01: Gleaning
I was walking my dog Momo this morning, listening to music on my iPod, trying to be present. He does this thing—which as a first-time dog person—was completely new and baffling to me. Leading up to the moment of pooping (sorry, it’s part of life), he searches for the perfect patch of grass (never concrete), then spins and spins and spins and spins until it’s time to go. I love this delicate choreography. This little dance he does just before making what I assume is one of his most important decisions of the day.
This searching for the spot, the moment, the spin, that’s where I am today in deciding how to write my first letter to you. It’s been about a decade since I actively blogged and about two years since I authored and published a newsletter (RIP to Tinyletter). It takes a little bit of bravery to be an online poster. Sharing one’s life publicly is now the norm, but when I started my first blog it was very much not part of the day-to-day. I was fifteen years old when I started writing on my Xanga in search of connection while shaping my opinions, molding my identity, and finding my voice. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been told I am a good writer, and I credit my knack for writing entirely to running a blog for the better part of my adolescence and early adulthood. Whether I’m writing a wall label for an exhibition or crafting a heartfelt handwritten card to a loved one, words are one of my favorite materials to paint with.
I’ve been grappling with my relationship to the Internet, feeling nostalgic for the days when the computer had its own room and “computer time” was sacred and measured. As a Millennial, I am of the generation that can still remember a before and an after the Internet. I remember summer, how the days stretched out into the sun. Attending Camp Concrete, so named for the concrete parking lot that our YMCA utilized for day camp activities. How scrappy we were playing softball on the hot asphalt, thirsty for open swim in the indoor pool, yearning for the shade and grass of the nearby park. Time moved differently, not just because we were kids, but because we weren’t online consuming and making content. We filled our days with play, imagination, books, toys, and cable TV. What I felt we had in spades was attention, copious amounts of it, and endless ways to fill it.
Perhaps why I’m waxing poetic about attention, the Internet, and nostalgia is why I’m writing this letter to begin with. I’m going through the process of reining in my online selves, having deleted Instagram, Tik Tok, Facebook, and Twitter. I’ve also cut ties with Amazon and Spotify. This was an intentional uncoupling and has been unfurling for some time. With social media breaks and examining my relationship to these online presences after reading Jenny Odell’s “How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy” during lockdown. It was eye opening and thrilling even to consider how these apps monopolize our time and create fractures in the very fabric of our identities, manufacturing experiences like FOMO and body dysmorphia from the use of face-enhancing filters. My usage of Spotify impacted how I was choosing (or not) what to listen to, shrinking my scope of music to whatever the algorithm felt suited me best. I forgot about taste and my own unique perspective. I even forgot what music I liked.
And now I want to remember. I also want to connect. I want to look up from my screen and really see what’s out there, way beyond the vast corners of the Internet, breaking out of the endless scroll. Which leads me to this newsletter.
Every one of you has indicated to me, either verbally or in written format, that you wish to keep in touch. That you liked my contributions to Instagram, that you miss my updates, that you want to maintain a connection to me. For this, I am deeply grateful. I see you, I hear you, and I believe we can build and create a little space where we can thrive creatively and communicate openly, vulnerably even.
I don’t have any big visions or goals for this letter. I imagine I’ll share stories and anecdotes. There won’t be a regular schedule or cadence. No pressure to post. My letters to you might be long or short, they might have photos or links. There might be long periods of silence or energetic bursts from me. See this as an invitation to engage (or not) at your pace and leisure. Subscribe, unsubscribe, forward, read, delete, skip, no pressure.
And a little note from the author to the author (for the readers’ edification): Sandy, rather than thinking of this letter as farming for content let’s frame it as gleaning: the act of gathering leftover or unwanted materials bit by bit for your own and others’ nourishment. Picture yourself like one of Jenny Odell’s crows, flying out into the world and returning with shiny treasures. Or Agnès Varda, armed with her camera, collaging stories and vignettes into a tale larger than the sum of its parts.
Written lovingly from my bed,
Sandy
