Blowing up your mind is hard to explain because you have to go to really specific places. You go to faggot-places. By faggot-places I mean the places that you get called a faggot for talking about, and by extension, once you’ve internalized the language of the faggot-caller, thinking about. In America, being specific is a faggot activity. Our entire culture and consensus language discourages being specific. I guess. You know. Whatever. People just laugh when you try to allude to those fragile details that make up who we really are–nervous laughter.
Now I leave them here, on my site or on twitter, so they can rest until those scattered beings who have something in common with me can find them.
Twitter. Like many people, I need to preface by saying I used to see twitter as a pretty base place where people only gave a shit about getting as many follows as possible, or recycling memes. It can be.
It also has the chance to go to faggot places.
The beauty of Twitter is that it makes safe the revealing of highly explicit, delicate strands of expression that would otherwise perish in our culture. Other media permits sharing, yeah, but rarely has it tempted us to vocalize these quick, shy little tics before they flit away. We are not making anything so pompous as a Post. It’s just a tweet! Say whatever! Whatever ends up being truer.
Twitter permits low-risk, high feedback inspection of these strands by other people. You can throw your innards out there, often on pure instinct, something you don’t even understand, and other people will tell you that they like this thing about yourself that you grew immune to.
We grow immune to our own charms. We spend so much time inside our own heads that we no longer find ourselves fascinating. It takes other people to show us why we’re fascinating.
Twitter is ego busking. We’re performing for intellectual validation, emotional sustenance. At its worst, you have a grotesque chain of endless followbacks by people who have nothing to say, just trying to make a number get bigger and bigger. But at its best, we’re getting valuable nutrition for the rare parts of ourselves, the half-formed, brilliant, fragile, tenuous threads of our inner discourse that would otherwise be lost.