I do worry, sometimes.
I mean, look at us. Look at what we’re doing. Here, right now. There’s no mystery to now. No majesty. Everything we do–everything–is being written down, recorded, published somewhere. Do you understand? Our every action is codified.
Surveillance? Privacy? No, I’m not talking about that. There are plenty of blogs for that. I just think, as an age, we’re boring.
I’ve spoken of nostalgia before, and I get that it’s clouding my fog, or my… vision-foggy cloud-eyes-something-whatever-look, it’s more than that. Every moment of every life of our time is a Google search away. We’re not going to get films in eighty years (if films still exist) that show some kind of rose-coloured glitz-and-glamour 2010’s. We’re not going to get any Gatsby shit. Our idiot grandkids can just YouTube what life was like now and be an authority on twenty-first century historical accuracy.
What’s there to romanticize? There won’t be any digging up of old hand-written poems or dusting off long-thought-lost paintings or finding the bones of emperors. Archaeologists will be replaced by Googologists. At best our brave new Indiana Joneses will be hooking up old servers and gaining access to treasure troves of lost blogs.
I don’t know why this concerns me. Information is good, isn’t it? Accuracy is good. I shouldn’t hate my own era so much. I probably wouldn’t make it in any other time.
But what’s there to love? What’s there to dream about? What will the great-great-grandkids say? “I wish I lived in that time–the time of Twitter and Stephen King and J.K. Rowling and… and fucking Kanye and the Simpsons.” Our heroes. Our Hemingways and Van Gophs and Mozarts–and for each of them there are ten more, more Koontzes and Riordans and Jay-Zeds and Family Guys. There are too many voices. Too many voices that are too easy to hear.
Before, only the best would float to the top. Now everything floats to the top because the Internet is a lifejacket.
Our only saving grace is future apathy. People who don’t do the Wikipedia searches might just be ignorant enough to fall in love with the 2010s.
You know, maybe it won’t be that different after all.