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

"If the punchy, claustrophobic anti-sociality of programs in the early lockdown recommended a particularly dark vision into the future, the Action for Black Lives street uprising of the late spring thought like their wondrous opposite—the next where platforms were answering and being structured by the activities on the floor, rather than these functions being structured by and shaped to the demands of the platforms. This is anything value our time and commitment, something that surpassed our compulsion to publish, something that—for a minute, at least—the Twittering Unit could not swallow.

Maybe not so it was not trying. As persons in the streets toppled statues and struggled authorities, persons on the tools adjusted and refashioned the uprising from a road motion to a subject for the consumption and expression of the Twittering Machine. That which was occurring off-line must be accounted for, identified, judged, and processed. Didactic story-lectures and pictures of well filled antiracist bookshelves appeared on Instagram. On Facebook, the usual pundits and pedants jumped up challenging details for every single mantra and justifications for every action. In these matter trolls and answer men, Seymour's chronophage was literalized. The social industry does not just consume our time with endless stimulus and algorithmic scrolling; it takes our time by creating and promoting individuals who exist simply to be explained to, individuals to whom the world has been created anew every day, persons for whom every settled sociological, clinical, and political controversy of modernity must certanly be rehashed, rewritten, and re-accounted, now with their participation.

These individuals, with their just-asking issues and vapid start words, are dullards and bores, pettifoggers and casuists, cowards and dissemblers, time-wasters of the worst sort. But Seymour's guide suggests anything worse about people, their Twitter and Facebook interlocutors: That we want to waste our time. That, however much we might complain, we discover satisfaction in endless, rounded argument. That we get some sort of fulfillment from monotonous debates about "free speech" and "stop culture." That individuals find oblivion in discourse. In the machine-flow atemporality of social networking, this seems like number good crime. If time is an endless source, why not invest several decades of it with a couple New York Times op-ed columnists, repairing all European believed from first principles? But political and economic and immunological crises stack on one another in succession, around the background roar of ecological collapse. Time isn't infinite. Nothing of us are able to pay what is left of it dallying with the stupid and bland."


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