I don’t believe that there is a possible complete separation between life and writing. I personally can’t sit down to a task such as this and not bleed a little on the page. Usually, I try to go back and clean it the best I can, but the faint stain is always present.
I’ve often discussed the hypersensitivity of the lives we lead online. I’ve compared social media to high school, with the same aches and growing pains. However, I do prefer the tactile world to the digital one. I prefer a raw experience over a distilled version any day. Good or bad.
I came across a phrase today that struck me. It came from a source discussing best business practices in social media forums. But it connects so stunningly to the raw world that I had to carry with me.
We are curators.
Simple enough. In a digital sense, we collect and display the media, links, photos, music, and videos we want to share. We have our galleries and we invite others in. We are the curators of our lives as well. Every one of us.
I think of the haphazard gallery that I’ve compiled. The little broken oddities that I still choose to put a spotlight on. The corners that I’ve left curiously empty, and the places where it seems I started an installation, but wandered off before completion. It’s easy to get lost in here, and there are days where I make a wrong turn and wind up somewhere I did not plan to be.
We are all curators. There is another gallery not far from mine. We both laid the foundations with the same stones. We built the walls with the same plans. But while I was putting in windows, he was installing locks. When I asked for others to view my works, he shut off all the lights. I’m fairly sure he plans on burning his gallery down.
I find a strange peace in the idea of curators. Collectors and gallerinas. We can’t decide who puts what art on what wall. We can mourn the darkness of what would be a spectacular opening.
There are a lot of stains on this entry. But that’s the glory of the digital social life. It requires you to have a real life as well.