It has been suggested that there is a deep seated power in the place I can’t let go of. The rocks here are old, ancient; they are granite. It is thanks to the intense forces that formed this hard, enduring, inflexible stone, that Cornwall is slightly more radioactive than the rest of the UK. And this makes it easy for me to believe it when Ithell says that “rocks give rise to the psychic life of the land”, attracting certain types of human beings, as if my astrological compatibility also applies to the land. This place is my Smultronställe.

It’s a lump of land and sea, unchanged since the first time my tiny body was carried into it. When I visit now, I’ll give my mind a little tour as if we were on a sight seeing bus and visiting all the landmarks. First stop, the three seats, three bowl like shapes in the rock, used to fit us snug. Here are the smugglers tracks, deep gouges, mysterious, tread with caution. There’s an island over there, where we used to jump off into the water, pretend it was our boat, and a cave tucked away at the back, a prime spot for sea glass collecting. The deepest crack in the rock is where everyone used to piss.

The tour ends with my favourite rock pool. For this space to be a Smultronställe, it has to be visited multiple times, you have to know it, so it feels like home. A book told me that to communicate with a tree, I had to visit it multiple times, familiarise myself with it, get to know it. (fig. 4) But I’m worried I’ve visited this rock pool too many times. (fig. 5) It’s like Alan Tutorial, or Breadfaceblog. A loved action breaks down through repetition and becomes a burden to the blogger.

I’m looking at a replica of The Rock Pool, sitting in London three hundred miles from home. The tide doesn’t fill this one and I never have to empty it. The sea change comes from the internet instead. It’s about blogging and loss and doing something that you love over and over and over again, try to find a way to limit it, make it special, before you hate it and it’s gone (fig. 6). Project a collective mental weariness, pay attention to the younger generations outpouring of internet material and what it all means about our mental health. It’s about creating empathy across generations, and between humans and even towards objects and landscapes. Because everything is Sang: We are a generation, slumped.

Slumped because we are clay cliffs: a layer of soil and sediment sits on top of us, it’s the generation before, saturated and heavy with rain and achievement. we slump under its weight, run out onto the beach in streams of clay escaping into the sea.

So Breadfaceblog is a massive fuck you to whoever it concerns, because she’s going to stick her face in bread all day simply just because she loves it.

And these Internet subcultures are a form of resistance towards societal expectations. Individuals find solidarity and refuge on the Internet where a mutual empathy is formed. These are our sewing circles, our means of gossip and they can cross seas and generations.

So I feel the magic on the internet when Steve Roggenbuck shouts at everyone and no one in particular that “Cats have small hands”. He’s angry: “i’m ticked off about the size of the sky how is it this big?” He lets the internet know “I have made contact with the human beings of earth. People of Earth, people of Earth, you are more beautiful than you think you are!” and “I love the smell of people and how everyone is beautifully sucking at life.” What he says gets lost in the sea of the internet and filters through all of the sieves because how pathetic and shitty are these videos? They’ll lurk forever in an internet corner waiting for people to care, because who cares? What a quiet, brilliant protest, the kind that introverts can be a part of.