You’ve heard of inbox bankruptcy. I’m embarking on Ɛmail armageddon.
If inboxes were like our physical homes, we’d be frantically calling the police. The shit’s been flash-mobbed.
We’d be reporting hundreds of intruders relentlessly knocking on our door to sell us things we don’t need, inviting us to drinks we don’t want to drink, reminding us we haven’t answered their knocks at the door, and proposing we meet up for no particular reason, though it has been forever.
Email shows up naked and rutting in our front yards each morning, and whichever message got there first gets to our mind first.
“You’ve got mail” is no longer cute, it’s a summons.
Unfortunately, there’s no restraining order for the Inbox. There is no virtual police force to honor your consent. The Federal Communications Commission still requires Tariffs for telegrams, but is completely silent on the topic of email.
There’s a bouncer at the spam door, but he’s just looking out for crocks and jorts.
You are your only filter, and our modern Inbox was designed to bet you can’t check just one ©. The majority of my Inbox is junk food for the mind.
I love the heartfelt emails I’ve collected over the years, but those messages are such a small fraction of what I’m assaulted with daily that I’m willing to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
Dear Inbox, We've been to 0 together, I'm going to 1 alone.
Effort and cost (social and $) were once required to inhabit a fellow fellow’s mind. You had to send a letter of introduction through a trusted contact. There were gatekeepers (literally and figuratively). You had to pay the government to transport a small piece of paper across the country.
In the physical Way Back Machine, you simply had to wait in a well-appointed vestibule until such time as the inhabitant was ready to engage.
Or, as I intend to do, trust physical reality as my inbox.
This is my sorrowful goodbyte To the messages I'll never read To the dinners I may miss To Inbox's siren song of humanity waiting patiently to crash my attention onto the rocks Fill my ears with wax Tie me to the masthead through these waters
If you’d like to reach me, please fax +1 610-870-8795 or telegram 29 Main Street, Bisbee, Arizona 85603. I’ll receive your message in September.