Origins Post

Blink, blink.

Good morning, screen-shine.

Click, click -

"Pick me!"

"Pick me!"

"Pick me!"

The social media reel is screaming. My neurons have yet to realize they're uncaffeinated.

Scroll, scroll...

"The New Global Diet - And You'll Be Forced to Eat it!"

"What Does AI Think of Star Trek's Data?"

"Why Psychology Damages You As A Person"

"How Not To Dress Old"

"If Crime Was Punished With Spankings"

"The Day of the Lord"

"An URGENT Message For Gen Z"

"Philippines Earthquake LIVE"

"New nonstop flight added..."

"...Girl raises money for stem cell treatment"

"Barktoberfest"

"One man shot and killed, one person detained..."

"Weather forecast..."

"Apostate Churches..."

"Satan Teaches Everything On Masterclass"

I put down my phone.

Does it matter whether I know how big is Finland's army - I ask myself, after also hearing this in the news.

My thumbs hurt. I think I scroll too much. I didn't even open myself to the hyper-link. I just read the headlines and my neurons are in a scramble.

Was childhood simpler? Or was it just that we didn't get so many choices? There were three to five channels on the teevee, no podcasts to choose from, no social media to divert attention, and, while we had some world-wide news, it wasn't yet 24/7 in an incessant stream. The news fit neatly into hour segments, once in the morning, around noon, and again at 5pm and 10pm. That was more than enough and often repetitive.

As a child, my parents largely curated my experiences and attainable knowledge and quietly ushered the rest out-of-view: An underrated gift.

Algorithm, Algorithm,

Make Me A Match,

Find Me A Find,

Catch Me A Catch...

I recently read Neil Postman's "Amusing Ourselves To Death". His projections from 1985 read like a rattle of skeletons in a closet that keep popping out to remind us of their relevance. Try as we may, we can't stuff his words back inside of their webbed womb: They are a spirited bunch, and, we can't help but notice, everything has gone the way of entertainment.

Am I entertained or just addicted?

Worse yet to consider, what will I even remember two hours or two minutes from now? Seven seconds ago the world was ending - with photographs to prove it. Two scrolls and a targeted ad later, my attention is diverted elsewhere - to a laugh, an eye-roll, or maybe just my own self-improvement.

Well, someone's world is/was ending, but my existence goes on much as before... except now I, like Atlas, feel the weight of the world as I try to go on.

The algorithm gives us a constant deluge of interests at the pace of rapid-fire, leaving us distracted, torn, anxious, and at odds with ourselves over what is worth knowing, remembering, or acting upon. Those with no identity at all, or so small an obscure space as to be sore about it, claim and act upon it all as their daily bread ration.

It's time to stop following the algorithms.

When I clear away the encrusted goo of it all, I wake up to find that I am part curator in my own life. And if I don't become a connoisseur of my own focus, purpose, identity, and action, something or someone else will usurp my attention (and emotion) and use it against me.

And it was simply with these things in mind - the desire for a curated existence - that this blog was born.