Heads in the sand

and the struggle to get free of Algorithmic Overlords

Over the course of this year, I’ve slowly been deleting apps from my phone. Facebook and Instagram were the first to go (I deleted my accounts, too).

Once I deleted those, I found myself spending all of my “social media” phone time on the New York Times and Substack apps instead. These are both fine apps, but the point was to spend less time on my phone, not the same amount but in different ways.

It wasn’t just that I needed to cut out junk food for my brain; I needed to consume less overall.

The magic within beckons. (Photo by David Grandmougin on Unsplash)

I still reach for the phone sometimes, hoping to be entertained. WhatsApp messages, personal e-mails…these deliver reliable-enough dopamine hits to keep me checking too often. But if I want to zone out, they’re not the way to go.

What is, I’ve discovered, is YouTube. Though I know plenty of other YouTube addicts, it’s never been my own substance of choice.

Now that I don’t have the news or Substack, though, it’s becoming exactly that.

Goddamnit. Do I need to get rid of the YouTube app on my phone, too?

Probably. Mostly what I watch on there — and I am totally embarrassed to admit this, but not so embarrassed that I won’t — are tarot card readings, by astrological sign (“Leo! Let’s see what’s in store for you.”)

These can be by week or by month, and there are a couple of readers that I really like. A friend turned me on to one of them, and the other, a kind of butch lady with a sexy New York accent with cats that frequently interrupt her readings, was expertly suggested to me by the Algorithm Gods.

For a while they seemed to be saying pretty similar things, but recently have diverged, because, of course they would, and now I feel very silly for letting them make me feel either excited or disappointed, hands wringing.

I also watch clips from some of my favorite comedy shows, like SNL and John Oliver, whose team actually does really, really good in-depth reporting, and he’s hilarious.

Maybe I can just back off on the tarot readings and see how I do? (And not increasingly get sucked into “shorts”?)

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The phrase “to stick one’s head in the sand” is a strange one to use these days. When you do so, you’re siloing yourself off from the rest of the world: “I don’t want to see or hear anything; I just want to be left alone and allowed to remain ignorant.”

But now, it might be an excellent description for what we all are currently doing: ignoring each other in favor of an online other-world.

Let’s come back up, shall we? Incidentally, there are few animals that inspire more fear in me than ostriches. (Photo by Malik Shibly on Unsplash)

But it’s hard to let go of. In the sand, you can rest, or at least tune out and not have to use your brain or face your feelings. Your sand is tailor-made just for you. You have the illusion of control over your sand, and you can dial up precisely whatever kind of sand you feel like at any moment.

But it was all a trick, you see. The sand beckoned to us, claiming that a whole new and marvelous world, a better world, was under there. We peaked in, and were convinced for a while. Then we practically forgot about our bodies above-ground, and we started wilting, our muscles quickly atrophying.

What are we doing in the sand? Searching.

We are searching for meaning, searching for opportunity, searching for an escape from the empty abyss. In the process, we’ve loosened our grips of each other’s real and actual hands above ground.

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How do you get un-addicted to something?

As far as I know, the only tried-and-true way so far is abstinence, unless someone comes up with a kind of Ozempic for phone cravings (please get on it, scientists!).

We’re all too sucked in to abstain completely, of course, not least because so much of our work now depends on our current level of connectivity.

But perhaps we can start small, inching our heads out little by little one app at a time. And maybe the more we get out, the more we can feel around for actual hands, and grab ahold of those as we let go of the seductive magic that keeps us siloed.