October 6, 2002
I’ve been thinking about Jim’s new T-Mobile Sidekick. Do I want one? It appeals to me as I am seduced by the idea of digital exhibitionism, of trying to stream a written “day in the life” onto the web in a more accurate fashion. The verb “to show” comes to mind, to make a show out of simply showing you. The French verb “faire”, to make or to do — wouldn’t it be nice to make as one was actually doing? Or would it? You see, as with most things, I have both misgivings and enthusiasm for it. The ability to document your life without the intrusion of a camera crew, or a laptop, to convey it immediately without too much damn interference from all that fussing with equipment, or with subject, style, plot, editing, and those other unmentionables, is both modern and ancient. We are able to revert to a freer form of the old instinct by the facility with which we can now communicate. And this makes so much sense at this juncture, as where else can we go at this late hour in the day when the anxiety inducing suspicion haunts us that we’re just crumbing the remains from the table of all the great makers? Technology is, at some level, a compensation that permits us to be primitive again. Oral tradition is rampant, the peripatetic pedestrian can communicate her sightings instantly to a loved one; you can blog away until you’re blue in the face; stream your bedroom antics onto the web; concoct mini movies with video cameras the size of a box of sugar; e-mail digital portraits of your New York family to your Granny in Greenland. It’s both wonderfully liberating and a frightening democracy.
I couldn’t sleep on Friday night and sat in bed watching a documentary on “The Making of the Misfits.” Arthur Miller, in the interviews, seems so incredibly male, as does Clark Gable in the actual footage from the film. And of course Marilyn is there being so essentially female that it is somewhat shocking, verging on the indecent. And then there’s Monty. It’s a great heterosexual moment (how many can you cite after this?), in both the film’s ending when Gable leaves with Monroe, and Miller’s obvious appreciation in the documentary of his former wife. As Miller was flying back to the East Coast from the set, he hears that Clark Gable has died. (Miller’s marriage to Monroe has also ended.) Gable insisted on doing his own stunts. You get the feeling that he had to put down his manhood at the end of the movie in order to make his character’s departure from the cowboy life convincing. In some mythical way you could believe that this, rather than a mere heart attack from overwork, is what killed the actor. What’s this got to do with Jim’s new “mobile”? I don’t know, except that insomnia had me pondering the two things back to back, and one is a documentary and the other enables you to provide evidence of your own existence to an audience. It strikes me that this is what it’s all about really. It’s a deeply unoriginal thought, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to reiterate it, just as with the occasional compulsion to share the contours of a deeply unremarkable day. The documenting of a life, at whatever level of accomplishment and with whatever degree of invention, is integral to existance itself, and the undeniable urge to convey the human condition has always been with us from the earliest cave paintings, to Joyce’s Ulysses, and in everything in between and beyond. Should there be more or less people exposing their creative efforts? Edit or babble? Gag it or succumb to logorrhea? Suppress or publish? Self-destruct of self-preserve? Old chestnuts. I’m never sure. And grateful for the not knowing.
More. Babble. Succumb. Publish. Self-preserve. Rock on Rachael, you know you're right. What's this got to do with Jim's new mobile? In some mythical way you could believe we are on the verge of being human beings being human being one big being being in touch with itself all the time.
i'm with yah
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I’ve been thinking about Jim’s new T-Mobile Sidekick. Do I want one? It appeals to me as I am seduced by the idea of digital exhibitionism, of trying to stream a written “day in the life” onto the web in a more accurate fashion. The verb “to show” comes to mind, to make a show out of simply showing you. The French verb “faire”, to make or to do — wouldn’t it be nice to make as one was actually doing? Or would it? You see, as with most things, I have both misgivings and enthusiasm for it. The ability to document your life without the intrusion of a camera crew, or a laptop, to convey it immediately without too much damn interference from all that fussing with equipment, or with subject, style, plot, editing, and those other unmentionables, is both modern and ancient. We are able to revert to a freer form of the old instinct by the facility with which we can now communicate. And this makes so much sense at this juncture, as where else can we go at this late hour in the day when the anxiety inducing suspicion haunts us that we’re just crumbing the remains from the table of all the great makers? Technology is, at some level, a compensation that permits us to be primitive again. Oral tradition is rampant, the peripatetic pedestrian can communicate her sightings instantly to a loved one; you can blog away until you’re blue in the face; stream your bedroom antics onto the web; concoct mini movies with video cameras the size of a box of sugar; e-mail digital portraits of your New York family to your Granny in Greenland. It’s both wonderfully liberating and a frightening democracy.
I couldn’t sleep on Friday night and sat in bed watching a documentary on “The Making of the Misfits.” Arthur Miller, in the interviews, seems so incredibly male, as does Clark Gable in the actual footage from the film. And of course Marilyn is there being so essentially female that it is somewhat shocking, verging on the indecent. And then there’s Monty. It’s a great heterosexual moment (how many can you cite after this?), in both the film’s ending when Gable leaves with Monroe, and Miller’s obvious appreciation in the documentary of his former wife. As Miller was flying back to the East Coast from the set, he hears that Clark Gable has died. (Miller’s marriage to Monroe has also ended.) Gable insisted on doing his own stunts. You get the feeling that he had to put down his manhood at the end of the movie in order to make his character’s departure from the cowboy life convincing. In some mythical way you could believe that this, rather than a mere heart attack from overwork, is what killed the actor. What’s this got to do with Jim’s new “mobile”? I don’t know, except that insomnia had me pondering the two things back to back, and one is a documentary and the other enables you to provide evidence of your own existence to an audience. It strikes me that this is what it’s all about really. It’s a deeply unoriginal thought, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to reiterate it, just as with the occasional compulsion to share the contours of a deeply unremarkable day. The documenting of a life, at whatever level of accomplishment and with whatever degree of invention, is integral to existance itself, and the undeniable urge to convey the human condition has always been with us from the earliest cave paintings, to Joyce’s Ulysses, and in everything in between and beyond. Should there be more or less people exposing their creative efforts? Edit or babble? Gag it or succumb to logorrhea? Suppress or publish? Self-destruct of self-preserve? Old chestnuts. I’m never sure. And grateful for the not knowing.
- rachael 10-06-2002 10:23 pm
More. Babble. Succumb. Publish. Self-preserve. Rock on Rachael, you know you're right. What's this got to do with Jim's new mobile? In some mythical way you could believe we are on the verge of being human beings being human being one big being being in touch with itself all the time.
- frank 10-08-2002 2:33 am [add a comment]
i'm with yah
- Skinny 10-08-2002 4:13 am [add a comment]