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

"If the punchy, claustrophobic anti-sociality of tools in early lockdown proposed a really black perspective for the future, the Motion for Dark Lives street uprising of the late spring believed like its joyous opposite—another by which platforms were responding to and being organized by the events on the floor, rather than these functions being organized by and shaped to the needs of the platforms. This was anything worth our time and loyalty, something that surpassed our compulsion to publish, something that—for a minute, at least—the Twittering Unit could not swallow.

Perhaps not so it wasn't trying. As persons in the streets toppled statues and struggled police, persons on the systems modified and refashioned the uprising from a road action to an object for the usage and representation of the Twittering Machine. What was occurring off-line must be accounted for, identified, evaluated, and processed. Didactic story-lectures and images of effectively filled antiracist bookshelves seemed on Instagram. On Facebook, the usual pundits and pedants jumped up demanding details for each motto and justifications for every single action. In these matter trolls and answer men, Seymour's chronophage was literalized. The cultural business does not only eat our time with endless stimulus and algorithmic scrolling; it eats our time by producing and promoting those who exist only to be told, individuals to whom the entire world has been created anew every day, persons for whom every resolved sociological, medical, and political controversy of modernity must certanly be rehashed, rewritten, and re-accounted, this time making use of their participation.

These people, making use of 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 guide implies something worse about us, their Facebook and Facebook interlocutors: That we need to spend our time. That, however much we would protest, we discover pleasure in endless, rounded argument. That individuals get some sort of pleasure from monotonous debates about "free speech" and "cancel culture." That we find oblivion in discourse. In the machine-flow atemporality of social media, that seems like number great crime. If time is an infinite reference, why don't you spend a few decades of it with a couple New York Instances op-ed columnists, repairing all of European believed from first concepts? But political and financial and immunological crises pack on each other in sequence, around the background roar of ecological collapse. Time isn't infinite. Nothing of us are able to afford to spend what is left of it dallying with the ridiculous and bland."

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