The Trouble With Tweeting
Another day, another celebrity brought down because of tweets. As people line up to express their opinion/judge the soul of the latest sinner, I find myself disagreeing with the NRA---sometimes, it really is the gun that kills, not the one pulling the trigger. Or typing the tweets.
The urge to journal our thoughts is as old as human civilization. Maybe even older (if primitive cave paintings are a record of kills). But this modern desire to broadcast these thoughts to as many strangers as possible reminds me of a certain type of dystopian science fiction in which everyone is suddenly gifted/cursed with telepathy. We all know what happens in that scenario. Chaos. The usual rules of social interaction--the ones that allow us to be around other people without wanting to rip their heads off--are tossed to the wind. Our husband thinks our favorite outfit makes us look fat. Our wife thinks we suck in bed. Our neighbor covets our wife. Our priest would rather be _____ing (use your imagination).
George Orwell worried that Big Brother would be watching--and he is. Information is valuable. Every time we log on or make a call or do a web search, we are putting gold in the hands of data miners. Where Orwell got it wrong was when he predicted that our response to the ever watchful Big Eye in the Sky would be to find a small, private corner of our house where we could just be ourselves, penning our thoughts in a private journal.
What would George say if he could see us now, shouting out (in text) our deepest desires, waving our (virtual) arms as if to say Look at Me! Forget 1984. We have all become characters in a Tennessee Williams play, standing in the street, bellowing out our deepest, darkest desires, our only fear the fear that no one is listening.
Turns out that we should have been more afraid that someone was listening. And by someone, I mean anyone. At anytime. At a time when you least expect it--or want it. At a time when those distant fears and emotions are no longer relevant. Our fifteen minutes of fame have finally arrived. We are in the spotlight. We have our story polished, our hair neatly combed, our clothes are immaculate---and why does that man in the front row have our diary?! Why is he reading aloud from our journal, written years ago in our hour of despair?! No fair! That's not me! This is me! How am I going to fix this mess? How am I going to restore my reputation?
And no, the answer is not another flurry of tweets. Better to look for Wilde, the Restorer of Reputations, a character invented by Robert Chambers in his prescient first book, The King in Yellow. Wilde will fix the damage that too much Look at Me has done. But be prepared. It will cost you dearly.
"If you make a mask, you must wear it" wrote the real Wilde, Oscar Wilde. He should know. Look where Look at me! got him. Two years of prison and exile and death. All for demanding that the world accept the real Oscar Wilde. To which the World replied (like a petulant child) "Don't wanna!" And in a battle between Me and the World, the World will always win---if our definition of Me is What the World Sees.
Maybe we would all be happier and get along better if we made our motto the moral of another dystopian science fiction story. The Only Way to Win is Not to Play. Cherish your anonymity. Revel in your ability to have ugly, shameful emotions in private. In your heart of heart, you know that Twitter is not your own personal Jesus. Twitter is just the ultimate data mining tool, designed to sell you shit you do not need.
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