The Nazi room

Some friends have said that they regret using Facebook because it makes them like their peers less. That someone they would probably like in person becomes someone they can’t stand because of the opinions they post. I understand this sentiment, and at times I can relate to it. But at the same time, it’s hard to believe that somebody’s defining beliefs and overall worldview would never be expressed face to face if you know them well enough. And if they are hiding certain values, I’m not sure I’d rather be unaware of what those values are.

In the past, I have written that there is no single “true” self. People are multifaceted, and we can be kinder and more complicated than our belief systems. I don’t believe that a human necessarily has only one set of values; they can have several at odds with one another. But even if their values aren’t a neatly matching set, others can still feel alienated by a particular belief they have—even with the awareness that it isn’t their only belief. I know I will distance myself from a person if they express specific beliefs, just as I know I’m not exempt from alienating others with mine.

The internet is a paradoxical place. It’s a space where humans are bolder and more confrontational about expressing themselves, and at the same time more cautious if their words are for public consumption. It’s a place where individuals can perform a one-dimensional version of themselves, and where they can also share sides of their psyche that are not usually seen. It’s a meeting ground where people dismiss each other more readily because it’s easier to see a human as a set of pixels or an algorithm, but people also might offer each other more time. Because the online world is us, an outgrowth of both space and time.

Just as the internet is people and the internet is a place, people are places. Some are homes. Some are locations we think are homes, but turn out to be stops along the way. Some are havens we visit routinely, but where we don’t ultimately live. That’s why I think of a personality as a house. Some houses have consistent themes throughout. Those homes are cozy and predictable. Some prefer that, others find it dull. Some houses are neat and affable in the rooms that are meant for showcasing, but complete chaos in the private quarters. And others don’t hide their mess.

This is the type of home I’d find most disconcerting: The social, guest-receiving rooms are open and embracing. The living room contains an MLK poster and books about environmentalism and civil rights. Then, somewhere tucked far down a hallway, there’s a study full of KKK propaganda and Nazi memorabilia. The resident is flustered upon guests discovering it, but insists it’s “not a racist thing.” They say they have no problem with (X minority group), they just “don’t want them in their country.” (So what does “having no problem with them” mean? Not objecting to their basic existence, provided that existence occurs far away and they never have to inhabit the same space?) The person who owns and maintains this house may not see the space dedicated to bigotry as their “true” room. They may see it as just one coexisting with all the others, no more of a core space than anywhere else. They may even like to have minority friends in the house; just not in that area. But the guests who liked the main quarters won’t feel comfortable there anymore, and it would be especially scary if the house was a place where they’d regularly enjoyed spending time.

That figurative house is who some people are. Some may not actually be aware that they contain that specific room. Others might know about it but blame others for putting the contents inside, not acknowledging that they choose to hold onto those things. And I know my definition of welcoming is subjective; some would feel a lot more embraced in the bigotry room than in the main socially presented areas. But that is how I see it, and I think the internet provides a window into rooms that might not otherwise be seen—even by those who live in the house. The difference lies in whether or not the homeowner justifies that room; whether they respond to its discovery by more carefully hiding the contents, by bringing them out into the open, or by trying to renovate.

Social media time travel

I wish there was a social media network to connect us to people from different times. And before anyone says "books", I mean in a reciprocal way. A Facebook-like service to communicate with others from the future, or the far distant past, or with relatives the way they were before we knew them. Or even with a friend who completely changed; to talk to them when they were different. It would ret-con the universe and completely screw up our timeline, but it would be so damn interesting and cathartic before time starts to eat its own tail and the aliens have to show up and fix everything.

The psychology of food pictures

Now, I'm not knocking or judging people who like to share photos of everything they ingest. Posting food photos is your legal right as a citizen of Facebook, seeing as the Declaration of Internetdependence grants us the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of indefinite "likes." So if you want to show everyone what you're eating, go right ahead. But I have to admit that I don't quite understand the motivation. When we share photos of our meals, is it in memorium of the food? Is it due to the desire for a communal meal with all of our friends and followers? Is it to make others jealous and/or hungry? Is it to offer people ideas for what they, too, can consume? I have posted a picture of a bottle of mead, and it was because I know a lot of people who have never heard of mead and I want to spread the word (or image) so they can experience its incredible majestic deliciousness themselves. I haven't grasped the overall reasons behind this practice, though.

Also, maybe taking pictures of what we're eating is sort of like a Level 2 Selfie. A selfie is "This is my face," while a food pic is "...And this is what goes INTO my face!" It's like a selfie, but more in depth.

Written in March '14

Social media makes us nostalgic. The websites are expansive rooms filled with everyone we've known over the years, existing in the present and in a time lock. We perpetually run both backwards and forwards, each half in the opposite direction, and then wonder why we never feel like a cohesive whole. Photos are nostalgic by nature, by the act of harnessing time. We exist in pixels, colors and frames. Photos offer an illusion of stasis, but even the images and recollections alter with perspective. We just do what we can to hold on.

Nostalgia even emerges from times that were terrible, because I miss not knowing. I miss the unconstrained possibilities. Even if they weren't actually infinite and everything followed its inherent course, I miss having no idea what would happen while holding endless ideas of what could.

At 4 a.m., or on Facebook, or alone with the quiet and impassive reality of time, I greet my sadness. It always lingers in the periphery, but now there are no distractions. It's late at night and I can see it reflected back in every letter and pixel onscreen. The clock carries weight in each tick. I need that grief, because the pit in which I can lose myself is the wellspring that sustains me. Compassion, creativity and connection flow from its stream, which permeates everything that matters. And so I embrace the paradox of an ache that can consume me but also fuels my inspiration, and the paradox of a website that links us to each other but divides us from ourselves.

No one is fully cohesive. We're spread out in words and pictures and ambitions and memories, dispersed into each other and scattered through time. Being bound to a million different places may not always feel freeing, but in a way, it also makes us limitless. We can choose where we want to be.