jeez, louise

So, I suppose the first hurdle to get through in wanting to write is to write. Simple enough. However, a specter is haunting this whole process- the specter of sincerity. Perhaps it’s my predisposition or my upbringing or the amount of refuse I consumed on Twitter Dot Com between the ages of 14 and 27. I, like many other Twitter users, have a sickness known as “Ironic Detachment”. It’s hip to not give a shit, or was. There’s a general push for more sincerity online, I’m pretty sure. Although, and this is my general gut instinct, whatever that may say about me, the notion of decoupling oneself from irony and becoming an earnest creature sort of smells like another layer on hyper-individual separation of oneself from the hoi polloi.

That’s how this whole ironic detachment thing started, for me anyways. It was fun to be contrarian, to be unserious, to be a little jester prodding some landed gentry about a bald spot. And it was a crime to care too greatly (for me.) There were certain things you got passionate about, usually based in some political system or current event, but this was performative in so far as it reifies the detachment. “Oh, the jester has turned away from the glowing crown of the King and made a poignant comment on Palestine or the advantages of unions.” It doesn’t really give me depth, more so the wanted effect was to demonstrate that there are things to take seriously and if I do not do so, then it does not deserve such weight. This juxtaposition has this weird effect where one can be perceived as both “in the know” and “above it all”. Truly a great position to be in during your formative years. Such a demeanor is not confined to myself alone- it radiates outwards like phylloxera and chews up the vines of natural, God-given sincerity of my company. It is lame to care, how dare you, don’t you know that life is a laugh? Take a load off, unlike French vineyards, the world is built to be resistant to the opinions of you and your milieu.

So, what’s the issue here. Lots of people live in the world at an arm’s length, laughing at anything beyond. I guess, for me at least, it’s just not useful. Not in a utilitarian sense necessarily- well, think of it more as a brick in a bindle. Sure, the brick-bindle combination is good as a weapon, it keeps you safe from who or whatever. But it takes up too much space, could have a can of peas in there instead. And the shoulder pain from lugging it around all the time? Certainly there’s a better arrangement. And that’s where the root of irony detachment is, I think. It’s chainmail, it’s open-carrying in the frozen food aisle at Walmart. “Life don’t come at me too hard. I’ll just laugh it off. Don’t you feel silly? It’s not worth the effort.” Take the brick from the bindle and build a buttress. Such stalwart defenses render peas superfluous.

This is all to say, I can’t write because I’m still carrying a brick. The concept of earnestly putting myself into the world, the possibility of criticism, and the worst case scenario, the realization that I am not as clever as I pretend to be. But I want to write. Herein lies the peas.

The first step towards sincerity, I suppose, is throwing oneself from a window. It seems impossible to be ironic as you accelerate towards the loam and stone. Humans can only be so stubborn, though if there exists a person who can make a good post while hitting 120 mph, I’d respect that. I guess this little website is my window, this blog post is the air resistance splaying my limbs. You’re the loam. Or the stone. Pick whichever you like. Regardless, I am hurtling towards you at terminal velocity. That’s the only way I can see this working.