on the contrary
how I use my screen time
I intentionally used Instagram a lot less for 2 weeks in February, obsessed with getting my screen time on my phone down. Which was stupid, because I was still on a screen all the time…just not my phone. One day when I had not been on Instagram, but spent much of the day reading archives of Seattle’s alt-weekly The Stranger from April 2015 to August 2016, fixated on uncovering a clipping I’d found in my desk and wanted to read the rest of (I never found it), I felt all fucked up by evening. “I need to like, draw or something,” I said. My head was so full. I remembered cooking = tactile. I cooked dinner. Emptied my head.
There are so many reasons not to use Instagram. For one, this stat in Harper’s Magazine “Findings”: A metareview of 98,299 subjects across seventy-one studies concluded that consumption of short-form videos degrades cognitive and psychological health.
But mostly the fact that Meta materially supports forces that wish to kill us, and the cross dangers of surveillance. I’ve posted enough selfies alongside queer and trans and far left and anti-fascist, anti-capitalist content to be fucked on that front, should it come to pass. Years ago, I went into these things with the assumption that there was too much to sift through and no one gave a shit. Well. I, of course, did not anticipate the surveillance technologies now operating. If I’m being absurdly generous to myself, I’d say something like, it’s important for me to represent the middle-aged punk-adjacent queer-nonbinary artist-academic pink-collar precariat class, and promote myself as a writer.
Is it?
Anyway. Those aren’t the reasons most people talk about “going analog.” Most people claim their lives are substantially improved, which, frankly, was not my experience.
The analog world did not open verdant and sparkling before me during the weeks I was using Instagram a lot less. My “boredom” did not result in a nature-abhors-a-vacuum style unfurling of creativity. There was an unfortunate coincidence with a lull in my writing work, a lull in my wage work, the draggingest dregs of winter, and the low spot in my menstrual cycle. Even though I’m deeply familiar with how my cycle impacts my writing, it still feels really bad, every time. My only measure of satisfaction is how my writing is going. The highs are worth it, though, bayyybeee…
“I miss COLORS!” I said to Kaden. “I miss pretty things!” Funny stuff, cat stuff. I don’t watch TV. I wasn’t even mad about the socks and underwear ads. Of course I want to see nice asses and sexy feet looking cozy, colorful, and comfortable.
The ads, the aspirational posts, the interior design and “dopamine dressing” accounts, are like catalogs we used to get in the mail, right? My childhood and adolescence was all about fantasies of toys and clothes I knew I’d never have. Remember how fun it was to pore over dELiA*s? Or later, magazines like Better Homes and Gardens, Martha Stewart. I don’t remember ever feeling salty about it.1 I don’t feel empty when I look at or imagine other people having nice things. I’ve been denying myself nice things since I was a child. It’s a way of life. Whenever my spouse or I buy something nice for ourselves, these days, we are so proud of each other. I spent weeks contemplating buying a classic black and white Kit-Cat Clock (which I saw advertised on Instagram). Our household really needed one. It’s so nice to have something kinetic on the wall.
I know there’s no healthy relationship with Instagram. There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism.
Back in community college Sociology class, I remember learning about high suicide rates among lottery winners. I might be mangling the actual reasons behind this, but it led me to think about delayed gratification. Because yeah, what would you have to live for if you could just have anything you wanted, whenever you wanted it? Delayed gratification, sometimes delayed forever, is the best feeling. The dreaming and scheming and planning and saving. Dangling a carrot in front of your own damn self. Is our current collective obsession with yearning a reflection of, slash, backlash against, the instant gratification of online shopping and expedited delivery?
I did get a bit of a reset. When I brought Instagram back, I seemed to have dampened the impulse to hit the pink and purple button every time I touched my phone. My screen time did not change substantially, it stayed in the same range. What I hate is how my body believes that low screen time = moral high ground. Like, whatever dude.
Now, several weeks later, my screen time actually is getting lower, but I think that’s because my group chat has been kinda quiet. I load Instagram for a short period every few days, then delete it again, partly because my phone is out of space. I get bored with it a lot quicker, maybe the system forgot what draws me in? All I see is bigdawgsocialism and democracynow, get my hit of righteous indignation and terror then log off.
I still pick up my phone for comfort and pleasure, but it no longer provides.
There is one man I follow on Instagram who mostly re-posts pics of women in classic high heels and seamed stockings, but occasionally I catch one of his stories where he posts his own beautiful bare feet and hairy ankles, wet and propped on either side of a mildewed bathtub faucet. I’d seriously pay for these pics, but there’s something about the element of surprise. The ephemeral nature of the Instagram story. I’ve probably only seen them three times in the last year. But every time I do. God. What a thrill!
Only pissed in a feminist media critique way about the contradictory messages and glorification of the hetero-nuclear family in Better Homes and Gardens.
I’m stuck on the part where you spent hours in The Stranger archives because I relate so hard and would love to lose an afternoon that way. Last week in the car I was remembering the Stranger comic Smell o’ Steve and trying to explain to my teen the significance of The Stranger in the late 90s. Also, the most terrifying unforgettable thing I’ve ever read, I read while on a lunch break flipping through the Stranger. I think all the time about trying to find that.