Who Else Uses Substack Without Fishing For Eyeballs?

Besides me ...

(I decided to turn this “note” into a Post today because I wrote so much that I ran into the end wall for the number of characters Substack allows for “notes.”

It’s good to learn today that there’s a character limit for Notes. That will help me decide which bucket to post in. It’s good to be able to fly on past the limit for Notes by making a Post. I can’t believe it’s taken me six months to find that out. But it has.

So, here you go, you kind souls who have subscribed to my account, this is the long version of my thoughts about putting words into sentences again without fishing for eyeballs. I would always love to hear what you think/feel about my rambling confessions. But if you’re too busy with your own grief, don’t feel obliged.)

Making and posting Notes like this - Notes that restack others’ posts in a media system designed to battle for attention—without seeking eyeballs—is ludicrous.

I’m chuckling aloud, downing the last of my morning coffee, patting myself on the head for using Substack as a vehicle for reading other humans’ substantive thoughts, reflecting on them, and then voicing a bit of my reflection — with no intention whatsoever of getting anyone else’s attention for what I’m doing.

All I’m doing is healing. My posts here are me leaving breadcrumbs for myself while trekking through the wild undergrowth of this moment in which the nation where I live is dissolving out from under me - and all the rest of us.

I’m clear, after 7 ½ decades, that as one old woman, I can’t change the world. I can’t stop The Republican Administration from implementing Project 2025. But I can save myself from madness. And this is how I’m trying to do it.

I immigrated here to Substack from the Metaverse about 6 months ago to save my mind and heart and soul from any further damage in the 24/7 rage-game-demolition-derby Mark Zuckerberg is running in Facebook and Instagram.

My promise to myself – which still stands – is to recover my ability to read thoughtfully and use real words in actual sentences to rebuild my own cognition.

I can’t love when I’m crazy.

I’ve been buoyed by discovering the perspective Parker Molloy brings to this moment. I’m nourished by her clear book review of Chris Hayes’ new book.

I noticed I was getting physically ill trying to listen to Chris Hayes’s voice as he grew more and more desperate trying to hang onto eyeballs night after night on MSNBC just to keep his job. I have always appreciated Chris’ deep curiosity and his commitment to incisive thinking and reporting. But the sound of his voice was killing me.

So, in Parker’s post (linked below) I get to read about Chris’s new book, The Siren’s Call, and bathe in Parker‘s clean thinking and writing about it. It made my morning.

The fact that I’m reflecting on their points of view by myself and just for myself — crystal clear that I’m crying aloud into an empty canyon – is darkly funny after so many decades of fighting for eyeballs myself.

I just can’t whore my tender human heart like that anymore. Not for any reason.

As I am voice-writing these words into my iPhone, I notice I keep wondering if I should turn this reflection into a Post instead of a Note. If I did, the few folks who have subscribed to my account here (to stay in touch with my thinking) would see it. But I’m not committed to the value of doing so. (Update - I did. You’re reading it.)

I’m still not sure I can take care of my shaky equanimity and deliberately “publish” any words or images of my own. It’s been a long, thorny trail, recovering from the collapse of my sense of identity in the Almeda wildfire. I’m still on that trail and I don’t know how long the trail is. There are no maps for climate survivors.

Besides that, I don’t actually know how many of you kind folks are interested in hearing from me from inside the current political chaos. We’re drowning in information.

Maybe those of you who are actively grieving will feel less alone reading my ramblings. But maybe they’re just another burden for you. I don’t wanna be the source for that. If so, just stop reading now. You can’t hurt my feelings.

Deliberately putting my own thoughts into words and real sentences in public – a public where nobody is listening because I’m not playing the “fishing for eyeballs” game – is like going fishing on the Rogue River here in southern Oregon without any goal of catching a fish. If I do, great. If I don’t, great. Just standing on the banks of the Rogue is a glory. The same is true when I’m able to put together a few words and sentences that help me make sense of my experience using language.

That said, maybe the best thing is just to invite you beautiful folks who have subscribed to this feed to come to southern Oregon and go fishing with me. I can’t promise we’ll catch a fish. I’ve learned to really enjoy fishing by not worrying about catching a fish. But some people don’t want to fish if they don’t catch something. I understand.

At this point, relishing my personal experience – as consciously as possible – is the only game I’m completely committed to playing.

The takeover of journalism by “social media” and “24/7 news” funded by big-money-capitalists has really fucked everything up for humans. It has poisoned my attention and fouled my intention. And, as Chris’s book clearly explores, it’s done the same to all us humans. Not just the journalists and artists.

I don’t know how long it might take for me to be able to write in public, aka “publish,” like Parker Malloy or Chris Hayes without feeling compelled to fish for eyeballs.

I do know that however long it takes, I’m committed to recovering my own agency as a free, conscious human being who’s able to love without continuously vying for attention … before my life is over.

I can’t be a media whore anymore. If that means I starve in the desert, so be it.

Thanks for listening. And, how are you doing at this stage of the Great Collapse?