the unfuckening, day five

Amused by hospital's chiptune hold music yet mortified that I can't name said tune though I know it's one of those annoying warhorse earworms from the last 500 years that's on every calming baby album but I can't place it. Probably Mozart since it grates on my nerves.

The unfuckening of my grandfather's medical situation continues (97-year-old more fit than most 60-70 year olds but nonetheless possessed of 97-year-old internal organs), numbers moving in right direction, from stomach to heart, bit by bit – hospitals being hell for (recovering, ha) control freaks: beholden to the schedule of another and the schedules of the lives and deaths of floors upon floors of (an)others.

But hey: taking the opportunity of daily hospital visits to commence a re-read of Montaigne's Essays. Fortunately, after 10 years of hospital visits, I learned that hospital visits were what a Kindle was made for; it only took me nine years and many funerals to buy one (better late than never) Also: audiobook of Gary Rogowski's HANDMADE for the drive back and forth.

sharing is caring as that one plugin used to say

As we slip and slide and stumble and fumble into the post-SpaceKaren social media paradigm (still love Mastodon and it was fun, Threads, but you're reminding me of a one-night stand that I'm glad happened but still, one night stand; and BlueSky, well, you strike me as the colonial village reenactment of old Twitter – and all of its malign idiosyncrazies), I want to do a quick PSA on the importance of sharing work you dig.

I can post what I'm working on, my little narrative experiments and mental gesticulations, until the end of time – which I'm happy to do, toiling in my own obscurity as I've been doing for the entirety of my 20+ year process of public processing – but the truth is that the only way my work (or any of our work) finds more eyes and/or brains is by someone else sharing it: With rare exceptions, I've never picked up a book or a comic or watched a film or listened to an album because the artist themselves posted about it. You and your reach are the other 50% of the equation, of the deal: a link on your blog or in your newsletter or in your social networks, along with saying something nice (or not nice, if that's your thing) goes further than you can possibly imagine.

I'm trying to get better about it myself: the EarBlisses are part of that, as was the podcast and as are the Postscripts and other random things I share; but I do want to include a blogroll and favorite newsletters and such. I make it a point to share only work I genuinely dig – I don't do transactional shares and I rarely write about work I dislike because a.) I won't waste my time with something I dislike and usually know within the first ten seconds or words whether I'm feeling it; b.), it's a lot easier to piss and moan about something you dislike than it is to be enthusiastic about things you do like; and c.) if I dislike something, chances are I’m going to shape my current work or elements therein to be a reaction against the disliked thus making it actually useful to me.

Here endeth the PSA. Do with what you will.

(insta)deactivated

After much searching through menus and settings (and an unwillingness on the part of the app on the iPad to scroll down far enough to hit the "deactivate" button requiring me to go to a computer), finally hit the deactivate button (six days early, but to hell with it: those who wanted to stay connected have already done so, the rest, bye): my Insta-presence is no more. Aside from that one video with the "get that shit out of my face" vegan frog (which I did watch about 35 times before hitting deactivate: that "motherfucker stop, STOP!" shriek kills me every time), I don't miss any of it.

(And when Threads launched, I realized I didn't really need or want another microblogging conversation platform: that's what this space and the Fediverse are for / Note: still want to use the FV for my comment system here; running out of time before the next annual bill comes due.)

Didn't go full delete on Insta because I'm enough of a shit that I don't want the other Tylers Weaver to have that account name. I've protected it long enough, even added the extra W to myself, across multiple platforms and decades, this being my third (holy shit).

Related/un–: I anticipate the day that some startup buys (or pulls a Muskian coup on SpaceKaren himself) the Twitter name and the rights and the bird and brings it back, sort of like Twinkies and PBR, banking on nostalgia as a (highly viable) business model. As someone rightly said, the brand was the only thing that didn't need fixing at Twitter.

Anyhow byebye massive communication/advertising conglomerate techbro companies. We had our laughs and our cries and our successes and our failures but it's time to move on. Internet dinosaur powers: activate.

threads? threets?

Signed up for Threads (which, to its credit, is remarkably easy to do), posted a Thread (Threet?) or two and a dog GIF, and realized that a.), Twitter is its own Twitter killer – Space Karen is just the latest (though admittedly far more loathsome – if he and Zuckhead fight it out in the Colosseum, the world would be far better off if the rules of engagement were historically accurate to the place they chose to besmirch, read: lions) wrecking ball; b.), while I’m willing to fiddle about with it, I have little interest in another short, status-based ambient social/swarm experience; and c.), having asked myself, "If I were to start using social media for the first time today and not 15+ years ago, how would I use it?" the answer is, without fail, I wouldn't: while I'm grateful for the eyes that “the socials” have brought to my little narrative experiments and mental gesticulations, I've felt a mental and creative freedom in these last couple of weeks away from all of them – yes, even Mastodon – that I haven't felt in, well, 15+ years. That being said: perhaps with a bit more time (I'm experimenting with once-weekly photo dumps from the week prior on Insta and, like I said, I’m willing to fiddle with Threads for a spell) I’ll find a modicum of enjoyment but I'm not going to expend any significant mental energy to do so.

Go on then, Space Karen, suspend my dead and dormant husk of an account. Do it.

this is the last thing i’m letting myself write about twitter

Every tweet is deleted, DMs in the process of, switches turned to off, one by one: every success and failure and hope and disappointment and opportunity and clusterfuck and useless ephemeralilty from 14 years of my life, from 27 through 41.

Were those 14 worth it? Not really, no.

While I've made some wonderful connections with now-lifelong friends and creative collaborators and had a few good opportunities, it wasn't worth what I let it do with my brain: I got sucked into its promise - which was very real - when I was at my most vulnerable, having lost my job, then my house – and I bought into the fantasy that it could give me a road forward.

The only road it gave me was a roundabout back into the feeding trough, dangling the hope that maybe I could be mentioned in the same breath as those writers with the 200k followers (a need for validation for which I’ve nothing but shame), that maybe I could have some impact on the world, that my hopes and creations were more than poker chips for a rigged game.

In the slot machine of Twitter, at least, they weren’t.

Anyhow, I'm not letting myself repeat those mistakes in this new social era (if I make the same mistakes at 41 as I did at 27, I won't be angry, just disappointed): I've happily moved on to Mastodon and here and the newsletter, doing whatever I feel like doing creatively and sharing it with whoever finds their way to it because at this point, honestly, fuck it.

“Fuck it”: was a more apposite summation of Twitter ever written? Probably. But fuck it: I'm free. And so are you.