A Postal: reading drive media of social the death and psychoanalytic Going

"If the punchy, claustrophobic anti-sociality of tools in the early lockdown proposed an especially black perspective of the future, the Motion for Dark Lives street uprising of the late spring believed like their joyous opposite—a future in which programs were answering and being organized by the functions on the floor, as opposed to those activities being structured by and shaped to the needs of the platforms. This is anything worth our time and commitment, something that exceeded our compulsion to write, something that—for a minute, at least—the Twittering Device could not swallow.

Perhaps not that it wasn't trying. As people in the roads toppled statues and fought authorities, people on the tools adjusted and refashioned the uprising from a street action to an item for the use and expression of the Twittering Machine. The thing that was occurring off-line would have to be accounted for, defined, judged, and processed. Didactic story-lectures and photographs of well stocked antiracist bookshelves seemed on Instagram. On Facebook, the usual pundits and pedants sprang up demanding explanations for each and every motto and justifications for every single action. In these matter trolls and response people, Seymour's chronophage was literalized. The social industry does not just eat our time with endless stimulus and algorithmic scrolling; it takes our time by creating and promoting individuals who occur and then be told, people to whom the planet has been produced anew each morning, persons for whom every resolved sociological, medical, and political debate of modernity must be rehashed, rewritten, and re-accounted, now using their participation.

These people, with their just-asking questions and vapid start letters, are dullards and bores, pettifoggers and casuists, cowards and dissemblers, time-wasters of the worst sort. But Seymour's book suggests anything worse about us, their Facebook and Facebook interlocutors: That we need to spend our time. That, however significantly we may complain, we discover pleasure in endless, round argument. That people get some type of fulfillment from boring debates about "free speech" and "stop culture." That we find oblivion in discourse. In the machine-flow atemporality of social media, this may seem like no good crime. If time is an endless resource, you will want to spend several decades of it with a couple New York Times op-ed columnists, restoring all Western believed from first rules? But political and economic and immunological crises pile on one another in sequence, over the back ground roar of ecological collapse. Time isn't infinite. None of us can afford to pay what's remaining of it dallying with the ridiculous and bland."

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A Postal: reading drive media of social the death and psychoanalytic Going

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