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Apropos of nothing but my meandering mind, I find Twitter a dreadful bore. What is the point of posting unrelated strings of your mental mecomium on the Internet for the world to see? I'm sure that the conversation between you and your friend about the terribly pithy snark you lobbed at a clueless nincompoop on line at the Costco was nothing more or less than legendary, and that by posting an account of it on Twitter and pasting it into your LJ, you are merely preserving it for posterity and making it easy for the harried editors of Bartlett's Famous Quotations to seize upon its overlooked magnificence with palsied gratitude.
I, however, couldn't give a shit. The smattering of conversation matters to you because it's part and parcel of a memory that brings you pleasure. It holds within its phrases a multisensory context that conjures recollections of nuance, timbre, tone, even of place and time. It's the IM equivalent of a digital photo. To me, that conversation is meaningless, a waste of LJ storage space and an ill use of the ten seconds it took me to read it. I don't care about it, nor am I moved by the same sensory stimuli it inspires in the writer because I lack the context that makes it matter. Words without context are just vocabulary drills.
Twitter posts are the LJ equivalent of nose-picking, and I'm stymied by the trend of using LJ for the sole purpose of archiving your cherished brain fart collection. When I was young, I thought I was a genius, too, but bereft of the Internet, I was forced to hoard my pearls of wisdom in a document file in Microsoft Works, and no one saw it but me. And thank God for that.
I never thought I'd say this, and the fact that I'm about to is irrefutable proof that I'm sliding irrevocably from youth to crusty, droop-breasted middle age, but when I was young, people kept their insipid brain vomit to themselves, or at least framed in a manner designed to showcase creativity and mental acumen. Nowadays, folks tap the keyboard with boogery fingers and call it thinking out loud. God help us all.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to ask Roomie to mash up some peas and mix me a nice, tall glass of Metamucil.
ETA: That didn't take long. Oh, Internets... Sometimes I wonder which is better: to keep your mouth shut for the sake of peace, or speak your mind and run the exceedingly high risk of becoming an old cat lady who has no friends and whose lover is made of batteries and plastic.
~sigh~
I, however, couldn't give a shit. The smattering of conversation matters to you because it's part and parcel of a memory that brings you pleasure. It holds within its phrases a multisensory context that conjures recollections of nuance, timbre, tone, even of place and time. It's the IM equivalent of a digital photo. To me, that conversation is meaningless, a waste of LJ storage space and an ill use of the ten seconds it took me to read it. I don't care about it, nor am I moved by the same sensory stimuli it inspires in the writer because I lack the context that makes it matter. Words without context are just vocabulary drills.
Twitter posts are the LJ equivalent of nose-picking, and I'm stymied by the trend of using LJ for the sole purpose of archiving your cherished brain fart collection. When I was young, I thought I was a genius, too, but bereft of the Internet, I was forced to hoard my pearls of wisdom in a document file in Microsoft Works, and no one saw it but me. And thank God for that.
I never thought I'd say this, and the fact that I'm about to is irrefutable proof that I'm sliding irrevocably from youth to crusty, droop-breasted middle age, but when I was young, people kept their insipid brain vomit to themselves, or at least framed in a manner designed to showcase creativity and mental acumen. Nowadays, folks tap the keyboard with boogery fingers and call it thinking out loud. God help us all.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to ask Roomie to mash up some peas and mix me a nice, tall glass of Metamucil.
ETA: That didn't take long. Oh, Internets... Sometimes I wonder which is better: to keep your mouth shut for the sake of peace, or speak your mind and run the exceedingly high risk of becoming an old cat lady who has no friends and whose lover is made of batteries and plastic.
~sigh~
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