Social Media Feast

For the next two weeks, I commit to a social media FEAST. This is is my commitment to BE on social media. To post to Instagram. Facebook. Bluesky. Heck, maybe even Threads.

I blame Kate Ristau. But I promised, over coffee.

There is One Condition.

Before I tap that app, before I click that link, before I type that url, I MUST speak my intention. Out Loud. Even if I’m in a coffee shop or on the train or awake at night next to my sleeping partner and blinky-eyed cats.

“I’m checking on family,” I’ll say. “On how my writer friends are doing. I’ll leave nice comments on their posts.”

Or: “I’m going to see what Zohran is up to, or better yet, my local DSA.”

Or: “I’m posting that photo of my three cats cuddling. Because.”

Or: “I’m going share that idea, see what others think, like what if all attempts to make AI art is just a collective, multi-billion dollar fueled regression to the mean?”

And then I will follow through on my intention, my purpose, and I will attempt the impossible and when I’ve completed that intention and I will Put My Phone Down. I will close that browser. Close that loop.

But if I don’t, if I find myself scrolling, I will acknowledge–out loud–that I just surrendered my agency. I handed my intention to someone else. And I’ll have to say it out loud. “Well shit,” I’ll say. “I just helped pay for a billionaire compound in New Zealand.” Or: “Markie Z just sucked seventeen minutes from my life.”

Because this is the lesson I want to drill deep into bone and marrow: attention and intention are tightly coupled.

Our storytellers got it right. This is Camazotz. We are prey for vampires, batteries for the machines.

But we can choose, in that moment before we click-tap-type: are we going to use this tech to connect, to create, to deepen our awareness and enrich lives? Or will we hand our agency and attention over to others who know exactly what they want to do with our precious time, with our limited breaths and heartbeats.

Or: we can put down the phone. We can walk away.

Go touch some grass.

Okay. I’m in a cafe. I’m opening Instagram.

“I’m posting my commitment to feast,” I say.