Alan Gurganus, the American novelist and short story writer, expressed in his interview with The Paris Review his interest in “confused narrators in search of credible heavens.”
That’s us. We find ourselves alive for a brief time in a chaotic, unfathomable universe, and the art we are able to give others and ourselves provide credible heavens. They are temporary, collaborative, fragile endeavors, subject to a host of financial, political, and interpersonal calamities, but they are undeniably human.
Yet we’re on the cusp of an era in which technological tools will be amorally leveraged by venture capital and private equity to exile as many human collaborators as possible. Based on the false promises of the overly optimistic tech sector, an avalanche of “content” — thoroughly metabolized to squeeze margins and mitigate risk — now (theoretically) awaits us.
What is our response?
We must grow deeply strange. We must become more ourselves, more in love with the enigma, more tolerant of our confusion, and more adamant over our vision of credible heavens. Create and record what is solitary, unpredictable, mysterious and profoundly hazardous. The flaws are the features, too.
Do not deceive yourself by believing the institutions and corporations will anoint you. Stop courting them. They’re separating us. Don’t submit. They’re all looking for a big exit? Show them the door. Make them eat their own shit until they realize they’re dehydrated and starving. Send up flares from the ocean of noise to signal to others who similarly will not accept the meek business of serving the algorithms, saving the cats, and training the AI.
You’re confused? You’re not alone. I’m out here. What are you making? Where can we go next? What will we make of each other? I’m sending this transmission to you. Send yours back. Do not scale. Peer-to-peer. The real’s gone underground.
beep beep, sending my transmission to you
I'm here too, growing stranger by the minute.