Pop 89: Before they steal your soul

By Madonna Hamel

There’s an old saying from the early days of newspapers: “Lies make it halfway around the world before the truth even gets out of bed.” Then came the internet, and lies proliferated instantly, all over, all at once. Now we’ve got AI fudging words and voices the way the accountants of the super-rich number-crunch dollars to make false sense.

I suggest, if you get your “facts” from the smaller newspapers. The regional newspaper editor, mine among them, is dedicated to getting the word straight from the horse’s mouth. Quirky as it may seem, he or she is not interested in scandal as much as transmitting information.

And here’s the biggest reason to “go local”: The so-called “reliable sources of information” in the wider world are all owned by the same people. The richest man on earth owns X.
The family of the second-richest man owns Paramount, which owns U.S. TV network CBS, and could soon own Warner Bros., which owns CNN. The third-richest man owns Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp. The fourth-richest man owns the Washington Post and Amazon MGM Studios.

Thank God for small papers and the people who read them. I salute you. You are not deluded into thinking that money solves all problems. While the big boys hunger for wealth and power, fame and fortune, celebrity and influence, and are, thus, willing to cozy up to people they can’t stand, don’t trust, and would never let their daughters marry, you have a backbone. And it doesn't need to be clothed in expensive suits. You have balls because no one’s got you by them. You orient yourself toward the simple pleasures of life because there are, indeed, some things money can’t buy.

Thankfully—especially here, where we enjoy more sunlight hours than the rest of the country—the sun still shines down on everyone. The rising moon floods buttery light on open fields; family gatherings make for interest as well as fun and laughter; dogs fetch, owls hoot, and coyotes yip, bringing us back to our bodies and replenishing our souls.

Nature will save us—not media moguls hell-bent on sucking all our time away. If we can give our 2.75 hours a day to unmediated experiences, like walking or talking to friends, rather than getting hooked into an AI-generated lies-on-a-loop—like the fake 75-year-old gymnast or clever trash-talking babies—as if seniors and babies need rebranding—there’s still hope.

My own downfall is reels of gardening hacks and clips of daddies returning home from service overseas. But the screen is not my saviour. And it makes for a toxic babysitter. Even the man who invented the net wouldn’t let his kids near it. Maybe, like me, he believed: the net is a portal for soul-kill.

In the late 1990s, I wrote and performed a piece called Lolita @ 50. It’s about the ways the camera scopes the bodies of women and how some women “like” being watched because it’s a way to grab attention. But it’s not healthy attention. My Lolita says: “I don't believe the camera steals the soul; I believe it leaves it behind.”

My friend Avril taught me a lesson in “being present” one Christmas holiday in Antigua. She insisted I leave my cell at home in Canada. On Christmas Eve we went to a small juke joint to hear the local reggae band play. At one point, a big, beautiful Black man got up. I recall every detail: his crisp pink cotton shirt, his deep warm voice, the exquisitely calibrated rhythm of the band merging with his as he began to sing “O Holy Night.” I was so bowled over that when he hit the high note, singing the line “Fall on your knees,” I almost fell on mine.

But if, instead, I was fumbling with my cell phone trying to “record” the moment, I would not have been so moved. The phone would have blocked the song from reaching my heart. I recall every detail in my heart, mind, soul, and body because I didn’t leave it up to my cell to do it for me.

Scientist Iain McGilchrist and writer Paul Kingsnorth are two brilliant voices speaking out in defence of the soul. McGilchrist said recently: “The opposite of life is not death, but the machine.”
To counter the rule of the machine, we need more exposure to each other, nature, and our souls—none of which can be found on our computers. Though I am not against technology, I’m aware that no media is benign or neutral. The tech behind bombs, guns, shopping apps, and surveillance cameras is not neutral.

And let us not forget: not all tech is driven by algorithms, clickbait, and wires, nor requires cooling chambers. When I took the train to Quebec City one year, the woman sitting beside me was knitting scarves for all her grandchildren. There’s a technology behind those needles. It takes a technician to knit a scarf. But it takes a loving heart to want to. Interestingly, I was on my way to perform a piece called Scared Sacred in a low-tech performance festival. Knitting is low-tech, but the rewards are high. It keeps us connected in a physical, felt way.

The notion of living online in a global village never panned out. I live in a real village, where neighbours walk dogs together, go to the only restaurant for a monthly smorgasbord, gas up at the one pump, and swap stories at the one post office.
We used to have more country dances with live bands and two-stepping couples, but we still all show up for the Remembrance Day ceremony—even in a blizzard.

So, rather than hear about trillionaires, I’d rather turn to the calendar page of this paper, find a local garage sale or Christmas tea, and connect with others, soul to soul.