One Final Visit Into The Past In Search Of Something I Had Forgotten

 I suppose it is not unnatural to revisit a place from your past with a certain expectation of rediscovering something you’ve forgotten. Life is a series of stages in which we are forced to abandon things that were once quite important to us. And being important to us, we are prone to search for them even though we no longer know exactly what it is we search for.

 I entered my alma mater last weekend with such an expectation, for the final time. The small Catholic liberal arts college I once attended has closed its doors and is in the process of selling off its assets. It’s sad to see such an institution go under, symbolizing as it does so many cultural values that no longer fit the times. It was understandable that such a place could no longer make it in such an age in which we now live. I had seen glimpses of its demise in its advertisements the last few years: it was attempting to adapt itself to a society that no longer prioritized a liberal education but instead demanded training for well-paying jobs. In fact, I have the suspicion that in the end it abandoned its soul in attempting to survive in a world that no longer has interest in liberal education, the arts, or anything deeply rooted in culture and Christianity. I have heard whispers that in its last years it failed quite spectacularly at sustaining both its moral and physical being.

 I chanced upon someone on Facebook showing sculptures they had bought at the liquidation sale and realized I had only a few hours left to return one final time to the place where I received my education. I hoped to find something there, some relic of my past, some souvenir I could possess of a place I would never again be able to visit. Some wreckage I might reclaim from the shipwreck.

 Updates had been done to the building in the 20-plus years since I’d been there, but it still bore the impress of its origins. Not the kind of antiquity that is timeless, but a building built in 1960 that sought to be modern but instantly became dated. Nevertheless, it was able to impart to me the true meaning of conservatism, the idea that knowledge of the past and ways of doing things should be maintained, that progress was not simply the paving over of what had come before.

 My first stop was to the library, where I was reminded of the true meaning of liberalism: the belief that all cultures were worthy of study and all opinions be greeted with an open mind if one hoped to grow as a person. I cannot help but think the word liberal has come to mean its very opposite these days, that open and vigorous debate was not as important as having the proper opinion.

 There are two great tragedies in life: a vast collection being sold off and a library being abandoned. But I was here to salvage what I could of the wreckage, to take into my care some refugees no longer welcome in their own home. I would take whatever books I had room for, whichever ones called to me and which I could best care for.

 It was the library of a Catholic liberal arts school. The books were mostly old, but they provided a breadth of learning that seems lacking today. Yes, there were many books dealing with Western civilization and Catholic teaching, like Kenneth Clark’s Civilization and a book by Thomas Merton. Treasures in their own right and the first to be added to my pile. But I also picked up a copy of the Upanishads, a book on Gandhi, and even a biography of the theosophist Madame Blavatsky. Whatever the beliefs of this Catholic institution run by Franciscan Sisters, they were unafraid of having their beliefs tested. Indeed, they seemed to think their beliefs nothing more than that if they were not.

 I left the library with as many books as I could cradle. I’m really in no position to be bringing any more books into my house, but some you just can’t refuse. After paying for them and dropping them off in my car, I returned to make a final sweep of the school, ostensibly to find a piece of furniture for an area of the house my wife is converting, though in truth it was to find that something I had left behind in my past. That something that had been missing, some proof that the past never dies, that what is important endures.

 I was like that on the day we sold our parent’s house. In a rush we had cleared out all their belongings so that now the house stood empty. And yet I needed to make a final, thorough inspection of the house. Because I needed to find that special something that would enlighten me, that magical talisman that would provide meaning to my lived experience. I never found it.

 So it was with some vague expectation that I walked from room to room. I scanned every table and shelf, expecting some item to call to me, expecting some almost supernatural connection to be made. But in room after room I only came across ordinary items. And just as I had done at my parents’ home, the further I went the more insistent I was to probe every nook and cranny in search of the missing piece.

 I never found it.

 And it was with the same sense of disappointment and loss and even disillusionment I had felt when leaving my parents’ home that I left Silver Lake College one final time. I left with a handful of books and a couple of other items. Common items, not magical talismans.

 How was it possible I could not reconnect with my past, with my former self? On a very deep level I felt it was not only possible but necessary that I do so.

 But the answers find us eventually, though not always when we demand them. My trip to Silver Lake college, like my final visit to my parents’ house, was not the time for reconnecting with the past but a time for saying goodbye. And that important something I had left in my past? Turns out I never left it at all. My time at Silver Lake College has had an important part in shaping who I am. The instruction I received and the work I undertook has been with me ever since the time I received my diploma. I would never have been so foolish to have left it behind.

 We are often forced to leave much of what we once were behind. Sometimes we would rather not but we have no choice. But no matter how far forward we travel and how great a distance we put behind ourselves and the people and places we once knew, we have to trust that we are carrying along the best of what we were able to take with us.

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Who Gave Corporations Control?

  Why should we recognize the rights of corporations? From whence comes their authority? Who bequeathed them their rights? The U.S. Constitution? There is no mention of corporations in that document.

Why should corporations own houses that go empty while people sleep under bridges? Why do they have access to our politicians when the pleas of their constituents fall on deaf ears? Why do we permit them to write our laws? Why do we fight their wars?

And who was it that decided corporations should be in charge of our water? I thought it would be obvious once they decided the best means of delivering water would be through single use plastic containers trucked in from hundreds of miles away that people would realize how stupid and evil this was, but we all just went along with it. Who told us that was a good idea?

I suppose it was the media, almost all of which is owned by corporations, 90% of which is owned by just 6 gigantic corporations. But who allowed that to happen?

It was our crooked politicians, all of whom rely on corporate funding to win elections. Democrats and Republicans alike are working for the same corporate interests. Where is the politician who will take the side of people over corporations? The system the corporations fund will never permit them to be elected.

Who gave corporations the power to control not only our means of production but our environment, our media, and our government? We the people didn’t give it to them. They never asked permission. They just took it.

But who’s allowing them continued ownership of nature, government, the machinery of production, and the influencing of our minds?

Who gave them our forests and gave them tax breaks on the purchase of chainsaws?

Who gave them our rivers and lakes to use as receptacles for their poisonous waste?

Who gave them our oceans to exploit and abuse every creature that lives within them?

Who gave them our genes to play with and the genes of our plants to patent?

You did.

You did, every time you willingly bought what they were selling you.

You did, when you voted for THEIR candidates.

You did, every time you turned on THEIR media and allowed them to dump THEIR lies into YOUR mind.

You did, every time you said “It’s just more convenient.”

You did, every time you refused to speak up or fight back.

You did, every time you bought your Made In China flag to show your Made In Madison Ave. patriotism.

And who is EVER going to make this right?

You will.

Not the politicians who owe their positions to corporate backing.

Not benevolent CEO’s or visionary billionaires.

Bill Gates won’t do it. He’ll just spray the sky to darken the sun.

Elon Musk won’t do it. He’ll just blast a car into outer space.

Technology won’t make this right.

Incremental progress won’t get us there.

The invisible hand of the market won’t be our savior.

No.

Who then will make things right?

You will.

You can.

You must.

We will.

We must.

We shall.

P.S. F*ck Jeff Bezos.

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How Do You See This Apple?

 

Here is an apple. Nothing much to argue about in that statement, but I’m willing to bet people will be able to disagree on anything. Some may see it as the downfall of Adam and Eve and call me the devil for posting a picture of it. Others will name what variety of apple it is (it’s a Snow Sweet) and what recipes it would best be used in (I used it in an apple cobbler).

 Even with something as simple as an apple, no two people see it exactly the same. But let me point out one striking difference in the way we can view it—or view anything, really: we can either view it through a materialist or spiritual lens.

 If we choose to see this modest little apple through a spiritual lens, what we see is a gift from either our earth mother or sky father. Perhaps we can even see it as the miraculous result of the two intermingling. From a spiritual perspective, it is a blessing bestowed upon us with love. And we can show gratitude by accepting it joyfully and by living in accordance with the laws he or she or both have set for us. We are called upon to live a sacred life, one full of miracles that we are able to observe even in such simple and abundant a thing as an apple.

 The alternative is to view it through a materialist lens. No miracles exist here, no sacred connection. There’s something to be said from viewing from this perspective. Freed from notions of deeming this little guy a miracle, we are free to improve upon it. We can make them easier to grow, maximize yield, fight any disease or infestation that might plague them. Potentially, we can employ a materialist approach to provide food for everyone and minimize the risks of famine. But in order to do that, we must drop the idea of sacredness, which limits both the upside and the downside of a materialist world-view.

 Through the market view of the world—ostensibly a materialist view but in fact a bit of a belief system in its own right--we view an apple as a commodity. It no longer has any sense of the sacred (nothing does in a free market),it is merely something to be bought or sold. It has no value beyond what it has in the market, no purpose other than to be consumed or transformed into wealth. Should it end up feeding some wild animal in nature, it will be deemed a loss and action will be taken to eliminate such loss in the future.

 While the producer of the apple has some connection with the miracle of its creation, it is not a reverent one. His goal is to maximize productionm heedless of the sacred source from which it springs. The ultimate cost to earth mother is not factored into his equation. And most of those who profit from the sale of this apple never see the apple nor the farm upon which it was grown.

 In order for the seller of the apple to maximize product, the apple is given added adjectives. It is no longer merely an apple but a “sweet”, “crisp”, apple, full of “nature’s finest”. Like a prostitute sold by her pimp, the apple is tarted up and given a sexy name. It is made to look more appealing, more perfect, more desirable through artificial means. It is waxed and sprayed and displayed to appeal to your eye.

 The apple you see in this picture is not that sort of apple. It is less than perfect. It has a slight blemish near the top that might make it unsuitable in a market. In a market environment sitting next to one of those tarted-up apples, you would be unlikely to choose it. Its inherent worth and healthiness requires more than a superficial glance.

 I bought this apple from someone who grows and picks apples. Though a financial transaction took place, there was a degree of the spiritual aspect maintained. When I consume this apple, I am aware of where it came from. I assure you I will eat it with a sense of the sacred, feel deeply that it is a gift from the earth mother and sky father. I eat it with an awareness that I quite simply cannot permit myself when I am eating an apple that has been sprayed and treated. It is much more than merely a product consumed in order to enhance my ability to work and succeed in the market place. It is more. I am more.

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Where Do You Fit In?

 

I think the biggest decision we all have to make in life, or end up making whether we realize it or not, is whether to become part of the machine or to become an individual. To become part of the machine means to allow the world to shape you to what it wants you to be, to be whatever cog it needs. In return, of course, the machine will take care of you because you are useful to it, and if you manage to become one of the bigger cogs in the machine, it will give you preferential treatment. But ultimately, even the biggest of cogs are using their energies not for their own purpose but for the purpose of the machine. The only reward is to the ego and a false sense of safety and belonging.

 The alternative is to shape yourself according to what you internally feel you are meant to be.

 It's never so simple as choosing one or the other. As much as we may strive to be individuals, sometimes the screeching of the machinery when we are not fitting in makes it almost impossible to hear one’s internal voice. We all begin life as young spirits dumped into an existing machine that automatically tries to assimilate us. It takes a lot of life experience before we realize what we’re dealing with. Some seem to be born independent and confident in the message their internal voice is telling them, but for most of us it’s a process.

 If I may use an imperfect metaphor, it’s like being a piece of a jigsaw puzzle and trying to figure out where you belong. If we try to fit in, we allow a childish hand to force us where we are not meant to be. We allow the concave and the convex and the sharp-edged parts of us to get distorted and smashed. When you choose to be a part of the machine, you do not find where you truly belong but end up where you think you should be, where someone tries to shove you. And we do this with the best intentions, believing that we are being helpful by being compliant. But ultimately, by doing so, we end up damaging the whole. Imagine looking at a puzzle where some pieces are wedged in where they don’t belong. Not only do the pieces not fit well, the entire image is off.

 The good news is those parts of us we have cut off or damaged are inclined to resuming their original shapes. Because this is an imperfect metaphor I am using and we are not just pieces of a puzzle. And that empty spot that we were meant to fill is always going to be there, waiting for us.

 When you are trying to be what others are telling you you should be, you lose the place you were meant to be. It’s tempting, often overpowering, and you will certainly find yourself in the wrong place from time to time. The important thing to remember is that when you’re in the right place, you won’t have to force it. The pieces next to you will be receptive and not demand that you change in order to accommodate their needs.

 Don’t be afraid to try yourself out wherever you feel you might belong. If you are listening to the voice inside, you will know what feels right. And you will learn to tell the difference between those who want you to be who you are and those who want you to be what they want. And when in doubt, take a step back and consider the overall picture. It should be beautiful.

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The Many Different Kind Of Maskers: What Your Mask Says About You

When people first started wearing masks in response to Covid-19, they all looked the same to me. But the longer it’s gone on, the more I notice there are many different kinds of mask wearers. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, but I can’t help thinking the way you wear your mask tells us a lot about you, too. Below are some of the many different types of mask-wearers I’ve encountered:

 The Noser: Apparently, the mask doesn’t make it all the way up to their nose. Or perhaps they are mouth breathers and aren’t aware that noses are used for breathing. I’m tempted to carry around a permanent marker and dot every exposed nose I see.

 The Chin Strapper: The number one way to stop the spread of a virus, according to them, is to cover up your chin. I believe they’ve had a life-long discomfort of airing their chins in public and have been looking for an excuse to don chinderwear.

 Hammockers: The mask is worn distanced from the face. In some cases, I have seen the straps attached to the glasses, allowing them to hang directly under their mouths. Apparently the theory is that Covid is very heavy and will fall from your mouth directly into the awaiting mask.

 Leaners: They wear a mask normally, but then they lean in when they want to tell you something and lower their mask to make sure you hear them.

 The Accessorizer: One who believes the purpose of the mask is not primarily to prevent the spread of a disease but to look good with whatever they’re wearing.

 The Neckbracer: Whatever it is they’re wearing as a mask makes them look like they’re waiting for the whiplash case to go to trial. This never even makes it as far as the chin, but merely sits around the neck.

 The NeckRomancer: Same as the Neckbracer but it is brought up over the nose. It reminds one of someone wearing a turtle neck to hide their hickies.

 Trick Or Treaters: Those who use a global pandemic as an excuse to dress in costume. Sometimes it’s just a giant smile that covers the mouth chin and nose, sometimes it covers the whole head like a ski mask.

 The Desperado: They’re rocking either the 19^th Century bank thief or the person in the 21^st Century that holds up a pharmacy to get their fentanyl fix look.

 The Patriot: They want to show how American they are by wearing faded or black and white flags on their buffs. They’ve lost their battle to not wear a mask, but they’re still representing their rebellious patriotism by disrespecting the flag.

 The Toucher: The guy who just can’t stop touching/adjusting his mask. In a matter of thirty seconds, you’ll see every part of his face that’s supposed to be covered, and he’ll touch every square inch of it with hands that like to touch everything else as much as his face.

 The Scrub Nurse: Looks like they’ve just stepped out of the E.R. after a grueling round of surgeries. The mask is in tatters, but damn if it’s not N95.

 Count Dracula: He forgot his mask and is self-conscious about it, so he’ll use his jacket to cover the lower part of his face while he talks to you.

 The Muzzled Dog: Acts as if they are being punished by being made to wear the mask and all joy has been sucked from their lives.

 The Hermit: The mask has made them hypersensitive to the risk of human contact, and it has made them unwilling to interact with anyone.

 The Streaker: This person has forgotten their mask and feels embarrassed.

 The Flasher: This person does not feel embarrassed that they don’t have their mask on.

 The Complainer: You can see them standing around in public places not wearing a mask talking to other people not wearing masks, saying how f-ed up it is that their aunt is sick in the hospital from Covid and isn’t allowed visitors. 

The Traveler And The Castle (An Allegorical Free Short Story)

  There was a traveler whose journeys caused him to walk the face of the earth. He had wandered many miles one day until he saw in the distance a mighty castle. Its walls were immense, its towers clawed at the sky. And as he approached it, a mist arose about him so that he felt there was some enchantment upon the castle. He wandered through the mist until he was so close to it that the castle again appeared to his sight. He stopped and stared at the impenetrable wall that stood on the other side of a moat, and when he heard a voice speak to him from the wall, he knew that the castle was indeed enchanted, for it was the wall itself that spoke

 “WE…are the Republicans,” cried the voice. “WE guard our mighty nation against outsiders. WE stand firm against any who would attack us. We keep safe all those who belong here. We maintain the traditions that allow our kingdom to endure.”

 “Indeed,” said the traveler. “I have never seen walls so impressive before, neither so deep nor so tall. And yet I notice that there are many who live outside your walls. Those who grow the food, those who build the roads that I have walked upon, those who tend to the animals, they all live outside of your mighty protection. A stranger such as myself might be led to believe that it is not the whole of the kingdom you protect but merely the royalty who live in luxury inside the castle, along with all the wealth that they have managed to hoard.”

 “If it were not for the royalty, there would be no kingdom,” said the wall. “And the wealth belongs to all. It just needs to be kept safe from those who would steal it, and from those who do not properly know how to manage it. But should we be attacked by other nations, we would allow the lesser folk to find sanctuary within us. We serve and love all who belong to our kingdom.”

 “Perhaps if the noblemen spent less on walls they might be able to better love the people who grow their food, make their clothes, tend their animals. And as for protecting those who live outside your wall in times of war, I’m inclined to believe that you send them out to fight those wars instead.”

The wall uttered indignant responses to the traveler, full of the weight and confidence one would expect from such a sturdy and immovable edifice. But the traveler was distracted by a light laughter like the sound of running water that slowly grew louder until it drowned out the pontifications of the wall.

 “Well said, traveler,” came a voice from below. “Unlike the wall, we do not fear those who come from afar but welcome them. We are well aware of what it is the wall protects, though it claims it stands for everyone.”

 The traveler looked down and saw that the voice seemed to come from the dancing waters that were in front of him.

 “And who might you be?” asked the traveler.

 “We are the Democrats,” said the ethereal voice, gaily, “and we are nothing like the Republicans.”

 “I can see that,” said the traveler. “You are the very opposite of a wall of stone. IT stands tall, while you modestly do not even quite rise to the height of the ground. IT is hard and imposing, while you are light and yielding and non-threatening.”

 “Yes,” said the laughing ripples, quite pleased with themselves, “nothing like Republicans at all.

 “And yet I cannot help but see that you serve the same purpose as they,” said the traveler. “You too circle the castle. You too protect those elite few on the inside rather than protecting the entirety of the kingdom. You too stand between the few and the many.”

 The waters roiled in displeasure, spilling over onto the traveler’s boots. But the traveler seemed not to notice, and continued:

 “And while at first glance there seems to be nothing threatening in your waters, if I look carefully I can see dangerous creatures swimming in your depths. Your purpose is not different than that of the Republicans, the only difference is that it is not so obvious.”

 The once-placid waters now became positively agitated, as though unseen creatures were swarming in menace below. The traveler waited, expecting a response. And soon a voice spoke, but it did not come from below him at his feet but rather from above.

 “What right do you have to speak such blasphemy?” said a voice full of authority and certainty.

 “I speak only of what I plainly see,” said the traveler. Looking up he beheld the source from which the voice came, the lofty towers that stood above him. “I mean no disrespect, but I am quite used to speaking frankly and see no reason why I should not do so now.”

 “Things are not always as they seem,” said the voice from above. “That is why we are here to explain the truth to those below, who have not the background to discern truth from lies.”

 “And who are you who can explain away what I can clearly see with my own eyes?”

 “We…,” said the voice, pausing for dramatic effect, “are the media. We sit above all so that we can report objectively the facts regardless of who it affects. Not only do we sit above the small lives of the ordinary people, our position gives us perspective you lack.”

 “And yet what I see is that those who claim to be supporting the people are clearly only protecting a few very privileged people. And not only are they only protecting the privileged few from outside attack, it seems like they are protecting them from the people themselves.”

 “You do not speak from wisdom. It is evident that you have been abroad and heard many strange stories from others who are hostile to our kingdom. Whether you know it or not, you are spreading dangerous ideas that will only hurt the people you say you care about. Leave it to us, the experts, to tell you how to see the truth. After all, we have a much better vantage point from up here. And we have direct access to those who rule this land, as well. We are in a position to see things as they are, not simply as they appear.”

 “That may be true,” said the traveler. “But how things appear is that you sit above others precisely because you see things in ways that benefit those who live within the castle. And you call out from your towers precisely the messages the royalty wants you to tell the people. And I suspect that should you cry out any but the official message of the royals, you would quickly be dragged from your lofty position and thrown outside the safety of the castle, and you would be replaced by someone who is willing to say exactly what the royalty wants them to say.”

 “Those are wicked words,” came the voice from tower. “It is clear that you have been traveling in strange lands and listening to the lies foreign leaders speak in order to weaken the trust of the people for their nobility, who only wish to do well for the people and the kingdom. It is best that you leave this land and never return.”

 “I am leaving now,” said the traveler. “But first I must tell you why I have come. I am here to tell you that from this day on the people outside your walls no longer have need of royalty or those who protect them and make their pronouncements. If you wish to speak to the people, you must come down from your towers to speak to them. And you must not merely speak to them but listen and respond to them as well. If you claim to protect the people, you must do more than defend the few who profit from their labor. Instead of forcing them to build walls and moats and towers, you must allow the people to build useful things for themselves. And you must give them time to do what they will. And you must cease your endless worrying pronouncements from your towers so that they have time to listen to their own thoughts.”

 “Begone, you spreader of lies!” and this time it was a chorus of voices coming from the towers, the moat, and the wall. The booming voice of the wall, which was once paternal, had now become threatening. The light and motherly voice of the waters was now shrill unto shrieking. And the academic voice that came from the tower, that before had sounded like a caring teacher, now spoke like a judge rendering a guilty verdict.

 “I have said my peace,” said the traveler. “I will go.”

 But the voices were not done. As he turned to go they shouted at his back. “We will never leave our castle,” they cried. “We are safe here. None can assail us. You are a fool!”

 At this, the traveler turned around.

 “Stay, then, in your castle. You will be safe there. The people will not attack you. The people are done with you. Keep your gold, which is worthless to the average person. Let it sit in your castle as it once sat in the tremendous tombs of the ancient leaders. It shall be reclaimed one day—just as the gold of the pharaohs was reclaimed—long after you and your kind have faded into history.”

 “The people need us!” cried the voices. “Other kingdoms will attack them and they will be destroyed without our protection.”

 “Yours is not the first kingdom I have visited,” said the traveler. “Other kingdoms will not attack the people of this one because the people of the other kingdoms no longer do the bidding of those who hide behind walls and moats and towers and send people to war. There is no longer need for castles, except as monuments to past ways.”

 The traveler turned again and the voices grew silent. It was an ominous silence, so complete that the traveler could hear the arrow whistling through the air before it pierced his back.

 It was a pointless act of violence, the traveler thought, for he had already spread his message throughout the kingdom before he came to warn those who lived within the castle. It was the last act of a desperate, dying mentality of hatred. As his consciousness faded from him the last thing he could hear was the deluded laughter and boasting of those who sat within their own tomb.

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A Weekend Without Internet

I left the house recently for a weekend cabin-in-the-woods getaway with the express purpose of leaving all connected devices behind.

 It almost didn’t happen. I found as many excuses to bring something with as Bilbo found for not leaving his ring behind. But in the end my inner Gandalf convinced me that it had gotten too great a hold of me. And so my wife and I headed north in my car that lacks even a CD player, relying on the spotty reception from small town radio for any kind of news from the outside world.

 Not that I had planned on leaving it ALL behind me, of course. It was my little experiment, not my wife’s, so she had her cell phone. And the cabin had advertised it had Netflix and Amazon Prime. What with a pandemic going on and deer season just starting, I knew our options for amusement would be limited. We’re not the kind of people to spend a day binge-watching, but with the woods and crowded areas both potentially lethal we had a good excuse for such an indulgence.

 When we arrived at our cabin, I went almost immediately to the television in order to acquaint myself with someone else’s setup. It’s never a simple task: I was faced with four remote controls, one containing 57 buttons, the second 35, the third 29, with the Roku remote mercifully having less than a dozen. Included with them was a list of instructions written by someone who was never going to be hired for a tech writing position. 

I spent an hour of my time—in a cabin, on a lake, in the woods—engaged in the very same stressful, tedious and yet oddly addictive behavior from which I had attempted to flee. And in the end, for whatever reason, I was unable to get an internet connection. Not that I didn’t try. I engaged hopefully—earnestly—in what can only be described as technological ritual. Even when I came to realize that the communion with the great other was not going to take place, I religiously performed the instructions, engaged in the holy rites which summon the spirits from their mysterious dwellings to appear before us and work their miracles. After all, belief is vital if we are to please the gods of technology enough to have them do our bidding.

 Fortunately, my wife was there to urge me to let go, my faithful Sam who was with me at the moment of my final temptation. And in the end, I was able to let it go. No longer desiring to harness the awesome might of a power beyond my reckoning, I had passed the test and remained Galad—I mean, James. 

But ridding oneself from a crutch means relearning to walk naturally again. I found myself in moments where I would ordinarily turn to some device for distraction, only to find there was no ring to gently caress. I had to relearn the art of talking with another human being. I had to relearn the art of listening to that inner voice inside of me. It was a little unnerving because even though I had spent the better part of my life without the internet, it all seemed so far away from me now. But over the course of a weekend, I was able to rediscover a bit of who I was before the internet changed me. Changed everybody.

 Having seen pictures of the cabin when we chose it, I knew it had a record player, and so had unearthed some albums from the deep recesses of our basement. What’s more, I was pleasantly surprised to find a rather eclectic collection of LPs at the cabin, as well. From the cabin’s library, I sampled Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, Nat King Cole’s Rambling Rose, early RollingStones, and even Marlo Thomas and Friends (you’d have to be of a certain age to know this one). I listened to a whole side of Paul McCartney’s Ram in order to get to Admiral Halsey. I never would have listened to those other songs otherwise, not in an age where the opportunity to fast-forward is always there. 

It was a pleasant, relaxing experience. I think that’s what listening to music is supposed to be like, but in the age of instant access to everything, even listening to music has the potential to cause anxiety and impatience. I often start a song only to get the urge to click another song after a minute into it. I can’t speak for everyone, but I have a tendency online to move endlessly from one item to another without ever fully appreciating anything I hear, see, or read. This has led to a dull sense of never being satisfied, with always wanting more, always hoping the next thing will be the one that gives me what I want. It never does. Hence my desire to reconnect to the world I knew before the instant non-gratification the internet provides.

 We humans have a tendency to want to escape, to run away. But too often we carry with us that which we wish to be free from. So long as we have our cell phones with us, we can never distance ourselves from the habit of mindless scrolling and searching. If I had had access to the internet, I know I would not have found what I had been looking for. My inner state of being would be no different whether I was being eternally prompted by external electronic stimuli at home or in a cabin. But cut off from the great distracter that is always looking for our attention, I was paradoxically able to find a bit of myself and my past in a place that I had never been.

 The fight is not over, but I have been given a brief respite and a reminder of what life was like in the before time. The internet can change our lives for the better if we are careful, but it can change our lives for the worse if we are not.

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