Brenden Matthews

I recently got banned from Rover, a website for finding pet sitters and dog walkers. Rover didn’t provide me with a specific reason for the ban, except I know that the walker alleges my dog bit her. I find the story a bit fishy, but I can’t prove it didn’t happen. My dogs have never bitten anyone in the past, certainly not enough to break skin, and the whole story she (the walker) provided seems a bit odd.

Yesterday, I took a walk to the Brooklyn Bridge, a notorious tourist trap but also a beautiful and marvelous feat of engineering. I wanted to photograph it (a cliché, I know) so I can make a print for someone as a gift. Hours passed in what felt like minutes. This experience, this immersion in creation for its own sake, is what makes me call myself an artist. So when a friend of mine–who reads this blog–made an off-hand comment critical of the fact that I call myself an artist, I wasn’t offended, but it did get me thinking about: who is an artist? What makes someone an artist? Is it enough to just make art? Do you have to show it? Sell it? Call yourself an artist on your LinkedIn profile?

I was sitting on the subway yesterday when I glanced up from my book and noticed something striking: every single person in my line of sight was absorbed in their phone, beautifully lined up in a picture-perfect row of devices. While this scene has become commonplace, something about this particular moment stopped me. It wasn’t just the ubiquity of screens but what this tableau revealed about our evolving relationship with attention itself. Frustratingly, I didn’t have my camera with me.

The year is 2025. I’m turning 40 soon, sitting in a cramped 450-square-foot apartment with thin walls, $50,000 in credit card debt, and a credit score of 646. My financial worth: $100 in liquid assets. My net worth: deeply negative. Five years ago, I was worth over $7 million. This isn’t a story about market crashes or economic downturns. This is a story about human fallibility—specifically, mine. If you’re looking for a cautionary tale about greed, overconfidence, and the psychological pitfalls of sudden wealth, welcome. I’ve lived it all so you don’t have to.

I’ve been contemplating the nature of cognitive space—specifically, how our contemporary patterns of engagement have transformed our relationship with unstructured thinking time. Many of us instinctively reach for our devices at the first hint of unoccupied moments, filling potential mental openness with scrolling, consumption, and external stimulation. This pattern suggests a collective shift in how we perceive the value of simply being alone with our thoughts.