Simmering, transparent yellow instant pancit canton noodles. Overcooked them again. Between time stove was turned on until water was boiling, the following:
Thought about digitizing my old journal entries, written in more than a half-dozen moldy notebooks, the perceptive juvenilia of a younger time. Nothing noteworthy, but at least I’d like to compile everything into a central repository, ripe for tagging, searching; past thoughts transformed into meta. Maybe I should start with the drawings and poems; I’ve done the scanning and typing heavy lifting years before.
A fleeting fancy that I should release my Twitter account from the bondage of being a private profile… However, I am less worried by shocked semi-friends and family reading my semi-censored thoughts than I am of being besieged with spam tweets, DMs and followers. Privacy and security are not the the cornerstones of Biz Stone’s Web 2.0 (or is it 3.0 now?) nest egg.
Liked it better when I had no followers on Twitter, and had no concept of communication. The instant a community was built around that page, there emerged this perfidious desire to share what will be received. Like an allegory to the Hawthorne effect: subconsciously modifying tweet behavior and content to get the eyeballs that you crave, and the holy grail of a response. Now, tweeting my queefing abilities may not be an obvious ploy for follower attention, but I find that I am more uncomfortable tweeting thoughts that are in keeping with the general tone of this blog, that is: serious, dark, private, sometimes archaic and convoluted, and always looooong.
To tweet with impunity and with no regard for public opinion, these stream-of-consciousness brain farts that only I can understand… Never again to the same extent.
I escape to this blog now. In utter semi-privacy. The occasional visitor might deign to read what I write, but I am not compelled to read his blog in return… What about commenting, you say? I doubt if the volume of comments on this blog will ever reach an unmanageable peak, with the relative obscurity that surrounds it. The home page lacks the addictive immediacy of a Twitter Home page, updated every minute, two or three or ten tweets at a time. Less input, more peace. The threshold of signal-versus-noise has been reached, wall breached, rate limit exceeded. It came with PEX, MTC, Friendster, Facebook…
Related story about Twitter, boyfriend, and how social networking in general fucks up relationships (to be more accurate, how presence/non-presence of tweets serve as incendiary material for the unstable hormone-addled mind, most commonly female)… Wrote freewheeling thoughts during a Hoshin meeting but left the notebook in the office. This slug a reminder to bring dead tree pages home and transcribe what’s on them.