Theres something about this kind of social media that feels like obligation – I must write, publish to my audience, entertain you, bewilder, amaze, amuse.
Now, though, I’m looking at the last few years and seeing that maybe my audience here is me, and finding the time to write is not the act of a self-publicist, rather the notes become messages to my future self, a bunch of memories fixed in time, in a way that memories of holidays decay to only be of those things photographed or otherwise memento-ised. The distinction between the experiencing self and the remembering self. The patches in between, the feelings, the smells, the landscapes that just don’t fit in the lens, get lost with the minutia.
Facebook, fun though it is, doesn’t give me the depth of record I’m seeking, its like a conversation down the pub, forgotten by the morning, without leaving any kind of lasting impression. Even with Livejournal I’m handing over the responsibility for the data to another entity, although they seem to have a better idea about continuity.
Historically I’ve not been good at continuing these revivals, maybe thats because I’ve been thinking about the wrong audience, or maybe I’m just a bit useless. Its worth another try.
5 comments