How long has the sky been falling?

I came across Rebecca Solnit’s essay Finding Time today, probably via twitter. I don’t remember who linked to it, and now it has been in a open browser tab too long for me to reconstruct the path. It starts off great:

THE FOUR HORSEMEN OF MY APOCALYPSE are called Efficiency, Convenience, Profitability, and Security, and in their names, crimes against poetry, pleasure, sociability, and the very largeness of the world are daily, hourly, constantly carried out. These marauding horsemen are deployed by technophiles, advertisers, and profiteers to assault the nameless pleasures and meanings that knit together our lives and expand our horizons.

It’s from three years ago. In web time, this makes it it old. It was written before Facebook got really big, before just about anyone outside of SXSW attendees knew what twitter was. Before the new normal or great reset or whatever we’re calling the present time now.

So, the sky has been falling for awhile.

… I talk to a book editor who’s trying to articulate what goes missing when you go to for books: the absence of the opportunities for browsing, for finding what you don’t know you’re looking for or can’t describe in a key-word search. A digital storefront can lead you to your goal if you know exactly how to spell it, but it shows you next to nothing on the way; it prevents your world from getting significantly or surprisingly larger. The virtual version rips out the heart of the thing, shrink-wraps it, sticks a barcode on, and throws the rest away. This horseman is called Efficiency. He is followed by the horseman called Profitability. Along with Convenience, they trample underfoot the subtle encounters that suffuse a life with meaning.

Thing is, the web doesn’t have to work this way. Even doesn’t work this way: you look up a book, and you find links to other books people who have bought that book also bought, you find reviews some of which have pointers to yet more books, you see lists with even more books you weren’t looking for that this book is somehow in someone’s mind connected to. The web is a serendipity engine. doesn’t prevent my world from getting significantly or surprisingly larger, any more than a trip to McNally Jackson (my latest bookstore crush) guarantees it. It’s about my mindset, about my being open to new experiences and ideas. It’s about willingness to open my eyes and look around me — online, inside, or outside.

Virtual versions don’t have to rip out the heart of the thing. I’ll confess, the shrink-wrapped barcoded lifeless version makes me think more of big box stores and their crappy fluorescent lighting than tapping away on my beloved machine in my living room does, even if I wind up getting something wonderful delivered to my door in a cardboard box as a result.

So while I want to agree with Solnit that we have a need to find time, to slow down and let ourselves think, I don’t blame technology for the times I fail do so.

… the same problem applies to most of the technological changes we embrace and many of the material and spatial ones. The gains are simple and we know the adjectives: convenient, efficient, safe, fast, predictable, productive. All good things for a machine, but lost in the list is the language to argue that we are not machines and our lives include all sorts of subtleties — epiphanies, alliances, associations, meanings, purposes, pleasures — that engineers cannot design, factories cannot build, computers cannot measure, and marketers will not sell. What we cannot describe vanishes into the ether, and so what begins as a problem of language ends as one of the broadest tragedies of our lives.

The best things in life… aren’t easy to describe. They aren’t packaged and sold to us, we aren’t urged to use credit to acquire them right now, whether or not we can actually afford them. I agree with Solnit on this point; I’d even agree we live a world that has devoted amazing amounts of energy to giving us for the words for things we don’t need while making it difficult (but not impossible) to find the language to talk about the things we do need.

But it isn’t technology that makes this hard to do. We can choose what’s easy and fast even if it isn’t what’s best or even good enough, and sometimes we do. We can choose to act out of greed or fear, and sometimes we do. Sometimes we don’t, and maybe we don’t talk about the struggle often enough. We don’t invest the time in finding the words, in sharing the words, in hearing how they sound.

But we could.



My vacation ends tonight. Tomorrow I’ll be back at work, sifting through the hundreds of emails that arrived when I was away and ignoring them.

I also didn’t keep up with twitter, or facebook, or my feed reader. For the first week, I was a real luddite: no computer, no phone, and it as it turned out even no television. Unplugging felt good.

I read a couple of good books, went for long walks, took lots of photographs, took naps. Spent hours beachcombing and staring out into space. I got a massage. I ate great food (and wonderful candy, and drank possibly the best ever iced coffee). I pretty much didn’t do anything I didn’t feel like doing for two weeks.

low tide

As I prepare to deal with tomorrow — the emails, the meetings, the flow of updates — I want to remember this relaxed, rested feeling and how it isn’t something I can get only two weeks a year.

I’m going to try to not give in to a sense of hurry. I can be busy, but can opt out of needless anxiety. I’m going to resist constantly feeling behind and the need to catch up. I unsubscribed from everything in my feed reader; I’ll build it back up as I see things I like, and as I remember to go back and resubscribe to the things I actually miss.


Going forward, I’m going to try unplugging every Saturday. I’m always thinking I want more time to read, more time to spend on my photography, more time to devote to not-quite-yet formed project ideas, and choosing to spend one day a week offline seems like a good way to find that time.

The Power of Unplugging

First, I went away for a week and didn’t bring my computer. Then I decided to turn off my phone — no constantly checking voicemail, no sending text messages. No responsibility to check in, no pull to respond to other people (except my sweetie, and she was there in person with me), no hurrying.

Being out of touch felt awesome.

I was surprised I didn’t grab for the computer the second I got back from Rockport, but I didn’t. I was enjoying my sense of peace and quiet a little too much to jump back into the online fray. I checked very few things online before heading out without the computer again for a few days, this time to NYC.

I didn’t have withdrawal fits, I didn’t get all twitchy needing to look up things, I didn’t feel left out that I wasn’t twittering events. Yes, there were folks that I missed — but I knew you all would be here when I got back. And isn’t part of the fun in going away catching up with folks when you return?

As much as I love the web, I think completely unplugging is a great sanity check. Working with a computer every day, with a fabulous bunch of geeks, is something I’m lucky to do — yet I didn’t think about software even one time when I was on vacation. Which is probably how most people go about their day, every day: not thinking about software, not using the web the vast majority of their waking hours. So what did I do?

I took photographs. (Some are even on film, so I have to be patient and get them developed before I know how the new and new to me cameras are working.) I went to bed when I was tired, and got up without an alarm clock — still pretty early — just about every day. I went beachcombing and gallery crawling, finding unexpected treasures. I listened to waves, floated in the ocean, and let my head empty of the everyday noise noise noise.

Now I’m back, and rested (and pretty damn tan), and convinced I can carry some of this quiet back with me to the web and to work. I’ve got a lot to do — and I’m saying this even before I see how many messages are sitting in my work inbox — but I think I’ll feel better about getting it done if I don’t give in to the noise and the hurry. I want believe those things are optional for the other fifty weeks in the year and I can still accomplish good work. Call it the jedi vacation mind trick, but I’m going to try.