Resolution
I’m not that old, just 52, but I feel like an old man in the way that things are changing too fast. The way that I want to go shake a fist at the sky. The way that I sigh with something…sadness, frustration, anger, I’m not quite sure.
It’s a curmudgeon old. It’s a what the fuck are we doing old. It’s a yelling into my pillow kind of old.
I hate my phone. I hate social media. I hate that every kid I see can’t last a few minutes without checking either. And I’m a fucking hypocrite because the algorithm has its dirty fingernails in me, and when I write something for work, I run it through some horrible AI check to see if I need to add anything, or correct anything, or do you have any ideas that I can add to this?
Not here, though. Not in the shitty poems I write or the splash of colors on the cotton Chinese watercolor paper that I run my fingers over, beautiful and pure with the tiny bumps of thread, the off-white stucco that asks to be sullied. I don’t share a lot of this work, unless I need a little extra dopamine that day.
We’re throwing it all away, but man, we still need to create out here, so that is my resolution this year. Create more, write more, paint something, sing songs off-tune until the tips of my fingers have passed that point where it hurts to play. Play more.
The thing about AI, and this will make me sound old, is that it’s all back there. It has taken all this art, this poetry, good writing, and mashed it all together and puked something out, but it’s already been done. By its nature, it’s unoriginal. It’s boring. It’s not new, it’s not creating. It’s not being lived, but it has lived in this mashup of stories that have been repeated, thrown together, and spit out in this rotting stew of what already was.
I read that “slop” is the word of the year from the dictionary people, but I don’t know if it’s real. There is no way to know anymore what is real and what has been forced on us as real. So, I don’t believe it anymore, but I hope it’s real, because it fits.
There are positives, not with the AI, but personally. Some flecks of light pushing through the slop. I am running more. Outside, with friends, and I’m feeling good. Better than I’ve felt in years. Surfing and climbing, too. Went out yesterday with my son. We had our break mostly to ourselves because the swell models showed it would be small and high tide, and people avoid the tide, but you hear it in the water all the time. High tide is where the magic happens. Clear water with fish swimming below us and set after set of clean, medium-sized waves, about the perfect size for me. We shared them, sometimes taking off together, and goddamn, I was so happy for the rest of the day.
That night, I got together with some running friends in stupid Christmas sweaters that made us all laugh and we drank beers then ran through the neighborhoods, sharing the task of pushing a friend’s kid in a stroller as he pointed out the lights, and the Santas, and the Mickey Mouse, all in this wonder. As we ran slowly past the decorated houses, he would point and smile and name things in the few words he knew. It sounds dramatic to say this is what is slipping away, this is what is at stake. This is what is at stake.
We ran back to the bar and drank more and had the Italian pizza from the guy who sets up every Thursday night, and makes the best fucking thin crust I’ve ever had. But I’ve never tried it without the post-run glow, so who knows how good it really is. It’s still the best I’ve tasted.
So here are my resolutions, as an old man who is choosing to ignore as much of the slop as I am able. Write more (and share more of it here), read more, get outside more, feel that sweet suffering from running, and the fear from falling above the last clip and the drop and the laughter knowing that the rope held, and the stinging of water and salt spray in my face.
Speaking of reading, I really think that is the antidote. Read more. If you’re looking for recommendations, here are some of the best things I read this year:
James (Percival Everett)
The Tiger (John Vaillant)
Jayber Crow (Wendell Berry)
Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
The Salt Stones (Helen Whybrow. Reading this now, but I already know it deserves a place here)
The Life of Chuck (Stephen King)
Wild Dark Shore (Charlotte McConaghy)
A Walk in the Park (Kevin Fedarko)
Collected Poems of Wendell Berry
Some are fiction, some are not, but I loved all of these.
There’s good writing on Substack, too. It’s the only social media app that, when I use it, doesn’t leave me feeling like my brain needs a Silkwood shower.
Every time I read Death & Birds, it makes me feel heartache, hope, and joy. Maya C. Popa shares great poetry. Don Boivin for trying to figure things out. Jeff Calvert , Sarah Lavender Smith, Wes Siler, and Brendan Leonard for running and outdoors stuff. Everything Is Amazing for learning more about the world. Mark Twight for climbing.
Those are my recommendations for the end of the year. Please read, and join me in screaming into the void. It’s wonderful.
Thanks for this reminder, Dax... I've been feeling curmudgeonly lately, too, but then every so often I find my way into the kind of things you talk about here — high tide, clear water, running more, playing until your fingers hurt... and I remember that there really is more good out there than slop, if we can just get out there and find it. It's a great reading list, too — future fuel for my internal fire. (And thanks for including me in such good company!)
Thank you for your wise and timely words. Mom-generated admiration and love.