S & M With Facebook And Twitter

I'm too involved with social media this summer. I'm not enjoying myself as could and days are running away while I scroll through Twitter. I gave up NPR because I couldn't avoid the incessant reporting of the orange maggot, but I haven't held social media to that same standard. Instead, I'm engaging in low discourse, staying angry, and dividing myself from others. I pick at the scab til it bleeds despite good advice to the contrary. 

Photographer Chris Murray wrote the following (on Facebook):

Life often favors and rewards the brash and outspoken. When I was a geologist and started my first job (with a large corporation that shall remain nameless) I was told that being quiet and reserved wouldn’t cut it if I wanted to move up the ladder, that quality of work alone wasn’t enough. It would seem that applies to the art world as well. Rampant self-promotion and the production of trendy 500px.com style imagery is the rule for many, and it gets noticed because it often showcases outstanding natural phenomena unfolding in beautiful locations. In this age of social media and competition the quest for popularity is a goal of many. A recent issue of Shutterbug magazine trumpeted the goal of amassing a huge number of followers on Instagram. Likes and followers are not rewards worth attaining. Produce honest, quality work that is a true reflection of you as an individual and the rewards will be far greater. (emphasis mine)

The quest for popularity reminds me of high school when popularity was beyond me. I lacked the looks, likability, understanding of the rules, and daring. I abandoned that quest. Instead, I created myself as I hoped would be for the best. I got into semi-obscure music, read books, made friends that fit and challenged me, and found my way. It hasn't lead to fame or fortune, but I've found happiness and a sense of the world more in line with Chris Murray than Kylie Jenners. Thank God. 

If that wasn't convincing enough, Jaron Lanier has written Ten Arguments For Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now. It is convincing. 

I also notice that the friends I most respect use social media sparingly if at all while the friends about whom I have more doubt are on social media all the damn time. I don't like thinking about where I've been on that spectrum. 

All that and I'm not writing. 

This blog is the first I've ever paid to host and promoted with a newsletter. It's an investment in my writing. I often promote the blog on Facebook and Twitter to "drive traffic," but it doesn't do much. Still, I stick with social media believing I have to despite the lack of results. Even I hear the insanity in that. Social media doesn't grow my audience but I'm on social media to grow my audience. Ridiculous.

I also stay on social media out of fear and obligation. I fear disconnecting, missing something, living without the feed even though it mostly makes me mean. 

All of which points to the obvious solution as said so often on Twitter: Delete your account. 

I'm getting closer to that, but for now I'll try abstinence. I won't go on social media today except to winnow the list of people I follow and friend. Yet, even as I say that, I'm drawn to the feed. The habit, the addiction is strong. All the more reason. 

For now, this is goodbye to social media. Please forgive me if I unfollow or unfriend you. It's not you, it's not me, it's social media and I'm sick of the S & M of it all. 

I'm glad you read this and would love to hear from you. Drop me a line at brianfay at gmail. Nothing will go viral, but we'll at least connect. 

The Tumbling Tumbleweeds

Returned last night from four days' vacation in Chicago, got some sleep, and this morning have embarked on a struggle against pet hair. That our cats missed us is evident in their doting, rubbing, the asking for attention. My daughter brushed enough hair our of each small cat to build a Tribble. The dog, though she got plenty of attention at Mom's house, is nonetheless thrilled to see us and loses more hair when excited. Perhaps in a reference to The Windy City, strong breezes are blowing here in Syracuse rolling pet-hair tumbleweeds through the house. The sight has put me in the mood to clean. 

I've swept the kitchen, first-floor hall, and dining and living rooms. I've swept the upstairs hall and each wooden tread of the stairs. I've vacuumed the den. I even picked up each kitchen chair to clean the accumulated hair on each felt bottom. It felt good to have cleaned the house of pet hair. I scratched "sweep and vacuum" from my to-do list and smiled. 

Then a pet-hair tumbleweed blew across the floor. 

Harry Chapin sang, "it's got to be the going, not the getting there, that's good." I'm pretty sure the only ending in life is death, something toward which I'm in no hurry. Oh, and even if I wanted to, the rest of the family would get rid of me if I got rid of the pets. 

I can sweep, vacuum, but the pet hair will still tumble across our floors. Just now another clump blew up against the refrigerator. Still, I feel good having cleaned a bit. The dog is lying here beside me. The day is cool and breezy. I'm home after a good trip and I'm enjoying this hairy ride, drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds. 

Was Electricity Inevitable?

Was it inevitable that I would cook toast by electricity. Power the stereo. Read at night by electric light. I don't know anyone who could answer this. Don't have books in which to search the answer. Maybe no one has ever asked this. I'm on my own. So I assume that it was inevitable. That if we go back far enough. Before electricity. We could see everything leading to it. With all the benefits of hindsight we could see the indicators and know our future as a matter of course. Knowing this in our own time, we could see clues and understand where our lines will next intersect. Know the future. Not every single moment, but we would know how we might live. Mostly, I think we would know how we will die. Bummer. I turn out the light, power down the stereo, and let the red coils of the toaster fade to black. The night is come. I'm tired of day and these questions. Let's dream. I stumble upstairs to bed. The cat hisses at my toes under the covers not knowing what they are but furious for just a moment to have her peace disturbed. In the darkness I wait for her claws, wondering how things will ever work out. 

So Much For The Wide Open Spaces

My daughter asked why I moved my shampoo to the shower stall floor off of the shelves in there. I lied: it's easier for me to grab down there. It's really that there's no room left on the shelves between my daughters' and wife's bath products. This would be tough for me if I had hair, but I shave it off once a week and can make do bar of soap across my skull. I only use the shampoo my older daughter decided she doesn't like for herself. She asked if I wanted to use it up and now I smell just like a flower, which has long been my dream. 

It was nice of her to ask about the shampoo bottle.

There's a bathroom cupboard in which I keep extra soap, baby powder, and a stick of deodorant. It is one third of one shelf, and I guard it as though against a horde of invaders. I keep finding cotton balls, face cleaning rounds, maxi-pads, and cotton swabs in my space and pushing them back or moving them to other shelves. Can I just have one section of shelf? I plead. The girls are willing to accommodate me. It's just that they need a bit more room. 

Years ago this happened in the basement, our house's main entry point. I put up a coat rack for my sweatshirt, heavy coat, and rain coat. Soon there were snowpants and children's coats hanging from that rack as well as dozens of shoes littered below. I installed another rack, but was out of that within the month. I put a rack inside the door of my basement office, a space forbidden to them for anything beyond a visit. I've hung onto that space. It's good to have a home in which to hang a coat if not a hat. 

I sound like I'm complaining. Mostly, it makes me smile. Sharing the house is a wonder I know I will miss too much when my daughters move out for college and adult life. I'll hurt with missing them. I will have all the room in the basement that I could ever want and wish I had none. I'll have shelves in the bathroom with nothing to put there. 

I can see all that empty space and I'm in no rush to have it. 

This wasn't the case ten years ago. Then I failed to understand that sharing space is better than inhabiting it. I felt pushed and shoved aside when in fact I was becoming more important and loved. Things like this I'm slow to realize. 

Both girls have gone to their rooms to bed. The older one has the dog, the younger leaves her door cracked open for the cat. My wife lies beside me playing a game on her phone. Outside, the rain falls in the most meditative of sounds and Pat Metheny plays solo guitar softly on the speaker. I just heard one girl come out to use the bathroom. 

I so hope she will come crawl into bed between us, pushing me over so I'm precariously balanced on the edge only able to stay in bed by holding on tight to her with all my love.