Quitting the paint factory (2004)
"The alarm rings and we’re off, running so hard that by the time we stop we’re too tired to do much of anything except nod in front of the TV, which, like virtually all the other voices in our culture, endorses our exhaustion, fetishizes and romanticizes it and, by daily adding its little trowelful of lies and omissions, helps cement the conviction that not only is this how our three score and ten must be spent but that the transaction is both noble and necessary."
Al verlos así, circulando en serie y fingiéndose distraídos mientras se pasean con dos libros reglamentarios bajo el brazo (Kerouac y Bukowski), uno se pregunta: ¿Y de dónde salieron tantos?
Twopcharts’s data show that Twitter accounts created in more recent years are less active than the ones started by early adopters from 2006-2011.
It’s hard, now, to be with someone else wholly, uninterruptedly, and it’s hard to be truly alone. The fine art of doing nothing in particular, also known as thinking, or musing, or introspection, or simply moments of being, was part of what happened when you walked from here to there alone, or stared out the train window, or contemplated the road, but the new technologies have flooded those open spaces. Space for free thought is routinely regarded as a void, and filled up with sounds and distractions.
The opposite of loneliness by Marina Keegan
Posthumous publication. She was 22.
I blame the Internet. Its inconsiderate inclusion of everything. Success is transparent and accessible, hanging down where it can tease but not touch us. We talk into these scratchy microphones and take extra photographs but I still feel like there are just SO MANY PEOPLE. Every day, 1,035.6 books are published; 66 million people update their status each morning. At night, aimlessly scrolling, I remind myself of elementary school murals. One person can make a difference! But the people asking me what I want to be when I grow up don’t want me to make a poster anymore. They want me to fill out forms and hand them rectangular cards that say HELLO THIS IS WHAT I DO.
Today I’m getting a haircut. A real one, not a trim. I’m sick of my hair.
I don’t know if I should though. I fished out pictures of old haircuts I liked. When I used my hair shorter, messier but with certain control and certain texture. That was probably five years ago.
These days I feel older.
20 years ago I was 21. What does that mean?
It means that I used Unix and I had to use the command line to retrieve my mail.
It was the year I saw a website for the first time. My first search term was “Nirvana”.
It was the year I found out about the Riot Grrrls.
It was the year I had my first internet friend. A friendship that spanned almost 12 years.
I’ve always been afraid to “turn” older from one day to another. To go to sleep and wake up and find that my face has wrinkles, that it has changed its shape. That something hurts and it will hurt forever - a bone, a muscle, a joint - and that no amount of alternative medicine will aleviate it.
Example, the cyst on my left wrist. I’ve been to the Dr. three times in the past year to remove it and it keeps coming back. It hinders me from doing floorwork when I workout. No downward dog for me, no push ups, no tricep dips. I look at foam rollers instead, to help me with back pain.
Yet, I work out. I kill it on the rebounder. I like my arms. I will not be weak.
Today, I’m thinking about chopping my hair as a ceremony of acceptance. I don’t want to spend time on my hair. I don’t want to use shampoo, conditioner, heat-protecting oil, straightening spray and iron. I’m done.
It’s unruly, it will probably grow back with a vengance, to make me look exactly like the crazy forty-something I sometimes am.