Internet burnout

I haven't written on here in years. Most of my online life gets lived on Facebook these days, but I can't really say what I need to say there. I have no idea if anyone is going to read this, but whatever, it needs to come out.

I'm feeling kind of tired of the Internet. I feel like I expend a massive amount of mental energy trying to connect with people on Facebook, or Twitter, or YouTube, and the amount of satisfaction I get in those moments that I do is comparatively small compared to the frustration I feel at failing. I feel sometimes like I fail at it more than I succeed. Ultimately, I'm using these online venues as a replacement for seeing people in real life with the same expectations as if I actually was, which is a recipe for disappointment. 

I used to have long, soulful email exchanges with a few of the people I'd meet online. Most of them I can't remember anymore, the email accounts I used to use before Gmail now lost to a sea of spam. I wish I could, the people that I wrote to were all interesting, funny and thoughtful. Back before that, I'd actually write real letters, full of personality and what I thought of as wit. Neither of these was the same as seeing someone face to face, but they felt substantive in a way that my interactions with people online these days often don't.

One of the things that I've experienced lately is a kind of burnout watching YouTube videos made by popular vloggers, who have a tendency to create a kind of intimacy between artist and audience, speaking to the camera and addressing the audience as if they were a close friend. I yearn for the kind of closeness and connection that these videos seem to promise, but the intimacy provided is ultimately false. 

How do I solve this frustration? 

The Impossible Dream

I'd like to relate a story of what happened to me this past weekend. Unfortunately, a tricky little thing called a non-disclosure agreement was signed, so I find myself wanting to express thoughts about something that really make very little sense out of context. I'll do my best anyway - I've got to get it out.

I went to what was essentially a "cattle-call" musical theatre audition. It was my first experience of the kind, and I really had very few expectations going in. No, wait, that's not entirely true. I did expect that I could handle whatever got thrown at me. I mean, I've been involved in musical theatre for years and years. The major part of the audition was the dance call, and boy, was I in for a shock. Or a treat, it all depends.

Nearly everyone there had some kind of dance training, and many of them were absolutely amazing dancers. I wasn't. In fact, I think it's fair to say that I was the most incompetent dancer there, period. I talked to some of the others who expressed consternation at their lack of dancin' mojo, but I don't think anyone else sucked nearly as much as me. A fact of which I take a certain twisted pride.

It wasn't that way at first, naturally. I'm the type of person who likes a challenge, especially if it's within the realm of things I know I can do. Anyone who was in Jenee Gowing's 2003 movement class at Acadia knows I can be just as much of a dancing fool as I am a singer and an actor. I just need plenty of rehearsal, which this particular situation did not offer me. With probably 80 people or more in the studio, and only a few hours to get through the whole thing - there wasn't time to teach everyone how to actually do the dance they were teaching. Just watch and learn, that was how it went. I was so frustrated.

I met a lot of nice people who were very encouraging. To everyone who told me I could do it, even when I knew that it was pointless, thank you. It made the day a lot better, and it allowed me a sort of Zen acceptance of the fact that I didn't make the cut. There were people who cheered me on when they didn't have to, and I appreciate that even more. A big thank you to everyone.

Here's the thing. I nearly gave up completely. I nearly said to myself, "This is nuts. I'm out of my league, time to go." I didn't. I could hardly stand being in the room, let alone try to dance, but I made the best I could of what I thought was a pretty much impossible situation. My old high school music teacher, Bob Rushton, used to say, "We can never be perfect, but we can always try." As trite as it is, often the effort is more important than success or failure. I stuck with the dancing, and tried to push the thoughts of humiliation out of my mind for long enough to get through it.

I think that I did make the cut, at least the one that really matters. If I hadn't bothered, if I'd left before the end, I would probably have hated myself for it. The whole trip, the whole experience, would have been nothing but a waste of time. Instead, I have not only a healthy sense of self-respect, but a better sense of who I am as an artist and what I want to keep doing. That's pretty fucking cool.