In the summer of 2025, I began searching the internet for blogs maintained by individuals simply talking about the things they love. I wanted writing that wasn’t a byproduct of internet commerce — I wanted to read about individual feelings and experiences. My search led me to a Reddit thread, which in turn led me to Ye Olde Blogroll. I believe it was through a photo on Ava’s Blog, that I first learned about The Internet Phone Book. At the time, it was sold out. I think I waited until the autumn reprint and finally received my copy in early November.
The concept is wonderful. On the day I received the book, I found so many cool websites that left me in awe of their design. Looking at them, I found myself wishing I had the determination to master web coding properly. There is so much to learn, yet always so little time.
Flipping through these pages reminds me of the rows of card catalogues from my childhood. Of course, libraries had already begun going digital even in my youth, but I caught the tail end of the analogue era. I remember being just tall enough to reach the bottom drawers; I loved the sound of them sliding out and the tactile “stickiness” of the wood rubbing together. As a child, I didn’t quite understand their purpose, but I remember thinking that the people flipping through those cards must have had very important work to do.
One simply jots down a call number like a secret address and follows a trail of letters and numbers to find a specific book on a shelf. Slowly, those catalogues disappeared, much like the yellow and white phone books that used to be left on porches to get damp in the rain.
Yet, there is something tactile and assuring about holding a physical directory of the web. When I follow these digital “call numbers,” I am often amazed by the unique architecture of these custom websites. They have nooks, crannies, and quirks that you simply don’t find in the uniform, sterile feeds of social media. These digital homes seem to be built for others to discover and visit — not to be monetized.
In these spaces, I am no longer bombarded by the weight of current events or the grind of adult responsibilities. I can finally listen. I can focus on individual expressions — the creative digital art and raw thoughts of a stranger — without the feeling of being advertised to. I am seeking another person’s mind. I don’t need to know them; I just want to hear what they have to say.
As with many of my interests, time is a luxury. Between the many obligations of life, the printed book sometimes sits on my shelf, perhaps collecting a bit of dust. But in a rare moment of freedom, I find myself visiting the “Dial-a-site” page. I enter a random number and let it take me to a surprise destination.
Websites are often fleeting; they come and go, and many are never archived. The feelings behind a blog post may change over time, yet the sentiment remains held within the words. Even if a digital address eventually leads to a dead link, and even if the authors no longer feel exactly how they felt when they wrote, the book serves as a permanent record. It is a way of saying: I know this place and these thoughts existed once. Perhaps some of these sites are no longer actively maintained, but I find that I don’t mind. There are billions of people I will never meet, but through this book and a random “dial,” I get to witness a specific moment in someone’s journey — a side of themselves they quietly or eagerly wanted the world to see. In an attention economy, I think that connection is enough.
Colophon:
- Location: Photos captured at Songshan Cultural and Creative Park and against the Taipei 101 skyline.
- Inspiration: Ava’s Blog and Ye Olde Blogroll.
- Objects: The yellow Internet Phone Book and an italki “Language is Human” t-shirt.