As usual these days, my attention is completely frayed. Every interesting thing I find online that can be distilled into a URL gets thrown into Pocket, everything else into a note in some capacity in my notes app du jour. Surprisingly, I have begun to make some progress in getting through what’s there, although I must confess that a good chunk of that is the filtration of later: Deletion either because I haven’t read it yet and therefore probably never will or it was of temporal relevance and that temporal relevance has faded enough. Sometimes I saved links to share later on whatever social network, intending to write a blurb of introduction that will make you care, this grandiose idea that I am some latent maker-of-giving-shits, but really you just won’t be inconvenienced by being pulled away from your feed (and that is the feed’s design, like how AOL1 angled to be your curated world-ish wide web instead of a phone number that opened the gate2). That is, if you are even at all interested in what I happen to think is interesting, which you probably aren’t because why would you be? I shouldn’t care.
With the end of the year approaching and at some point after that, a presumable end to the pandemic in the form of various revolutionary mRNA-based vaccines, I am suddenly filled with the urge to make some progress on items of personal worth even if no one else will ever know. It’s no one else knowing that actually makes me feel better; I used to not care so firmly, the very idea of external acknowledgement of any accomplishment feels antithetical to real content. I’m stuck in some weird place between not caring at all and caring about everything. It’s weird and awkward and I don’t like it but I think I’m starting to shed it.
My attention is definitely frayed though because I had some idea of what point I was trying to make with this and not only have I not made it but I don’t even remember what it was.
- You might not get that. The elder Millenials know “250 free hours!” is a free coaster in your first apartment and don’t know the difference between a squirtle and skrillex. (Just kidding, we do, sorta, but we won’t admit it because it conflicts with the cool ennui we grabbed from our slightly older, firmly-Generation X friends and lovers.)
- Mixed metaphors are the chimeras of prose!