scars from afar // secretly scorched
a 2024 culmination
Hello! Oh wow, thank you for reading in 2024. This is a beast, so brace yourself before settling down to read. It's about what basic-ly has evolved into since I posted my first piece earlier in the year, and my final reflections on social media —which have been bothering me for years. Happy New Year xoxo
Boxing day 2023: I am a shell of my former self. Finally, I'd had the chance to be forlorn and meagre, silently dragging my feet around the house after a Christmas Day for the (my) record books.
17 came to dinner. Seven-teen. It's probably not a big Christmas, on average. But, as an "only" from a small family, I am forever adjusting to the volume of siblings, to the impressive matriarchal Great-Grandma and their companion-cum-driver, and managing the pangs of "what-I-never-hads" from growing up without a brother or sister. 17 was simply an impossibility for my Christmasses growing up.
I wonder: do we all dream of hosting Christmas one day? A paper-crown mantle you take delicately from your parents, head bowed, eyes scrunched with joyful tears... Whilst simultaneously stroking the hair of your cotton-wrapped childhood memories — reassuring them you'll do them justice.
I dreamt it.
Glossy Turkey. Glassware comme Gatsby. Caprese Salad to Start. Telly coming on when we're all done with the Talking. I dreamt it.
I did it.
All cooked from scratch, weeks of preparation and plotting, scraps of paper with partial recipes across the worktop (which was permanently splattered with meat juice and garlic). I did it.
The challenge of the task, and the fullness of the love, were incomparable. As a Feeder, and a Deep (Cancerian) Feeler, it was a big day for my two most treasured emotional states.
Yes — of course there were regrets. The herpes of hindsight will rear, even on the most wonderful days. Luckily though, memories are defragged on the regular; sifted so only what you need to remember remains. And those regrets have since been covered with a generous dusting of neural sand. It was a triumph, in my own modest way, and I was proud to have been able to "do Christmas".
Through all of the dishes, and pans, bubbling gravy and spit-spatting butter, the kettle on and off, and trays in and out of the oven dozens of times, I didn't drop anything – or scald myself – somewhat remarkably.
But, remember: now, it was Boxing Day. And after having Hosted My Arse Off for the previous twelve hours, all responsibility was immediately usurped. I spent the day in full haze. But my lack of general wherewithal left me caught off guard, and I caught my wrist on a searing hot Pyrex.
It was small, but quite bad. Nowhere near bad enough for the hospital. But, quite bad.
Karma is irony, is the Devil, is God.
Sat with my wrist in a bowl of cold water that evening, I understood the brief...
The burn tore me out of a stupor: I was wallowing. Full mud, midday sun, hippo style. Whether it was internal-gloating or exhaustion - the "success" of yesterday shouldn't be swum in - like some turquoise infinity pool. It happened. I did it. The challenge was fulfilled. Move on.
processing...
The part that most fascinates me about the burn is who – or what – shouted so loudly from across the cosmos, that I now have a scar to remind me to never indulge my own highs or lows? To not let my emotions ride me like a spur-crazy cowboy. A scar to permanently ping a message back to the sender saying: "I heard you".
It's a wild one. Did my subconscious do it? A guardian angel? A flutter in a parallel universe? Maybe I'll find out one day, if I finally agree to go on the psilocybin retreat in the Netherlands my friend told me about.
This burn is one of many fateful "prods" from the future, (slash: the infinite), that have, in fact, come to dominate my writing on basic-ly.
My first full post on here was about the constant lure and loom of the digital world; grappling with how to manage its (omni)presence. I ended the article with some cutesy, basic "resolutions" for how to make time spent digitally more "meaningful".
What I now realise is that Substack has provided that meaning and outlet more than anything else, which is a ridiculous, recursive, self-fulfilling prophecy. Thanks, and thanks? And thanks.
...thanks.
Yet, since this "grand" introductory "thoughtpiece", the words began to really hone in on the unspectacular, (the basic), in an attempt to translate the moral (and silly) lessons they carry. It appears, that the working title "basic-ly" was always right, but the topical themes (LOL) I thought I would tackle have scurried away under the hedgerows, to be twirled in the claws of a badger with a bigger brain, and horn-rimmed glasses.
... And a neckerchief.
what's that snake that eats its own tail called?
Plaiting together the strands of this article (at 5am, in a self-induced trance, whilst The Grinch (animated version) is on in the background), I began to tease out something connecting this end-of-year post with that first 'Substacking' attempt about the Digital World...
So now it's time to bear with me, please this will hopefully all make sense in the end go slap your knee and call yourself Fanny the Aunt, because guess what: it all clunked into place.
a growling
Many of us seem to want less of the digital world. Maybe, more accurately, many of us want to feel less of it. Grayscaling your phone, deleting social media, App Timers, Dumb Phones, The Right To Switch Off, Gen Z dangling the power they hold in front of influencers' faces — there is a growling malaise. Grrr. A resignation that the digital world is – no, really now, we're serious this time – no longer serving us. GRRR!
My way of condoning (?) the frequently talked-about, obsessive behaviour towards digital content was that the digital and physical spaces are distinct enough to be classified as two "worlds". Each world contains their own unique elements that cannot exist in the other, so by definition: by "being" in one, you are missing out on things that are happening in the other.
FOMO, or no?
What I began to wonder, however, is if we are finally realising what we enjoy about the digital world is our ability to control it. It is the choice that makes it inviting. Yet, with most apps favouring marketing/virality, most (legacy) news outlets being paywalled, most high-quality services requiring monthly subscriptions/intensive data-gathering, more and more of us are being cut out of the equation of choice through self-preservation and affordability. Instead, we are being drawn/forced to places, people and practices where there is a high(er) transparency of where and how our time/money is spent.
Many also seem to thrive on the thrill of the ultimatum: I'm leaving social media. I used to be one of these. Yet, every time, after a few months of cold-turkeying, I would – often, I should add, out of loneliness – creep back to look at something a friend shared, or check my inbox, and I'd feel ashamed of my lack of self-control. I no longer chaste myself for the relapse, but instead have been searching for a way to justify (?) combing through social media comatosed. If there is any justification at all.
I also believe that now, when you meander into the digital world out of boredom/curiosity, you go in and simply hope to return not completely decimated. It is, paradoxically, both increasingly difficult to stay on the trail, and – at the same time – leave the safety of your social bubble, when the wilderness is loud, luminescent and incredible.
the culmination
Wishing I was some version of Halle Berry in some version of Cloud Atlas, I'm circling the oval shaped scar on my wrist, remembering my own fable: to not dwell, to not indulge. I see my phone temporarily abandoned, and know that this is something I should apply to my own screen time, too.
So now the conclusion, after a half-year of philosophising, I'm drawing a line under these hang-ups with social media. All further enquiries should be directed to the badger in the field over there.
ONE: CONTROL
The gurgly discomfort that comes, for me, from spending too much time scrolling is because I absolutely don't feel in control of myself when doing it. Compounding this: I am not in control of the semi-randomised, mostly-algorithmed "reality" that is being presented in squares or bitesize chunks of text.
As I mention above, I believe this is creeping up on most of us: the understanding we should be in control of our time and what we experience digitally. And it's why we are collectively finding our own coping mechanisms to regain some power over a world we cannot, or do not want to, completely avoid.
TWO: INVISIBLE BURNS
The lessons we learn, the nudges from the Universe, or the feedback from others we get in the real world, are – guess what sugarplum – REAL. That Boxing Day, I got slapped by some form of celestial wisdom — burnt for being a brat, basically. In the real world, 'meaning' will trip you up. Literally. Or it will be the cold rush of morning air after a mediocre yesterday, or serendipitously having tea with a friend after a week of no sleep.
In the digital world, on social media or news outlets, wherever you're meandering into, the amount of 'meaning' that will be thrown at you is, likely, ten times more than you could catch during the same moments in the real world. The impact of seeing so much affects me, without doubt. But I've realised it's because the volume of content is entirely unprocessable. I'm there, being bombarded by other peoples' lives or opinions or adverts and it's scorching me in secret... just beneath my skin, where I can't notice or reflect on all I've just seen. I leave singed and withered, and it's because I've bitten off more content than I could ever chew.
The emotional or moral enlightenment that could have been achieved in the real world has now been lost to the thumbing of a screen: and I feel gross about that.
THREE: ASSISTED DAYDREAMING
Maybe the most romantic description of social media is that we're using it to elevate a moment when our minds want to wander.
Daydreaming is a precious delight of the human existence. Being in both a mental, and physical place where you have the chance to let your brain travel, to concoct, is a gift.
Very rarely will I come away from social media feeling inspired by a certain thing or nugget I managed to remember. Most times, after a ‘cheeky scroll’ 🤢, I leave empty handed.
A real-world daydream can truly heal: those unscripted minutes of meditation.
A foray into social media can, as I say, very occasionally, catch you off guard and bring you some lasting joy or mental respite — but I can confidently say I won't remember the vast majority of my scrolling escapades (HBU?). And it's these black-holes, these thought-vaccuums, that I want to be fully aware of slipping into in the future.
fullstop.
Okay I'm done. I've gone full circle (in a state of philosophical psychosis).
basic-ly will, I hope, grow to be about finding both meaning and beauty in the ordinary. My take is that social media is probably preventing me from seeing and experiencing these gorgeous serendipities, and that's why I become so resentful towards it.
My next post is going to be on the chef's kiss topic that is asymmetry, I think. MUCH LESS TAXING. MUCH MORE EASY.
If you read all of this, my GOODNESS you are patient and kind. Luv u, etc. v.much.
See you soon xoxo