Not a Place
ONLINE IS NOT A PLACE
He says to her (it’s probably a her) I’m paranoid. I think that banning a famous person from a social media platform is a type of strategic data gathering. The act of banning creates a particular type of data: those who endorse the ban, and those who protest it.
The person on the other side of the screen tells him he’s here on this medium too. “And yet here you are”.
He pauses and admits, again, that he is addicted to the rush of adrenaline that comes from this controlled, surgical conflict, whilst also feeling a layer of paranoid nausea.
“I am serious about the data though. I think there’s something intensely useful: some one is banned from this platform and they announce their ban on another platform, which is still owned by the first platform, so the entire operation, knows and allows that to occur. The banned one will be allowed back too: and back they will come.
What is the information gleaned from that? “
“Maybe there isn’t any at all. It’s not as if it’s a click or a like; it’s the platform, not the user, doing something to the user. “
What about the absence being so noticeable it’s as if the person was present? You notice they are not there more than you notice when they are? That absence is so palpable.”
“No. That’s your ego. No one notices at all after a day or so. There’s too much actually happening to be concerned about something that is not”
“It’s better to be silent then.”
He stands up. There is a cold lemon concoction, which he heats in the microwave.
Outside, there is a moon so bright it is singing, and he listens.
The song has no words. It is made of ice from before recorded time.
He manages to shut out the world for hours and hours.
the above was written, hurriedly, after a sort of exchange online.
It occurs (of course) that something I do is leap to context and subtext of just about everything, and I have a tendency to give that reading priority. When I see something, I'm already considering it a performance to an online audience of some kind. That's something I struggle with: how it's performance that gleans approval (or not) of some kind, that also functions as something that contributes to data that the owner of the platform is selling in some way, and that everything that is social media does this, and how culpable I am.
I wonder if I'm just pissed off and want my cut. Probably. I am certain that I could have finished a novel by now.
I'm probably thinking about the effects of social media a touch too much, but I read this and found it incredibly terrifying; almost as terrifying as the justifications people have for continued usage. I increasingly don't have one beyond it being a compulsive behaviour that actually makes me anxious and gives me panic attacks, really.
I suppose this is my version of being a tinfoil hat wearer, which is what it is.
Okay, that's probably far too much anyway and it might not make sense, but this is where I'm at.
Some other things to peruse:
some illustrations for Journey To The West - which you might know better as Monkey.
If you're in Hobart, go see this exhibition while it's still on. It's a sterling example of art as well-researched story telling with a superb feminist subtext. Never mind how skilled the execution is.
African creation myths
well that should be plenty.
Oh, If you're in Sydney, I'm up there at the end of May. Doing some art. Yup.