I can't say, in the "fb" vernacular, I "like" any of this; my inventory is fruitless. I don't like objectifying it either, with my little commentary; the suffering is unspeakable, and the labor to learn to carry the suffering is suffering itself. I want to see the one God who suffers for us. Oh dear . . .
Culture, I can't even use a possessive, erodes around us. What my parents felt decent and wholesome in public when I was 6 no longer exists now I'm 60. I did not send my 6 year old out to play as I was sent out when I was 6. What was sensed then is overt and in our face now.
We retreat behind locked doors, locked cars, sleep in gated neighborhoods, and balkanized self-selecting content. They're all accessed via swipe cards, passwords, apps, scans, tag readers, secret signals, pills that makes us smaller or pills that makes us larger. Culture is dead; long live content. What are we doing with this fruitlessness?
The streaming tide of distortion and disturbance seeps . . . into sacred spaces. We seek, we need, inventories, analysis, please, a recovery, while still being overwhelmed.
We grow hungry, angry, lonely, and tired by the mess.
No, I can't say I like any of this.
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