“Every work of art is one half of a secret handshake, a challenge that seeks the password, a heliograph flashed from a tower window, an act of hopeless optimism in the service of bottomless longing. Every great record or novel or comic book convenes the first meeting of a fan club whose membership stands forever at one but which maintains chapters in every city – in every cranium – in the world. Art like fandom, asserts the possibility of fellowship in a world built entirely from the materials of solitude. The novelist, the cartoonist, the songwriter, knows that the gesture is doomed from the beginning but makes it anyway, flashes his or her bit of mirror, not on the chance that the signal will be seen or understood but as if such a chance existed.”
It’s strange sitting back on this side of the equation, hand proffered in hopes of a connection. I’ve been here before. I faithfully kept a blog no one has heard of for years. It was a blast and then I wiped it off the face of the internet and took a break. Curled up with a good book or two, ventured outside and did a spot of cooking – I highly recommend it. Right now even.
What also happened is that I’d become a consumer. To an extent we all are consumers, but I had become the fickle, contemptuous, seen-it-all patron of experiences. It’s easy being the consumer – fun even. I’ve worn the pose of sneering judgment or ironic detachment. With so much noise out there we’ve gotten into the habit of making snap calls, defaulting to dismissiveness. As consumer my default state is to pick apart, judge and cast aside with a quick glance.
I know that is the fate that awaits me here online and I have to fight to keep myself from apologizing in advance. Engagement is hard enough at 140 characters. In my head I have to remember the adage from the fantastic Cult of Done Manifesto.
Laugh at perfection. It’s boring and keeps you from being done.
So here is me getting to done.