Recently, I picked up a copy of Little Altars Everywhere at my local thrift store. I passed it up for a few weeks, but it kept catching my eye. I brought it home to add to my collection, I so love the title. It’s how I kept sight of myself through this crumbling, or how I think I did anyway. I started noticing little altars to my Self around the house; on my nightstand, at the foot of my bed, tucked behind the door. I used to photograph them a lot. I still do sometimes. They depict the sense of self that suddenly slipped away from me the same way my anxiety imagined the kids would, playing on the far side of the playground when they were very little. I knew they were there, but maybe I should go and check. I found myself missing. Disorienting as it was, I retold the story of who I am using the evidence I’d left lying around in these little altars of personality.

Most prominent in these vignettes are my children. There is a miniature house made of LEGO, there are clay figures molded in art class, there is a folded love note sealed with a heart-shaped sticker. Everywhere I look I see them. I see how I valued each of these small trinkets enough to keep it on display where I can be reminded everyday of the small people who fill my life with wonder. Words are present, too. Countless books and journals, and even a dictionary act as functional decoration in every room of the house, a few art supplies are mixed in as well. They remind me of my love of exploration and discovery. In the kitchen lives a collection of solar powered bobble heads, reminding me of the sense of whimsy I hope will return to my soul once this darkness has lifted.

I wonder if that is the same way the algorithm sees us, as little collections of internet activity that make up who we are. I’m not tech savvy so I don’t always think about how I am immortalized in the digital space, but I imagine that all my clicks, posts, and hovers saved over time have the same effect as the items on my altars saved as images in my camera roll. One could scroll back through their activity to last winter and remember “oh yeah, that’s when I tried all those chili recipes,” or be reminded of the morning they checked in at the protest, or review the words the typed to their uncle about the article he shared. Does our internet activity become a digital Self the same way the collections on my altars capture me? Best to be mindful of my retweets.

It’s so strange that these apps appeared into our collective conscious almost overnight, and then the entire world began to function around them. They remind me of religious texts, setting the tone and expectation for millions of people. The apps seem to function in a similar way. Anger leads the way on Facebook, Pride on Instagram, and Lust on Tumblr. How far do these ideologies extend into our lives off screen? Is the internet becoming the lens through which we see ourselves and each other? If I don’t want to look through it, will I be able to see anyone clearly? Can they see me?

Are chronic phone users the zealots of technology? Are they the people who would have you believe that digital life is the worthy reality, and that the image we cultivate virtually is the only one that “counts?” We confess our sins and exalt our good deeds to leave digital records of ourselves. We want to be judged as worthy of the screen time. Isn’t that weird? If I run to the store to pick up a few things for a man my young son found lying behind a bush while waiting at dance practice, and I don’t post a photo of the plastic bag next to his sleeping, booted feet, is that good deed left out of my algorithmic score? Do undocumented good deeds still count toward our character?

Not everyone defines good the same way that I do, I understand that now. It shocks me every time. I hope one day we all agree on what it is. I try to keep my own definition broad, but I have my biases. There is a woman who walks around our neighborhood positively glued to her phone. I’ve lived here many years and we’ve never even said hello to each other because she is always engaged with the rectangle in her hand. I overheard her bump into another neighbor on the sidewalk because she wasn’t watching where she was going. My idea of a good walk has little overlap with her idea of a good walk. The reason I take a walk is to be with all that is here; the air, the pavement, the trees, and the people coming the other way on the sidewalk. I cannot imagine spending a walk looking down at a screen. I try to stay open-minded, surely she knows what’s best for her. I don’t even know the woman, it might be the only time she spends on her phone all day, but I doubt it. I suspect she spends the majority of her day checking what’s good on the ‘gram. I think that’s what makes a zealot; the definition of what’s good is too narrow. For my neighbor, what’s good is the reality inside her screen, and because she only values what’s good in her phone, I don’t get the opportunity to know who she is. How can I connect with her if she doesn’t look up? I bet the algorithm knows everything about her.

Who is she to herself, I wonder? Does she see herself differently now than she did before the apps took over? Maybe she believes that her time is best spent online, creating and consuming content. Is she conscious of what each swipe of the finger says about herself? Maybe she sees a little altar on every homepage. If given the task, would my neighbor find her identity in the version of herself that lives in the zeros and ones, active and engaged, or the version that passes by my window each day, passive and disconnected? What would it mean to seek to find yourself in a place that doesn’t really exist?

thank you for reading.