Blown to bits, scattered to the million corners of the internets
A million pieces in a thousand places…
I woke up today and I had had enough; enough of the algorithims that did not guide me to find the stuff I liked, but actively scattered my existence into the million corners of the internets. Stop it, stop it right now! I am aware that saying a million corners is silly but just … shut up! you are part of my problem…
Time and place are context. Time and place are context. Time and place are context.
Who gave you permission to take every bit of content on the planet and burst it apart into million pieces and force me to spend the better part of my morning trying to glue back everything so it make sense?
A conversation with another human being isn’t a disruptive flow of crap from every sewage line everywhere just because I searched for Roto-rooter, help me, it’s 3am and OMGOD the smell! five months ago. The problem has been fixed, the smell is… OMGod, yes, Amazon, it’s a goddam metaphor, you hulking pile of stupid!
Now Medium, my quiet corner in the middle of chaos, has apparently embraced the hyper-algorithim. I found stories I liked, but when I refreshed the screen (or more accurately, it got refreshed for me) I lost the story. Hopelessly lost in the morass of crap, spewing from the latest sewage line that started in Gary Vaynerchuk’s basement, probably. (Stop it, Amazon. I already bought his latest book. Butt the hell out!)
The breaking point came this morning when I couldn’t even find my own stuff on Medium. I know I had written a piece and had a vague recollection of the title, but I could not for the life of me, find the damn thing. I still can’t. But I made this and this is what will stand until Medium realizes that physical time and place is also context and content.
Place matters. Place influences how you see the world and how accessible you are to the world. People need anchors and a sense of place. Potential customers need to know you really, really exist beyond a website and email address. Nothing establishes that like place.
If you are ever in town and want to dine on omelettes from a styrofoam to-go clamshell, in a van with three dogs, parked outside a Bob Evans, look me up. (I see you lurking Jon Westenberg)
What?!?!? You FOUND this story? How? Did you drop breadcrumbs or beads or glitter to find your way back? PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME….