yesterday morning i was on the laundry room floor with my legs spread in a v, and the baby was lounging in my lap, and the dryer was rattling, and the baby and i were watching kate cut a woman’s hair and the woman didn’t have her glasses on and kate’s mom was on the bench and telling me about the cushion cover on the bench and kate was lifting hair in the air and cutting and the woman was talking about her daughter and the baby reclined a little further, and further, until she was almost flat on the floor and then the baby cried, not a real cry, but a hey what the hell is happening cry, hey look at me cry, and then we all looked at her, and kate’s mom reached down and said oooh the baby just wants to be seen.

later i messaged this woman who writes a daily diary about cold water swimming and asked her about her journey. and she said it was a matter of survival, writing that is. and that it’s been three years and it’s always been about her. not the fans or the Facebook. and she said that’s so important because we’re subtle animals and we can smell insincerity. 

when i got that Facebook messaged my phone became a mirror and i saw all the striving in my online actions recently. somehow the alt dad diary has become a quest for business success, for “making it” as a writer, for fame (even if meager fame), for likes, and shares, and heart symbols and Facebook reach stats that are only available to the page owner. I’ve been tracking all of this very carefully, and taking into consideration whether things like my delta post where i talked about how i scammed the customer service folks was improperly shared, whether that tarnished my image, and i’ve been posting live videos on instagram like a chicken with it’s head and legs cut out, just bleeding babble. 

right now i have 1,937 facebook friends and using friend expansively, i’m “friends” with 100 of them. alt dad is on twitter now and i’m finger chewing the idea of revamping the website to be more “visually appealing.” i’ve researched photo editing techniques, posting times, platform programs, yada yada. 

six months ago, i began writing on facebook because too many literary magazines rejected too many of my submissions. and i was like fuck it. i’ll put my stuff out there myself. and i’ll do it everyday. and i’ll put it on social media. because social media is a fake facade fractal. nobody’s saying the total truth. this is old news, but it’s still true. right? but somehow facebook has swallowed me. put the chip in my head. constantly counting, waiting, checking, swiping, tagging. i’ve been matrixed. 

i tell myself i just want 1000 followers. or $2000/month on patreon. but fuck. i want that stuff, but not by begging or trolling or becoming a phone slave. deep down, like a mile deep, in the part of the ocean floor where no light shines, i just want to write. and write the truth so true you feel it resonating in your kidneys, your spleen, and the stiff bones in your lower back. 

i’m grateful for the reality check. face slap. 

i’m grateful for the wake up call with no answer, except the dead dial tone beeping: write write write write write. 

#doit #sayitlikeitreallyis #deletetwitter #backtobasics #doyou

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