slow & steady

I want my attention span back | a reminder that the world’s pace may not be your own (and that's okay)

far-away friend,

it feels so good to sit down and write to you tonight.

I’ll paint you a small picture so we can sit in this room together. the evening is a cool mid-60s, feeling chilly enough for pants and long sleeves, a welcome relief after the scald that was summer. the windows are open, the trees outside are goldening under the few hours of sunlight left, and the songbirds are getting in their last few solos. my dog has draped himself quite dramatically across the carpet, and might love a few pets from you.

I keep taking long breaks between words just to sit and be still. there’s the constant whir of the highway nearby, a few crickets—or beetles maybe?—trilling in the grass. when I’m still, I feel a slight prickle build in my fingertips. a tingle at the back of my brain asking to check something. if there’s a pause, it must mean it’s time to move from one activity, one sensation, to the next, right? an empty moment is one that could be filled.

in these pauses, I’ve been trying to write down what those new itches feel like. I catch it waiting for my coffee to brew, sitting at a red light, even in the sanctuary of my bedroom—the hush required to welcome sleep suddenly feels like the DMV line. whatever’s happening here, it wouldn’t be right to suggest it is slowly seeping into all the corners I keep to myself. I think it’s beyond breached and I am looking at water already waist-high.

a few years ago, when I saw friends of mine first take breaks from social media or digital cleanses, an unfortunate judgmental gut reflex in me thought, why don’t they use those app timers? why would they feel so affected? (not proud of those thoughts, but being honest.) now, I get it— because even as I’m sitting here in the semi-quiet room I’ve just described to you, there’s a presence. somewhat of a hum or a thin fog that sticks to every wall—emitted from the laptop resting on my knees, the phone charging by my nightstand, the TV sleeping atop my dresser. it’s not even just these. glass boxes themselves, but something more—maybe the door it leaves open to the world. maybe even just the awareness of what you could be doing. maybe the hum rings a little louder when it feels like the world invents a new glass box, a new app, a new shiny, lightning-fast way of doing something that you didn’t mind taking the time for in the first place.

if I’m going to be honest, 

I don’t want to be accessible all the time. something about DMs and text messages, even from people I love, makes me sweat. that unshakeable red bubble cruelly reminds me there are 40+ texts I cannot summon the bravery to respond to, let alone open. I can’t rinse all the blue light out of my eyes before bed and it feels humiliating to admit I’m trying to train myself to fall asleep again without the comfort of a sleep timer set to some low-volume laugh-track sitcom. (though the nighttime quiet can feel just as loud, so I might be joining you fan sleepers.)

before I get too far (this is a massive topic and though there is no way I can/want to cover it all, buckle up boys, this letter is a longer one.) it’s important to note that of course these conveniences—these advancements, these technologies have their place. essentially, this is where I sit in the background of my own writing and shout “nuance! nuance! nuance!” I know my experience is not everyone’s (nor should it be). these inventions are not without necessity or reason: emergency response, accessibility, information availability, connection to each other, transportation, and even food production—all have immensely improved in direct thanks to these technological developments. 

and there is beauty in social media, in the bridge of communication that is text messaging or FaceTime, too. last week, I watched one of my best friend’s smile beam as she lifted another coyote skull she found on a hike through the desert. my nephews wiggle macaroni shells up to the camera so I can see what they’re having for dinner. without the same ease of instant, without the same open cyber world I’m grappling with, I might have never regained contact with my grandfather, might have lost touch with my siblings after leaving for school, or might have never met my amazing partner.

so despite all my rambling, I know everything I list and am tired of are also helpful tools, even life-changing. 

that being said, 

I kind of want things to take time again.

how quickly I learned that even instant foods (the childhood belief we’d never get sick of mac & cheese if given endless access), can feel like a relief up until the expectation they’ll taste great forever or provide the same nourishment as something that takes a slower simmer. while I’m not a chef by any means, I’ve been interested in making my meals feel special; that it’s worth spending time on the things that I eat. rich flavors, deep colors. steam and saute. I want to marinate and learn how to caramelize; to put the steak knives to use. yes, time-consuming, but satisfying.

everything feels built around our shortening attention spans instead of providing any recovery from it. do you also worry about what the long-term effects might be? if first our attention spans, what will it mean for our memories? in watching an interview with a musician I love, he mentions how it was a difficult choice to cut an album short, but knows there are not a lot of people that want to sit with a longer album anymore. I see fellow poets trying to make their heartfelt poems as scannable as possible. descriptions for hotel stays or oil change services are so condensed, you end up clicking which has the most appealing collection of fragments. “Easy. Reliable. Get Your $$$’s Worth.” even as I’m writing this, I know there’s a good chance people may scroll through these paragraphs, see it’s a bit long-winded, and decide to switch out of it.

in the sense that it feels like we’ve collectively been getting away without eating our vegetables (paying attention) for years, I’ve got to admit, I really fucking miss eating my vegetables. I want my time to be spent knowing where it’s going; to listen, to wait, to hold a menu at the table, to sit on my hands and not interrupt. I want the unabridged. 

the world doesn’t only seem shortened, it’s incredibly self-contained, too. I’ve started to detest self-checkouts and automated call representatives. our relationships with strangers, our moments of small, casual but meaningful interactions, are being all but eliminated. sophisticated as the automated answering service for my car insurance may be, the robot still gets confused if I breathe too loudly when she recites the list of menu options. I want the back and forth between waiting for a screen to load, the representative to tell me their weekend plans, a daughter’s soccer game, and I want to wish them good luck. when I leave the grocery store, it’s without a small joke shared with someone I’ll probably never see again or our agreement, “the strawberries this year look amazing.” while I love the social aspect of these exchanges, these employed roles (cashier, customer service, secretary) are still very much a means of livelihood and accessibility. I know all but a few instances of person-to-person contact were ousted when COVID came around, but is this to say they’re never coming back?

social media makes me feel like it’s been weeks since I vacuumed my brain’s apartment. (love that even in my metaphors, my brain can’t afford its own house.) my thoughts become numbered gibberish instead of its typical soothing written word. as if holding a phone or laptop for too long, my brain begins to download and think in binary. as a creative, leaving social platforms doesn’t exactly seem an option, either. a necessary evil to get art & stories out to the world, but then near impossible to escape the trap of tracking engagement, comparing success, or seeing all free time as better spent making more work.

when my digital exhaustion becomes too much, I’m racked with guilt for being a bad friend or not doing enough for my creative ambitions. my friend Austyn reminds me, “there has never been a time humans have faced the level of input we have now. you wouldn’t wake up and immediately be overwhelmed with every bad thing to have happened from all corners of the earth. you wouldn’t have had access to this many peoples’ lives. if someone wanted to contact you, they’d have to write or call, with plenty of time in between given for you to respond.” 

let’s sit across the table from each other so I can be in the moment with you, watching your eyes crinkle when you laugh, or compliment you on your hair, instead of over-critiquing my text back to you that reads, “cool, works for me. thanks!” but I’m convinced came across more like, “cool!! sounds groovy!! :) ;) :P my eternal soul is totes forever indebted to you. xoxox.” do you also feel like you don’t know how to sound like yourself via text messages? whatever I say sounds too cold, too young, or out of touch. what’s the correct emoji use? can we meet up in person instead?

I want the spontaneity of deciding to go to the theater after dinner. I want to measure flour and accidentally add too much salt. I want my hands to be stained with blue ink. I want in-person and then for my quiet time to be so quiet and mine, that I don’t need to fight tooth and nail to protect it.

it is tempting to let this list go on forever, but I have a feeling I don’t need to describe the scene we’re both looking at. I’m not saying anything new. I don’t wish for a world without these things, but do hope we find a bit more balance, or at the least, that taking a break feels easier. I will say it’s been nice to read before bed. to cook with wine and follow a new recipe. to go for a walk without my phone. to do more things by candlelight, even if it seems a little extra. I found a few I think you’d like, I’ll bring them next time we meet.

maybe counterintuitive to have found this on tumblr, but .. !!!

with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
semi-Luddite fund, I guess (venmo): schuylerpeck