The distance

Andreas headed back to DK today. I’ll join him soon, though not soon enough for either of us. The chain of events that keeps me stuck in Boston for another several weeks started long ago, and when it’s over, there should be an MA next to my name. In the meantime, I’ll do my usual hustle, write, make money in strange ways, and tranq myself when sleeping alone becomes too sad in the absence of my partner and my catness.

I always promise to blog about why I’ve grown to so loathe social media. I’ve finally discovered that for me, the Internet replicates what I also hate most about real time relationships: performativity. On more than one unfortunate occasion, I have found myself the object of people’s gaze. I’m not speaking strictly about the male gaze or street harassment, though I’ve experienced both in abundance. I’m talking about people who believe you to be their own personal circus, or sideshow, or cruise director. I am not a product or a toy. I am not to be consumed, particularly without my consent. I’m a person who today: ate vegan Thai food and a vegan “B”LT, took one ibuprofen, drank vanilla rooibos tea, bought a piece of cake that I forgot to eat. These are examples of consumables. I am not. My activities, my crying in public, my wacky CraigsList trades and purchases, my random assortment of jobs, are not for the sole amusement of others. I’m living my fucking life. I do not exist as a performer, but online, even more than in real life, that is what we all become.

At night, bots email me. Airline deals. Conference updates. Tomorrow’s news arrives sometimes before I was aware the current day had ended. I’ve asked for it, and now I receive. Subscription spam.

If you miss someone in the middle of the night, if you love them and they love you, if you are both alive and able, make a pact to pick up the goddamn telephone. You’ll get back to sleep. We do, and those interludes sure do ease the heartache.