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Listening to William Basinski’s Disintegration Loops over and over. I’m out of the city and the night air is so warm and almost vacuous — or feels vacuous without underlying urban activity. I’ve been on a screen too much tonight. I wish I was just reading, but I’m not. I feel the need to write — write something. I feel like if I stop writing completely I’ll never start again. Maybe that’s the outcome of living in a hysterical society: you can’t year yourself away from the screen, the stream, the scroll; you feel bound up with the vascular system of a larger organism — less like a person and more like a cell. On my porch, with headphones on, writing on my laptop, I can’t help but be aware that I have no interest in that other organism — nature. Digital Pan has displaced ancestral Pan.
