Sketching The Real
Apr. 8th, 2002 04:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueI've always been a bit of a stalker. Well, "stalker" is probably not the right word, but "spymaster" sounds too much like an early '90s action movie-cum-exercize machine.
I keep files on people. You already feared it; I'm coming clean. Mostly these files are in my head or scattered throughout dozens of notebooks, (often in some kind of code, [code, not crypt,]) but it did give Val a bit of a scare when she first stumbled across my laptop's directory sub-structure. I infiltrate people's friend groups until I get whole networks reporting back to me; I do cursory internet checks; I fucking love the convenience of the livejournal friends page. Conversations with me have been noted to consist largely of questions. I am periodically caught staring.
As scary as all this sounds, it's mostly for my friends' own good. A large part of it is courtesy -- remembering the foods they like, and those they are allergic to. Knowing their back histories well enough to understand why they are upset or elated by certain gestures. Monitoring their mental states so that I know when to sweep by with a tamborine and some chocolate cake.
I do not betray confidences. I do not invade privacy. I leave when I'm asked to, ignore what I am asked to, and forget what I am asked to. I do not rifle through drawers and closets, or browse print journals. I operate strictly on public information -- things I am told, things I observe, things I glean from CD racks and photo albums. I try not to limit people to my observations.
I do have wickedly good intuition, which basically means I pay attention. I am not alone in this. It is a skill shared by both Delia and Merlin.
It is also a skill shared, to one degree or another, by anyone who reads this journal.
[Telephone Interruption:
"Yarrrrrrrrr. This is a collect call from your pirate-y sister, arrrrrrrrrrrr."
"You bitch! What's up with calling me collect?"
"I'm at work. But it's important."
"Yarrrrrrr."
"So I was thinking that I couldn't visit you because of plane tickets but now I'm thinking 'fuck that! it's only a two day drive, less than that if I don't bother to sleep, and we need to have a fucking pie fight.'"
"'Tis true."
"So I'm calling to see if you think that's a good idea."
"It's a two day drive. Also the entire state of Virginia is a speed trap, and you'd have to stop by Nick's Catfish in Arkansas to get corn fritters."
"Overall, you're saying you approve?"
"What does Mom think? Also, I have all the parents' maps with me."
"You bitch!"
"Seriously, we have to do this. Call me when it's not collect, and I'll give you directions."
click.]
As a result, friendships formed on the pages of weblogs have an entirely different trajectory from those found in conventional society. One achieves a high level of intimacy very quickly; all it takes is a few days of leafing back-entries, and you've sifted a portfolio of love, obsession, style, and mannerism. The only analogues, speedwise, are summer camp and those first weeks of college when everyone's scrambling to find a clique.
The effect is the most powerful when it's the journal of an aquaintance, not a friend or a stranger. You've already made the initial investment; you've agreed that this person is worthy of your time. Your preconceptions are limited, but you're primed to like the person -- why would you rent a movie you didn't want to see? Chances are, you got the link from one of your friends, or through one of your friends: a testamonial.
You've got all the cards. You're free to idealize, but equally able to contrast words with actions. You can see the person again, or not. You can discover the motivations for their actions; you can find out what they think of you, since they started writing long before you were a reader. You can find out that they don't think of you, for that matter, which can be just as useful, (as long as you don't go too far -- thoughts occur off journal pages).
Basically, falling in love doesn't have the same costs. You don't have to be embarrassed in front of them, or look stupid in front of their friends. Your friends. Although you know them, they don't know you -- so a rejection doesn't sting the same way. Even if they read your journal, they're probably misinterpreting, you can assure yourself. You can find out you're Too blond/ Too private/ Too fucking emo to be their type, (although, you hope, the information could be obsolete). You can feel like a boob/ a creep/ a reject, but nobody has to know.
Except your readers, who wouldn't be here if they didn't enjoy it.
What complicates the entire situation is the journalist's network. You cannot be reasonably sure who is, (and who isn't,) reading your journal. Even in the case that you're using psuedonyms, an intelligent reader should be able to figure them out -- unless you're being dishonest or less than topical, which hamstrings the point of keeping the journal in the first place. Midsummer Night's Dream daisy chains quickly compile until Chad loves Romie loves Will who may or may not be oblivious, all overseen by Patrick, Ben's girlfriend, and maybe Merlin who may or may not also love Romie who harbors a strong but not a romantic affection for him. Reasonably, the entire group of us could sit in a room, each fully informed of the situation, each entirely unable to act in case someone is present who isn't. It's practically a throwback to 16th century French court intrigue.
[I'm trying really hard here to include the line "at least he is an honest Puck," but it's not happening. Bastard.]
Val: It's beautiful, you see, because you fall in love or affection with utter sincerity, and no one's going to tell you that you're crazy for falling in interest with these most intimate displays of thought, even if it is idealistic--which it usually is. Journals--diaries--writing--they carry too strong a respect in our society to play with lightly; if you enter the game, you had better know the rules. So it's twice as tender and twice as dangerous, and always thrice as delicate. The court intrigue parallel is not made lightly: the internet is a new old world of etiquette, and all the more powerful because of its physical distance from the Real World; where before there was geography and court prestige, now there's Online/Offline and the embarassment of the question of Real. No one knows where to draw the Reality line, and consequently, we run to all the extremes and hope that no one's looking.
Romie: Or hope they are, and still think the best of us.
C3PO: We're doomed. There'll be no escape for the Princess this time.
Val: Tell me about it.
I keep files on people. You already feared it; I'm coming clean. Mostly these files are in my head or scattered throughout dozens of notebooks, (often in some kind of code, [code, not crypt,]) but it did give Val a bit of a scare when she first stumbled across my laptop's directory sub-structure. I infiltrate people's friend groups until I get whole networks reporting back to me; I do cursory internet checks; I fucking love the convenience of the livejournal friends page. Conversations with me have been noted to consist largely of questions. I am periodically caught staring.
As scary as all this sounds, it's mostly for my friends' own good. A large part of it is courtesy -- remembering the foods they like, and those they are allergic to. Knowing their back histories well enough to understand why they are upset or elated by certain gestures. Monitoring their mental states so that I know when to sweep by with a tamborine and some chocolate cake.
I do not betray confidences. I do not invade privacy. I leave when I'm asked to, ignore what I am asked to, and forget what I am asked to. I do not rifle through drawers and closets, or browse print journals. I operate strictly on public information -- things I am told, things I observe, things I glean from CD racks and photo albums. I try not to limit people to my observations.
I do have wickedly good intuition, which basically means I pay attention. I am not alone in this. It is a skill shared by both Delia and Merlin.
It is also a skill shared, to one degree or another, by anyone who reads this journal.
[Telephone Interruption:
"Yarrrrrrrrr. This is a collect call from your pirate-y sister, arrrrrrrrrrrr."
"You bitch! What's up with calling me collect?"
"I'm at work. But it's important."
"Yarrrrrrr."
"So I was thinking that I couldn't visit you because of plane tickets but now I'm thinking 'fuck that! it's only a two day drive, less than that if I don't bother to sleep, and we need to have a fucking pie fight.'"
"'Tis true."
"So I'm calling to see if you think that's a good idea."
"It's a two day drive. Also the entire state of Virginia is a speed trap, and you'd have to stop by Nick's Catfish in Arkansas to get corn fritters."
"Overall, you're saying you approve?"
"What does Mom think? Also, I have all the parents' maps with me."
"You bitch!"
"Seriously, we have to do this. Call me when it's not collect, and I'll give you directions."
click.]
As a result, friendships formed on the pages of weblogs have an entirely different trajectory from those found in conventional society. One achieves a high level of intimacy very quickly; all it takes is a few days of leafing back-entries, and you've sifted a portfolio of love, obsession, style, and mannerism. The only analogues, speedwise, are summer camp and those first weeks of college when everyone's scrambling to find a clique.
The effect is the most powerful when it's the journal of an aquaintance, not a friend or a stranger. You've already made the initial investment; you've agreed that this person is worthy of your time. Your preconceptions are limited, but you're primed to like the person -- why would you rent a movie you didn't want to see? Chances are, you got the link from one of your friends, or through one of your friends: a testamonial.
You've got all the cards. You're free to idealize, but equally able to contrast words with actions. You can see the person again, or not. You can discover the motivations for their actions; you can find out what they think of you, since they started writing long before you were a reader. You can find out that they don't think of you, for that matter, which can be just as useful, (as long as you don't go too far -- thoughts occur off journal pages).
Basically, falling in love doesn't have the same costs. You don't have to be embarrassed in front of them, or look stupid in front of their friends. Your friends. Although you know them, they don't know you -- so a rejection doesn't sting the same way. Even if they read your journal, they're probably misinterpreting, you can assure yourself. You can find out you're Too blond/ Too private/ Too fucking emo to be their type, (although, you hope, the information could be obsolete). You can feel like a boob/ a creep/ a reject, but nobody has to know.
Except your readers, who wouldn't be here if they didn't enjoy it.
What complicates the entire situation is the journalist's network. You cannot be reasonably sure who is, (and who isn't,) reading your journal. Even in the case that you're using psuedonyms, an intelligent reader should be able to figure them out -- unless you're being dishonest or less than topical, which hamstrings the point of keeping the journal in the first place. Midsummer Night's Dream daisy chains quickly compile until Chad loves Romie loves Will who may or may not be oblivious, all overseen by Patrick, Ben's girlfriend, and maybe Merlin who may or may not also love Romie who harbors a strong but not a romantic affection for him. Reasonably, the entire group of us could sit in a room, each fully informed of the situation, each entirely unable to act in case someone is present who isn't. It's practically a throwback to 16th century French court intrigue.
[I'm trying really hard here to include the line "at least he is an honest Puck," but it's not happening. Bastard.]
Val: It's beautiful, you see, because you fall in love or affection with utter sincerity, and no one's going to tell you that you're crazy for falling in interest with these most intimate displays of thought, even if it is idealistic--which it usually is. Journals--diaries--writing--they carry too strong a respect in our society to play with lightly; if you enter the game, you had better know the rules. So it's twice as tender and twice as dangerous, and always thrice as delicate. The court intrigue parallel is not made lightly: the internet is a new old world of etiquette, and all the more powerful because of its physical distance from the Real World; where before there was geography and court prestige, now there's Online/Offline and the embarassment of the question of Real. No one knows where to draw the Reality line, and consequently, we run to all the extremes and hope that no one's looking.
Romie: Or hope they are, and still think the best of us.
C3PO: We're doomed. There'll be no escape for the Princess this time.
Val: Tell me about it.
