Every now and then I come across something online that hits me pretty much right where I live. That happened last week when I read a piece written in the UK’s Telegraph titled “Could You Survive a Week With No Internet?” The article’s provocative title reeled me in, and the story of what one man observed about himself and the overall shape of his life when he unplugged for a week kept me reading … and nodding in agreement.
A lot.
Before I dive into his observations, let me first confess that I like the Internet. As a naturally curious person, it can be like a limitless intellectual playground for me. (And, to be honest, sometimes a not-so-intellectual one, but one that’s nonetheless entertaining and engrossing.)
But I’ve also noticed, especially since capitulating and getting a smartphone, that it can become a compulsive destination if I’m not careful to discipline myself. Intellectual curiosity all-too-quickly devolves into looking for that next hit of online stimulation. Sort of like a lab rat in an experiment, where the rodent can pop as many little food pellets out of a dispenser as it wants.
In his article, James Brown addresses exactly that tendency, talking about how detaching from the Internet for a week (as part of a documentary film) powerfully sensitized him to how dependent upon the medium he’d become. He writes,
“On a good day my internet use involves some practical assistance, some funny and interesting social interaction, some great analytics action for my work website, maybe a fans’ football report. And ideally some time spent doing things in the real world.
On a bad day I spend more time on it than off, am stuck in a fog of aimless social media scrolling, poring over boring Facebook posts from people I don’t know, distracted by email links from mailing lists I never signed up for and rotating between sports pages, newspapers, NewsNow, card games, social interaction notifications, six Twitter accounts (for personal and work) and five email accounts. I’m chained to the digital world.
Stuck in a fog. Distracted. Chained. Those words got my attention, because I knew exactly what he was talking about. I’m online pretty much all day as part of my work here at Plugged In. As I write, I’m constantly toggling back and forth between the sentences and paragraphs I’m trying to craft and the information I need to write them.
But, like most folks who have a desk and any form of Internet access, it’s so easy to justify “taking a little break” to check out … whatever every so often. To the extent that it’s related to news or culture (as those impromptu online forays often are for me) it’s easy to justify them as part of work, because, well, I’m keeping track of what’s going on in the world. And even if I’m being really “good,” there are always text, email and Facebook notifications on my phone to reckon with as well. In short, the Internet is only ever a click or swipe away.
I think what I appreciated most about Brown’s article, however, was what he began to discover after a couple Internet-free days:
The first thing that struck me after a day of abstention wasn’t so much what I lost, but what I gained. Time. So much time. Not taking my phone into the bedroom with me was giving me at least two hours extra a day.
The second thing that became apparent was how much “dead time” I spent looking at my phone for stimulation. And how “dead time” had become “all the time”. Pretty much anywhere and everywhere. In bed, at both ends of the day, in cabs, on toilets, during meetings, during meals, whilst watching TV. Suddenly, without the internet, all those things became what they used to be. Things in their own right rather than providing background to me using my phone.
“‘Dead time’ had become ‘all the time.” Again, I found myself nodding ruefully in agreement. As Brown’s experiment continued, he noticed how much he wasn’t telling himself the truth with regard to how dominant the Internet had become in molding his day-to-day, moment-by-moment existence.
Brown categorized his Internet sabbatical as if “I’d stepped outside of the Matrix. I realised exactly how I try to fade out the real world by logging into the digital one.” I think he’s exactly right. “The Matrix” isn’t ultimately a hospitable homestead. An interesting, even beguiling one, yes. But not a realm that’s liable to yield the kind of meaning and purpose it promises if we engage and indulge in it uncritically and compulsively. If we’re not careful and intentional with the ways we interact with this powerful tool (and digital destination), I think there’s a real risk of living a life in which we’re fading out, as Brown describes it, more than we’re leaning in—one in which we’re being dulled more than we’re being sharpened.
My point here isn’t to say that we should all log off forever. Obviously, that’s not going to happen, for me or, probably, for you. But I think articles like this one prompt me to take a close look at my own habits when it comes to the Internet (and other media, for that matter), challenging me to set limits on my usage of this powerful portal so that I’m not mindlessly and passively shaped by it.
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