“No sense in worrying about these bats I thought.
The poor bastard will see them soon enough.”
Hunter S. Thompson
Your eyeballs are being hunted. And not in the “age old noble battle between man and beast” kind of a way, or even how Jon Wick might pursue the people that killed his dog.
No. This is the kind of hunting that guy from middle management does when he pays to stalk African big game with a grenade launcher on vacation.
It’s not sporting. We are tethered to a post. Our endorphin-crazed, blue-light-seeking human brains are hopelessly outgunned. We are harvested, drowned in toxic content soup that has been seasoned to perfection to make us react, to lose our shit until we have no more outrage to give and deathscroll like a narwhal beached on a sandbank entirely made up of the dental implants of lifestyle influencers.
But even now, there is still hope. I for one do not want to see my stiff, taxidermied attention span mounted on some Silicon Valley wall with a bemused expression permanently seared into its rictus stare.
I for one refuse to drown quietly, to be another unmarked creative grave subsumed in the radioactive content ocean.
I see where this is going.
I see where it ends.
I see the goddamn bats.
To see the bats is to behold the unspoken, passively accepted madness of the world and call its BS. It is to seek the truth, beauty and savage imperfection of our freakish planet and try and fail gloriously to capture it on the page. Again and again.
We do that here by bringing an unwieldy typewriter to a robot apocalypse. Here, we meet the dawning of the post-digital, post-truth age with words and tv shows, movies and books… With satire and drama and cartoons that aspire to something more. Something like saving the world… Or at least, the parts of it that make us lovably and hopelessly human.
And bats… There will definitely be bats.
If that sounds like a drumbeat you can feel in your bones, say hi.
We might just do something cool together.