The Internet is Shitty

Or, How My Sister and Me Will Destroy Roblox

Outside the snow is flurrying, pirouetting, arabesqueing and all that poetic nonsense. It's beautiful. The suburbs are beautiful only when it snows. The reason: It covers up all the asphalt and chemicaled lawns and trash in the gutters. I get to pretend that the earth is clean. 

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I’ve spent a lot of time with my eleven-year-old sister this winter. Out of all the people in Michigan, I enjoy spending time with her the most - she’s willing to play with me in ways my adult friends won’t. She’ll build snowmen with me, go for a jog, dress me up in a crazy outfit of frills and bowties and then go to the thrift store with me to buy plushy animals and stitch them into frankstein teddies. She doesn’t hesitate to say “yes” - Yes is the spirit of her play.

But, as a casual preacher of the apocalypse, I also fear how this society and its technologies effect her. From Roblox to Youtube, I think she’s being groomed into an obedient consumer.

Below is a video of her playing the trashiest computer game I’ve ever seen. The object of the game is to remain as young as possible. To be young you must collect money, yoga mats, and skin cream.

If you play the game well, you might be able to reach the gates of heaven at the top of the staircase, which functions as a bonus round. Eventually, my sister did collect enough money and reached heaven. Below is a video of her beyond the pearly gates:

Yes, in heaven you get to sit down on a park bench and rest.

This game is fucked. You don’t need to be an elderly person to enjoy a quiet moment on a park bench, nor does money make you young, nor is being elderly something to escape . . . Rrr! This game (and many other internet tracking devices) is indoctrinating my sister to fear the process of life, cultivating an insecurity about aging, and orienting her depth toward the flatness of a screen. NPR published an article about kids obsessing over skin-care products. In the article, there is a brief anecdote about a mother “trying to sway her 11-year-old out of buying an anti-wrinkle eye cream.”

Yesterday, we loaded sleds into the car and drove to the park. I didn’t want to go sledding but I promised that I would take her — Nothing stings more than seeing the face of a child whose promise was broken. On the drive over, I asked her what she might do when she becomes an adult. She replied, “I want to be a famous artist. But I want to be realistic so I’ll probably work in retail to make money, firstly. When I’m 24 I’ll have enough money to quit my job and reclaim my youth.”

We sped down those hills, gravity whipping us across the snow. Our favorite sledding style was to hold each other’s hands in separate sleds — our unequal body weights made our sleds twirl in lopsided circles as we plunged down the hill. Up and down, up and down, we never got tired. I’m so glad I kept my promise! It was the play I needed.

During our sledding, I lamented to myself that I’ll be leaving Michigan soon. And with Michigan, I’ll be leaving my sister. Throughout the months here, my sister kept my spirit fresh and playful. She kept me on my toes, made me be responsible and made me keep my word. I even watched Frozen. So I wanted to leave her with the most important part of myself. Something that she could use for the rest of her life.

In the car ride home, I asked if she believed in magic. “Yes!” she said.

“Would you like to learn magic?”

“Yes — I’ve tried to practice opening doors with spells. I want to train my powers.”

“I’m not talking about Harry Potter magic. Do you want to learn real magic?”

“. . . Yes?”

“What do you think real magic is about?”

She seemed confused, “Um, like making illusions?”

“Real magic is about listening to the world around us. It’s not about controlling things — it’s about perceiving the hidden. With enough practice, you’ll be able to see in ways that other people can’t. You’ll be able to talk to the faeries.”

Her face brightened when she heard about faeries, “Yes, I want to learn.”

“But it takes time,” I cautioned, “it’s a lifetime of practice.”

When we got home we built an altar in her room dedicated to Mother Nature. We decorated it with all the things she found beautiful and inspiring. I told her that every serious wizard and witch keeps a journal. As a novice witch, I told her to fill it with all ideas she finds inspiring and curious. The first thing she wrote in her grimoire was the meaning of her name: Splendor. That evening, we went outside and I taught her how to listen to the faeries and the trees and the stones. I couldn’t teach her much — as a child, she has the natural ability to see what adults cannot. We went slowly and quietly through the snow, intuiting the push and tug of the ether. She found a stone that called out for her touch: a piece of gneiss with a pink quartz vein. We returned to her room where she placed it on her altar, between a figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe and a small succulent plant.

“Now, Splendor, when you are finished with any type of magical ceremony, I suggest that you recite a closing enchantment.”

“What do I say?”

“Say whatever your heart urges you to speak.”

And in front of her altar, on her knees, before the flame of the candle and all the objects and images that inspire her, she bowed her head and said very beautiful words.