Checking My Cosmically Depressing 'Site Engagement Analytics'

Flatline: DOA

A quick update for yall. Yep, it's official. This site is dead. That is, it was never alive to begin with. It was born dead. That is, it's artistic 'creator' wasn't born with a silver spoon up their arts. That is, Inherited Wealth.

I'm just too busy working (ie. Art-As-Labor) to write regular quality posts. Not that I'm conveniently already blessed with a billion avid followers on 'Social Media'. That is an echo chamber for people already as privileged as the account holder - existing in the same (pink skinned) upper middle class techno-social demographic.

I just can't do both. Either I bust my fat ass and 'create' art full time as I'm doing (that is, a poor and desperate creature who simply takes in various drab online media and simply excretes slightly differing forms of the SAMO) or I pour my empty soul out on this dead end bumfuck electronic desert nowhere site on an algorithmically optimal basis.

Twitter feed about The Creator Economy
Shaun on 'The Creator Economy'

In fact whenever I now hear the word Site I simply can't help but picture a graveyard. A burial site for empty words on subjects nobody simply gives a single flying tinker's cuss about. (Not even me, 'if I'm being honest'™.)

Hmm. Maybe that's what the whole / hole of life is 'about'. (He says, making the too on-the-nose jump.) Nothing. The flat, tasteless nothing that happens from day to dreary overcast day here in merrie old, old 'Endland' / Ukania. Lives of quiet desperation and distinctly uncomfortable numbness. It wasn't my intention to get you down today but god fucking dammit being forced to stare at those flatline DOA Site Engagement Analytics Graph every pissing time I login to this shitty electronic graveyard platform (owned by people inherently richer than me) crushes my soul flatter than a toothpaste tube. It's astoundingly depressing.

So I'm now wondering, why not more fully embrace it? It's not like I have any real fucking choice. It's not like I can magically conjure up a multi million Likes and Follows and eight billion in cold hard eCash that I'd need to make all my empty useless artistic dreams a gleaming sentient virtual reality. Face it Bob, it's time to wake the fuck up and face the stone cold dead slab face of reality and realize - not that this realization was anything more or less than pathetically fucking obvious - that you were Never A Contender. The odds were always stacked against Your Type. (Hint: Poor, without sufficient Whiteness.)

You should have realized you came from a poor family. Your poor dear dead Mother was born into abject poverty overseas. Likewise, your stupid ignorant Father Figurine was born into a shifty family of dodgy low-key Cockney Crims and sellers of Fruit N' Veg. (I still remember old Grandad, bless e's Salt Of The Earth 'art, getting up at 3AM to go Down The Market and check out his incoming rotting produce.) Hopeless bland flat misery and Hard Graft all round. Just because I barely made it to a truly shitty overpriced University in the deep Post Industrial North of Endland to study 'Sociomedia', never once meant I was ever going to get anywhere then where I was destined to be posted at, from the moment of my birth. Precisely. Fucking Nowhere.

No time, no fucking money for anything other than Rent and some shitty food-stuffs, certainly no goddam holidays in the motherfucking sun, no friends, no views, no views.

You will die alone and nobody will ever even remember to forget you. That there's simply the facts, baby. You are a single dim goldfish, idly swimming the same goldfish bowl, year after unkempt year. Endless 'unwashed milkbottle' days, as legendary poet Roger McGough once put it.

A friend of the family died alone in their house this year. They earned a relative shit load of money (relative to me), but was a bit of a Miser to themselves. They never took enough care of their health. At the time of their death they were hording all their wad to retire to some desperately shitty Ex Pat Spanish nightmare. Or so they had it all figured.

See, they were desperately alone from what I could tell. (We ever really talked much, only about shitty Near Future Retro 80s style movies trundling along the media pipeline.) And so instead or retiring early as they could of, they just continually Overworked. While they certainly had the reddies to go on nice holidays, their flat was nakedly and obviously a true bachelor's armpit. I mean what a depressing dump. Worth a shit ton on the open property market - but very occasional visitors could tell with a single glance this was somewhere a Very Single Occupier lived in. Or rather merely Existed in. Like I do. (Barely.) From day to day. From shitty art project to project. From listless sentence to sentence. Without much sentience, alas. A boring ass dream that refuses to fade the fuck away.

I wake up, switch on the holy Screenic eye, and begin editing my shit-arse postmodern bullshit novel. (That's all I've been doing so for months now. I'm utterly sick of it.) I.. don't really miss that Dead Person I just mentioned. While I'm sorry for his family, I can't help but feel his unceremonious departure from the shabby, too-often violently disappointing Long Abandoned B-Movie Film Set that is modern existence precisely mirrors the hyper-bland ongoing Undeath of my own desiccated half-life. Believe me, this life often feels so cosmically, comically dull I'd fucking weep like a Grandmother - if I could simply be goddamn bothered. I just can't muster the energy to get truly depressed. But one look in my bloodshot eyes and you can sense the silent clawing desperation for INTENSE ACTION ADVENTURE A NEW LIFE AWAITING US IN THE OFF WORLD COLONIES. A secret star chart hidden in the tattoos on a dead cyborg's body. (Let's go together, tonight, and tell no one. Heck they won't even notice we've gone.)

Here's an old photo I once took of the end of a plastic bottle:

Plastic Bottle (end view)

Ok ok, formal introductions are over; this is your life and it's a hyper bland robotic parody on ceaseless repeat from infinitesimal moment-to-moment. But than Now What? What's next, as the good Dr. Gozo once asked. Good fucking question! If you've any gooddam decent low-cost answers than steal a packet of postcards, scrawl The One Answer They're Not Fucking Telling You (Because They're Already Rich Smug Assholes)™ on it using one of those Shitty 70's mini Bic biros you used to get in smokey Betting Shops all over Londinium most ancient, stuff that inside a Bethnal Green bottle and luzz it into the shallow Data Sea. Maybe one day I'll find it washed up on a Hyperballardian concrete island, and we'll both have a quick, cheap Existential laugh.

Now What? I of course - mule stubborn as I am, refusing to give up and disgrace my masters at the Shaolin Temple (actually Wu Tang Temple as I Tai Chi Chuan-fa), I have Big Plans for this site. Something something to do with my incredible, amazingly virtual, hopelessly successful forthcoming Kickstart campaign.

Until then I'll love n' leave you on an upbeat note with Yussef Dayes live at Abby Road.

Yussef Dayes X Alfa Mist - Love Is The Message (Live @ Abbey Road) ft.Mansur Brown & Rocco Palladino