@EmilyMoranBarwick

I'm hitting this frustrating place time and again with my writing...some combination of (most likely self-imposed) Observer Effect and ongoing uncertainty and disquiet with the purpose of my writing.

Obviously, I'm publishing my writing publicly. So there's inherently an awareness of observation—of it being (at least in part) "for the public." Otherwise, why not keep it in a journal?

Currently, I'm working on a topic that could go in so many directions. And I'm battling with how much to lean into the autobiographical versus a more universal commentary. Both interest me. Both may interest others.

I always want to somehow fit everything all at once in every piece. I want it to be for the world, for myself, for all of us. I want to cathartically create and exorcize what's within me, and somehow have that catharsis unburden others in some way.

I also become self-conscious of how self-involved so much of this can feel/seem/sound/be(?). Like I'm making the most masturbatory website of all time and trying to pass it off as a noble artistic pursuit.

@EmilyMoranBarwick

I've noticed this pattern... I finally felt a true spark of connection again to engaging with my website as an artistic practice. It was invigorating. Playful. Curious. Boundless in possibilities in an energizing rather than overwhelming way.

I find I crave dialogue and community with other artists, poets and writers working in this intersection of art, writing, poetry, and websites. I returned, as I often do, to Laurel Schwulst, whose work directly centers in this space I'm so drawn to. (I highly recommend her essay "My website is a shifting house next to a river of knowledge. What could yours be?")

From there, I allowed myself to "surf" the web through artists' sites...organically carried upon the collective breath of these creators from one to another. And it was beautiful. Carrying my brain further into what the web and what a website can be. Furthering my drive to stay in dialogue with mine as an artwork, an art practice itself.

BUT THEN...the shift...the pattern...

It crept in little by little...I shifted from taking in the creative explorations of other artists/poets/writers to looking at their accomplishments, awards, art shows, publications, press coverage. Looking at their social media followings, newsletter methods and subscriber counts. I started feeling that ever-common-refrain within me of "how do I get my work 'out there' such that I’m a 'real' artist/writer/person".

From the delight of playing with pixels and experimenting with my website, I fall into the pressure of production—of how this playful art practice isn't "public facing" in a way that "shows my work." And even when it is public-facing, how do I show it? How do I "get it to people?" I'm so tied to the concept of nothing other than full essay posts, or a complete art show "counting." And even then, only counting if there is some external recognition...some verification that "yes, you can be an artist/writer/person."

These dynamics of how to "get the thing I made out to people" has been and remains the biggest stumbling block for my creative process and my mind. It's been there since childhood, far before internet times. As a little (unknowingly) neurodivergent girl who wanted so very badly to connect with others...to write and create and have it touch people's lives the way others' writing and creation had touched hers...had kept her alive, even.

That "how" becomes a grinding, angst-driven pit into which the creative impulse and connection is utterly macerated...

Even now, as I write this...it feels good to do so...but simultaneously, there is the rising chorus of "does this matter if it's just a post here in this Feedbackless Feed that notifies no one?" "should this be a post-post" "should I be doing a newsletter more about even these things?" "should this have its own RSS?" "should I make posts on Mastodon about this?" "should I try using Instagram or Facebook?" "should I (and how can I??) try reaching out to and connecting with artists actively working in this intersection?" And on and on...

And suddenly, the joyful, invigorating surfing has landed me back in the macerating pit...and I feel the pressure of "content production." Of returning to a traditional, recognizable "proof of output": a long-form essay. Better churn one out and then you can play more with art and writing that no one may see for a bit...and that even when it's here, you don't know how or if to even "notify" people of being here...like this post itself...released silently into this space...with no newsletter, no notification, no fanfare...just breathed into the web...)

...does it still matter?

@EmilyMoranBarwick

So...this Feedbackless Feed feed has gotten pretty heavy as of late. So much introspection. So much angst. I mean, look. I'm obviously an angsty person—it drips off every pixel of this site.

But there's also lightness, joy, levity, and snark up in this dumpster fire of a body and lightning storm of a brain. And not to be the most fucking cliché I can possibly be (and quote Pink in the process): but I am my own worst enemy in staying connected to those parts.

So fuck it, heavy darkness. I will float through the brain fog like a luxury sauna, and revel in the beautiful horrible absurdity of this existence.

And maybe make a fart joke or two...just to not take myself too seriously...

@EmilyMoranBarwick

I'm concerned (shocker) that this website is already becoming TOO MUCH. It's trying to hold too much. (Or that I'm asking it to hold too much...)

I think there is something to be said for curation. For not overwhelming people with too much all at once. How can anyone get a clear sense of things when it's an outright onslaught?

At the same time, I find much of the concern for curation springs from the pressure to fracture ourselves for each frame (professional, personal, artist, writer, friend), each platform, each purpose. A fracturing that, while at times necessary, prudent, utilitarian, can all-to-easily lead us to living with splintered identities, or reducing ourselves to one-dimensional caricatures.

One of the (many) things I'm interested in with this website is seeing how much I can fit within it as a container. (As a BIG ASS BAG, if you will). I'm interested in stretching the bounds of its HTML...seeing how much it can hold.

I see this website as medium, as container, as partner, as poem, as participant, as art, as observer, as receiver, as comforter, as challenger, as limiter, as enabler, as artistic practice, as scroll, as...almost anything but "a website" or "a blog."

Still...the parts of me that anguish over how to "properly present" myself, my work, my art, my writing to the world...those parts want to prune it all down, provide a clear roadmap, clean up the site, sweep into some closet all the mess, make it more professional or more clearly artistic or more clearly for writing or more clearly not "just a website."

Yet, implementing any of those constraints negates all this space is to me. It negates the work I'm practicing here. It collapses the potential bounds of this container before I even begin to fully challenge them...

It also mirrors the self-curation-to-the-point-of-erasure I've experienced over a lifetime of masking—of desperately trying (and usually failing) to "present properly" in a dominantly neurotypical world.

I am not an elevator pitch. I don't have clear, clean boundaries. My art has always been more MacGyver than artisan.

@EmilyMoranBarwick

I always anguish when I'm not being pathologically consistent with my presence, engagement, contributions, and "public output" (even when I'm being privately productive). I feel this pressure for some formulaic, unwavering consistency—with my art and writing, within digital communities, on social platforms, in email communications, in...everything.

I used to be consistent to a fault. I forced consistency to points well beyond burnout. To points where I no longer had a choice for consistency.

What if it's okay to be inconsistent? To be humanly variable?

What if that doesn't mean anything about me other than life is inconsistent?

What if it's a sign of my humanity rather than some deep failing?

What if all it means about me is that I am not a machine?

@EmilyMoranBarwick

I'm working on an essay that's supposed to be about this Feedbackless Feed. About what it is to me. Why I created it. How it serves me.

And like every time I try to write a "formal post" (a post to be "published officially" rather than released quietly here in the static HTML of the Feedbackless Feed, or nestled deep in the safety of the overwhelming footnotes of my Changelog), it's terrifying.

Whenever I’m trying to write “formally,” it’s terrifying. All the threads and all the whole of everything connected want to be there at once. I feel the need to capture it all at once. And have it all in there. Have all of me in there.

I'm trying to wrangle lightning. Trying to translate what's in my brain into something linear, clear, understandable, digestible. Something completely other than what it actually is. Because I am not linear. I don't think in words. What I want to communicate has no language. Yet it yearns to be heard and is desperate to be understood.

So I wrestle lightning...

@EmilyMoranBarwick

I am writing.

I am writing through brain fog.

I am writing through gut-wrenching pain.

I am writing through the unexplained chaos of my digestive system.

I am writing without being able to eat.

I am creating through it.

And for some reason, I want—I need—"you" to know that I am.

Something in me needs you to know.

Please take this offering...a screenshot from my essay draft. My essay that's currently in fractured sections, typed out between bouts of being doubled over. Returned to, diligently, lovingly, painfully. Something is forming here, but it's taking its time. And I hate that it is. And I want need you to know it's happening. It's just taking time to release. Because I make it so big, the "real posts..." Too big. And my body is in outright rebellion.

An offering...

And I’m writing here too...right now...here in this quiet space. Here I am releasing. Silently, steadily. Here in this Feedbackless Feed. In the Changelog footnotes. I'm writing and releasing.

But those are the quiet places few people see.

So you may not know I’m still creating.

And something in me needs you to know that I am...