New Media

On a digital fast until January 2nd

From this moment, 8:58 p.m. on Friday, I won’t be looking at a newspaper, any of the dozen or so magazines I get, any digital news feeds, or any social media, like Instagram, Facebook, twitter, or LinkedIn, until the morning of January 2nd, when I return to work. I don’t watch TV news so I’ve got nothing to give up there. It’ll be just novels, poems, scriptures, and maybe some non-fiction for a while. Perhaps I’ll just spend the time looking at pictures or staring out the window. And I’ll be taking a break from my daily posts here.

Why?

Because this week, a no man’s land between years, is the perfect time to recover some temporal bandwidth, the kind that fills childhood afternoons or, for those of us who can remember, was common in the time before the Internet.

Hours and days spent without the instantaneous continuous stimulus of news is time to remember who I am, what I think of the world, and what’s worth loving about it.

I manipulate symbols for a living, ensuring that they are relevant to the way people are speaking and thinking on any given day. Keeping up with it all is how I keep a tactical advantage in the battle to win attention and trust. It’s a bracing challenge, but it makes it hard to honor silence and memory, to whom I owe whatever creativity I have. So I’ll be off lighting candles to them for a while.

Merry Christmas and a happy new year to you and your loved ones.

We Live In A Gossip Column From Which There Is No Escape

This quotation from Marshall McLuhan, more than “global village” or “the medium is the message,” exemplifies what a prophet he was. He wrote these words in the 1960s, several decades before the Internet. All he needed was the wired world of phones, radios, and above all television to foresee not only how all other thought would be drowned out by gossip, but how much it would oppress us. For him, redemption was a physical as much as psychic necessity–such thinking was built into his orthodox Catholicism. In baptism or reconciliation, sins are truly washed away, their imprint removed from the universe, an act which is impossible if they are squirreled away in a database somewhere with Luciferian avarice, always ready to be brandished in accusation or sold for gain.

When our devices don’t let us forget, we can’t move on.

As the record of our daily written communication is fused with our phones, something sinister is happening to our memories of other people, especially those who have died.

William Gibson has described information technology as a form of prosthetic memory, and I agree with him. Written language exists as much to store the past as it does to communicate the present. Accounting records may actually have been the first use of written language, which would make extending human memory writing’s primal function.  Inscriptions to memorialize the glory of the powerful dead followed soon after.

Luke O’Neil recently recounted the strangeness of living with his late father’s last text messages. They record banalities, but also invite him to further communication with the dead every day, hovering just at the edge of his attention, like an advertisement. What he and his father tapped out without a thought have, by proximity alone, been asked to bear the weight of mourning, and they are doing a poor job of it.

We have always used written communication to remember the dead. We have had letters and books and tombstone inscriptions, but these are all deliberately chosen and set aside from daily life. Before digital communication, we could choose to remember our dead in a way that was true and relevant. In contrast, our accidental digital memorials are shoved at us every day by the grim mechanics of our technology. We live forever in the horror of Emily Dickinson’s vision of banality at the last moment: “I heard a fly buzz when I died.”

I have written elsewhere about the need to relieve ourselves from the burden of perfect digital memory, and how Marshall McLuhan got it right when he said:

“The future will be an electrically computerized dossier bank – that one big gossip column that is unforgiving, unforgetful and from which there is no redemption, no erasure of early ‘mistakes’.”

Our prosthetic memory is attached to us at too many nerve endings. When we can remember everything, memory is simply noise. We burn out on memory and, by extension, the present moment, which is no less than life itself.

The HBO-Sesame Street deal is not a reason to privatize public television

The Nation

Ever since its creation in the late 1960s, public broadcasting in the US has been under attack. The attacks have come mostly from conservatives, but liberals have not been above them, either, and the debate usually flares up when there is a change in the funding for NPR and PBS, either in amount or source. The new partnership between HBO and Sesame Street is the latest such flare up. Usually, Big Bird gets held up as a symbol for all of public broadcasting, but in this case, he and his pals are actually at the center of the debate.

In my latest for The Nation, my co-author and I argue that the Sesame Street deal, while good for the iconic children’s show, is a bad model for the rest of PBS programs. When it comes to providing educational resources for all Americans, privatization isn’t the way to go. Click on the bird for the full piece.