anyone who has not.

And who hasn’t been augmented?

Well… I couldn’t find an exact number. But there are 884 million people who don’t have clean water to drink right now. So I’m guessing the number of un-augmented people isn’t less than 884 million.

So we’ve already got almost a billion obsolete people for sure.

Almost a billion people who do not have value.

Almost a billion people who will go extinct.

While I sit on my Ikea couch and type on my Toshiba laptop and sip from my Ozark bottle and try to write about getting in touch with our animal nature.

A year ago, I wrote that an augmented human was a human who had been set free. In doing so, I implied that technology was the savior we’ve been waiting for. In doing so, I was a racist. A classist. A sexist. A capitalist, imperialistic pig. A zombie of the highest order.

Why? Because when I used the word “us” in that context I was only talking about those of who us can afford a smart phone. Those of us who have computers. Those of us who have Internet access. Those of us who have bottled water. I was ignoring the existence of at least 884 million people who have none of these things and who are undoubtedly more in touch with their animal natures than I can ever be.

And then there is the dark truth that none of us augmented humans want to face. The truth about where our technology comes from. The truth about the working conditions. The truth about the wages. The truth about the effects on the environment, on the communities, on the local culture. The truth that these products we believe are saving us are enslaving others.

There is no distinction between humans who are augmented and humans who are not. There is only the line between those who have and those who have not. It is the same old line that’s always been there, ripping the world in two.

I don’t have any answers in this Scroll. Only the admission that I was wrong.

My favorite thing I’ve ever seen online is a cartoon following the death of Steve Jobs. It showed Mr. Jobs arriving at heaven’s gate. As a Buddhist, he was horrified and said he didn’t believe in that stuff, he believed in reincarnation. The final panel showed an unhappy Chinese boy putting together an iPad on an assembly line.

It doesn’t matter if technology can set a bunch of American, middle-class, white kids free from office drudgery if it means a thousand kids across the world will waste their lives in hellish factories building those products for us. And even if the conditions aren’t as bad as they’re rumored to be, they’re still factories. We aren’t even willing to work in cubicles; how do you think we’d handle an assembly line?

This is not evolution. This is entitlement.

I am guilty of it. But I am not going to throw out my phone or my laptop and don a sackcloth to make amends. That wouldn’t help a damn thing. My phone has been made. The least I can do now is honor the person who was paid pennies to make it by using it to speak out against the exploitative system.

This is not a pleasant Scroll, I know. It contains no easy to read lists or helpful productivity hacks. It doesn’t even offer any tangible solutions to the problems it brings up. I apologize for that, or for bringing you down. I have to write what’s on my mind, and this has been on my mind a lot lately. Thoughts?

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 14 Comments »

A year ago, I wrote an essay. I published it at ChaseNight.net. (The domain that used to house this blog.) No one noticed. A week later, Carwin told me this new site was ready for prime time. I didn’t have anything ready. So I just posted that essay. I didn’t expect it to get any more attention that it already had. It obviously hadn’t struck a chord with my readers. But something magical happened while I slept that night. There was something about that essay on this website that got people’s attention. When I woke up, I had been crowned heir apparent to the throne of “The Next Big Thing.”

]But Internet fame is a fickle, fleeting thing. I never became the next big thing, of even the next slightly larger than ordinary thing. I am – as most of us are if we’re really honest with ourselves – just another obscure thing in a relatively small community-type thing hanging out on a single thread of a Web that is as close to infinite in scope as my brain can comprehend. And that’s fine by me. I’m happy.

I might be happier if I had slapped together a twenty page e-book that was mostly white space and sold it for $50 to 100,000 suckers. But can money ever buy us the exquisite happiness of feeling morally superior to smarmy salesmen? I doubt it.

 Below you will find the essay that launched this illustrious non-career of mine. I made a few minor changes, and I need to make some major ones to align this essay more accurately with my current philosophy. The “augmented human” stuff needs to go. I’ve spit out the cult of technology’s Kool-Aid. But for now I am letting these inconsistencies stand. Take them with a grain of salt. I stand by the majority of this essay and don’t believe I could express my philosophy any better than this if I started from scratch.

My only true regret is that I can’t re-release this Scroll in Disney Digital 3D.

~*~*~

THE EVOLUTION OF THE CYBERNETIC WEREWOLF

In the beginning, we were animals.

I’m not talking about primordial soup or the possibility that you once looked like an orangutan. I don’t really care all that much about where we originated. I’m talking about the simple, undeniable fact that we are mammals. I am made of the same basic matter as my dog. We both have two eyes, two ears, and a nose. We both have two lungs, two kidneys, and a heart. We are both the result of one sperm finding its way inside one egg, and the successful implantation of that combination into a uterine wall. We both entered the world through a portal in our mother’s frame, and we were both nourished for many more months on our mother’s milk.

Well, actually I was a child of the 80s so I’m pretty sure I was always bottle fed, but that’s kind of my point…

At some point in our history, we began to separate ourselves from the animal kingdom. This was probably around the time that we developed thumbs and the wolves we ran with did not. With our new found super power we learned how to start fires. We learned how to make tools. We learned how to plant and harvest vegetation. We learned how to tend flocks of herbivorous animals. We learned how to domesticate wolves and train them to serve our purposes.

We were still the same as these creatures at the core of our bodily existence. We still needed the same water, food, sunlight, and sex. We still fought aggressively over territories and lived in familial tribes as they did. We still killed over mates as they did. The emotions and struggles we consider so unique in ourselves today all have their roots in the primal past we share with the rest of earth’s creatures.

It was writing that changed everything. Other animals could make rudimentary tools, but we alone could write down instructions on how to use those tools. Our sense of superiority became etched in our brains like our precious words on our stone tablets. We were special. We could do something that no other being on earth could do. We no longer had to admit kinship with the creatures we had long since made subservient to us.

Of course, we were still subject to our animal instincts and impulses, and this greatly hindered our ability to deny our true natures. So we took our newfound communication skill and we wrote down rules. We placed parameters around our behavior that would set us apart from the base creatures around us. We used creative stories to enforce these parameters, and we passed those stories down in elaborate books to keep future generations acting within the confines of acceptable “human” behavior.

Convinced of our superiority, we began to take over the earth. We’ve never given up on that task. Backed up by those old stories that proclaimed our dominance over animals, we do what we please with animals and their habitats. We have the ability to scratch symbols on surfaces! Of course, we have the right to rule the world! Of course, our pursuit of wealth and comfort matters more than their right to live, eat, breed, and die naturally. They don’t have thumbs. Meaningless beasts! Our quest for world domination continues…

This is, of course, a bare bones account of our social evolution. I am no anthropologist, but I’m not trying to write a scientific paper here. I’m trying to make a simple point, and here it finally is: A human being is nothing more than an augmented animal.

We can deny this until we’re blue in the face, but it will never make that statement false. We will always be mammals. Unless Aldous Huxley’s terrifying vision of the “Brave New World” comes true, we will always enter this world through the earthy process of sex and birth. We will always have two eyes, two ears, and a nose. Two lungs, two kidneys, and a heart. We will always be animals underneath our industrial augmentations.

Humanity has been ensconced in a Dark Age for centuries. We have been stripped of our connection with the earth and our fellow creatures in the name of progress and profit. We’ve been told the ground we walk on and the trees we climb and the creatures we befriend are only here for our personal gain. From kindergarten on, we are taught that we must spend at least 8 hours a day indoors. We must sit down and stand up to the sound of the whistle or the bell. We must be content with two weeks of freedom a year to explore the far reaches of our world. We must not ask for an afternoon off to frolic with a canine companion in a field. We must not ask for a morning off to make love to our mate. We must not ask for a three-day weekend to experience the sensual pleasures of music, marijuana, and mud between our toes.

Sit down. Shut up. Get to work. This is what it means to be human in the modern world.

I know that the phrase “augmented humanity” strikes fear and trepidation in the hearts of many, but why cling so fiercely to the current form of humanity which is barely human at all? We do not have to worry that technology will turn us into robots because we have already been turned into robots! Even the word zombie has too much life in it to truly describe our current state. We all feel it in our bones – in our wild, animal bones – that something is amiss, that something’s got to give. We were not meant to live like this. We screwed ourselves over in the name of our own superiority. Well…

Do not be afraid! I bring you good news!

We’ve evolved in a circle.

An augmented animal is a human.

An augmented human is an animal.

An augmented human doesn’t permanently bend their spine over a desk. An augmented human doesn’t fry their eyes entering endless streams of data into an outdated computer with a poor resolution screen. An augmented human doesn’t answer to anyone in the name of something as meaningless as a paycheck. An augmented human doesn’t ask for permission to experience all the world has too offer.

An augmented human is just a human who has turned back into an animal. It’s just a person who has reverted back to a state of natural freedom.

There is a reason your heart stirs when you see a mustang herd in full flight across the plains of Nevada. There is a reason your breath disappears in the presence of a bear. There is a reason you pause on the sidewalk to watch a hawk soar past. There is a reason the world makes sense when you stare into the eyes of a caged tiger and know your plights are one. There is a reason the howling of a wolf compels you to throw back your head and echo his call.

You are one of them. You always were. You always will be. No government, no corporation, no religion can take that away from you. You were meant to be free.

Embrace your animal roots. Dig your toes in the mud. Feel the soft grass tickle your bare back. Relish the movement of your hair in the breeze. Take a nap in the sun. Run for the sheer pleasure of running, not for exercise or to get somewhere. Just be.

Embrace your human nature. Create. Build. Sing. Write. Draw. Paint. Photograph. Design. Nurture. Give. Play. Think. Wonder. Love. Revolt!

The old world is teetering on the edge of a cliff. It pushed itself to the limits the earth can take, and it went too far. It’s going to fall under it’s own weight. It’s time for it to go.

So give it a fucking shove, will you?

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 2 Comments »

Sometimes I forget the Internet exists.

Not very often. But occasionally it does occur.

I forget to moderate blog comments. I forget to leave comments on other blogs. (Because I’ve forgotten to read other blogs.) I forget to share revolutionary sentiments on Tumblr. I forget to pin stupid cat memes on Pinterest. I forget to tweet to remind you all that I still exist. I forget to peruse Facebook to find out what people I’m related to are having for dinner. I forgot to open my laptop at all.

Some people call this a digital sabbatical. I call it a life.

I’ve never successfully planned a break from the Internet. I’ve never decided to unplug for X amount of days and actually followed through. When I purposefully deny myself the Internet, its absence becomes all I can think about. The forbidden fruit effect. If I can’t have it, I have to have it. Now. I will be grumpy until I get it. So I don’t bother.

Because I’ve found that eventually something better always comes along. I don’t have to unplug. I can leave my laptop charging on my desk. I can leave my phone in my pocket. And I can go hours without looking at them or even feeling the impulse to look at them. I’m just too busy doing something better.

The past week has been one of these times. I’ve just had better things to do than be online. I listened to the audio book of John Greene’s The Fault in Our Stars last Friday on my way to Corpus Christi. I had delicious pizza from Grimaldi’s with my not-in-laws. We met our friend Kate in Austin for Torchy’s Tacos and then we met her perfect Aussie puppy Scout. I brought Alex and Zam home. We cleaned the house. (Her much, much more than me.) We picked out paint colors and bought my office paint first because Alex doesn’t like my intense writing energy clogging up the rest of the house. We bought groceries. We bought a shelf for the bathroom and I put it together. We burnt two batches of cookies. We watched The Ides of March. We were one of only two couples at the 9:55 Thursday night showing of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, and we regret not knowing how to strike up a conversation with that other couple because they seemed like the sort of people we could be friends with. I finished reading The Night Circus. I went to classes. We tried new restaurants. We watched the robins and bunnies that play in our backyard, oblivious to the fact that it is still very much winter. And tomorrow, we’ll go to my parents’ house to get Alice and the three cats.

As you can see, I’ve just been too busy being alive to be overly concerned with what’s happening in the Web.

Forgive me if I sound pretentious, but I tend to think this is the only sort of “digital sabbatical” that really counts. If you’re plugged in tighter than a modem in 1995 and have to schedule time to not be online, then it might be a little too late. You might have already let too much life pass you by. Where are the friends asking you out for tacos? Where is the dog who wants to play catch? Where is the lover who wants you to come to bed now? Where are the books you haven’t read? The movies you haven’t been to? The parks you haven’t explored? The country roads you haven’t gotten lost on? The stars you haven’t noticed?

Forgetting the Internet exists isn’t as hard as we make it out to be. It’s actually very easy. It’s just a matter of getting up and doing something interesting. You don’t have to set aside a whole week for it. You can do it right now. Start reading The Night Circus. Start reading The Fault in Our Stars. Go see Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close with someone you love. Trust me, you’ll forget the Internet exists in no time. Adopt a puppy like our friend Kate. She’s barely been on Pinterest at all since she got that dog!

Wait. I have to be honest. I didn’t really forget the Internet existed. That was just a hook to get you to read this Scroll. I checked my Twitter in the last week. I even checked my Facebook. But I never found anything as interesting as what was happening right in front of me. So I put my phone back in my pocket and went back to living my life.

See, the thing is you don’t have to forget the Internet exists. At this point in time, living in a first-world country, forgetting the Internet exists would be like forgetting the Sun shines. It’s everywhere. Even when I went to the theater, I was still technically using the Internet because the film was probably being digitally streamed from somewhere in L.A. I used the Internet to find a restaurant that served fresh, U.S.-raised catfish for Alex’s dinner last night. I used the Internet to e-mail an assignment to a professor.

The Internet is part of my life now. I dip my toes in it a dozen times a day in a dozen different ways. Sometimes I’m using the Internet and I don’t even realize it. I breathe oxygen, trees breathe carbon dioxide, and machines breathe the Internet. It’s just what we do. There’s no real escape. So it’s a bit silly, really, when we announce our plans to unplug for a week because we’re plugged in everywhere we go whether we like it or not. And it’s only going to get worse/better (depending on your opinion).

Do I seem to be contradicting myself here? I hope so. That’s often the best way to make a point.

I never forgot that the Internet exists. I just forgot to think the Internet is so special that I need to devote special time to it. I forgot to think that my career would be over if I didn’t tweet X amount of times this week. I forgot to worry that my readers would all disappear if I didn’t post this week. I forgot to worry that my online friends would think I hate them because I didn’t have time to read their blogs this week.

No, I never forgot that the Internet exists. I just remembered that it doesn’t actually need me.

So I did better things with peoples (and pets) who actually do.

If you find yourself thinking you need to unplug for a week or two, you might want to look deeper for the cause of your discontent. If you have nothing interesting enough in your life to pull you away from the Internet on a regular basis, is that really the Internet’s fault? Or are you just not paying attention to the possibilities life presents you with every day?

But don’t despair! I don’t mean to insult your life. Quite the opposite! I mean to point out that there are probably a hundred more interesting things to do right outside your window right now than you will ever find in The Cloud. You don’t have to set aside a week to unplug and enjoy them. You can close your laptop, go for a walk, discover a new cafe, try a new dish, meet a new friend, and write a nice little blog post about all of it before bed.

It doesn’t have to be either/or. You don’t have to spend fifty weeks a year with your head in the Cloud and only come out two weeks every year to breathe. That’s just stupid. Seriously. That’s stupid. And that’s kind of what a “digital sabbatical” implies: That it’s fine to spend the majority of your life staring at the screen as long as you take two weeks off per year. How is that any different from the idea that it’s fine to spend fifty weeks a year pushing paper for someone else as long as they give you two weeks paid vacation per year? It’s all the same bullshit in the end whether you work for yourself or The Man. You’re still forgetting to live on a daily basis and pretending it’s okay as long as you devote two whole weeks a year to just being alive.

Call me crazy, but I’ve come to prefer being alive every day. And in my time and in my country, the Internet is part of being alive. One tiny part of being alive. A part that is very easy to lose among all the other millions of parts of being alive. I let it get lost this past week because I had better things to do. But I know where to find it when I need it. Like right now when I wanted to share these thoughts with you. I think being able to do this is a great part of being alive. So I’m doing it.

But now I’m craving a midnight snack. And that suddenly seems like a much better thing to do than this. So I’m not going to do it anymore.

See how easy that is?

Let’s stop acting like it’s so fucking hard, okay? It just makes everyone look silly.

~*~

You can casually follow me on Twitter, Google +, or Facebook. Or you can not do that if you have better things to do now. I’ll be here when you get back.

Filed under: Scrolls by chase 16 Comments »