The Tyranny of The Now
Today’s guest post was written by someone who is like that older brother I never really wanted but who is fascinating and funny. When I met Neil last summer while on a visit to the Queen of Spain and LeahPeah and SueBob and a bunch of other folks (it ended up being a spontaneous party) we ate burritos (is that a theme in my life lately or what?) we sat in this Mexican restaurant until closing time and he mentioned he was a screenwriter. Of course, I beg him constantly to write a part for me so I can make my acting debut. He doesn’t think I’m equally as fascinating, though. A “bit part” he keeps saying. Ah, well. I like Neil anyway.
My dependence on technology is bad for my brain muscles. I don’t remember things anymore. By being “connected” all the time, I feel as if there is the tyranny of the “now.” When I blog, an old post is promptly put into the archives, never to be seen again. I spend less time thinking about future events. I create a note on my calendar and let my computer do the remembering. What is important is now. My latest blog post. Your latest comment. The latest hot buzz. In the past year or so, the importance of “the now” has intensified for me when I joined Facebook and Twitter. I can now follow your personal life by the second. I know you are eating lunch at noon. I know what you are eating. I know what time you are going back to work. An event that happened ten minutes ago is old news.
A few weeks ago, I met a group of bloggers in New York. It was an exciting moment for us. We were meeting for the first time. But I noticed something new at this group meeting. We seemed as interested in reporting the event to others as enjoying the moment ourselves. As we ate our dinner, we were taking photos and sending them to Flickr. Others were live-twittering the event, so outsiders knew as much about what was we were talking about as those actually there. I’m sure this will be happening a lot at BlogHer this weekend.
In some ways, I think this is an amazing advance. We can share our lives with others. For those bloggers not going to BlogHer, these messages and photos are a lifeline to the experience. You can even go on Second Life and go to the conference in a virtual world!
Sometimes, it feels as if reality isn’t “real” without it being broadcast. Are we losing our ability to enjoy life if we don’t capture it in a photo or words and share it with others? Will future generations want to have sex if they can’t make an amateur sex video for YouTube?
I’m concerned about younger people born into this text-message. Do teenagers feel lonely or isolated if they aren’t in direct contact with others 24 hours a day? When a young person sees the majesty of the Grand Canyon for the first time, does he take it in, or is his urge to text message his friends, “Hey, dudes, I’m at the Grand Canyon.”
This issue has resonance with me because it reminds me of going on summer vacations with my parents. Even though my father never sent a text message in is life (or would ever do it), he was obsessed with taking home movies when we went on vacation. I hated it. We would go to Disneyland and rather than running through the gate, my mother and I would have to stop in front of the sign and wave to the camera. I just hated it. It felt as if he cared more about the movie than the experience. If you saw the home movies today, you would see me grimacing during every vacation.
Of course, today I am grateful for all these home movies. My father knew what he was doing. He was keeping a record of life — of his son growing up. He knew those days would pass quickly. Although those home movies were a pain in the neck to me as a child, he was thinking about the future. He wanted a record of our time together.
This is very different than the world of Twitter and Flickr. We have little interest in preserving events for the future. The future is gone within one second. When that teenager today writes that text message at the Grand Canyon, he has no interest in keeping the memory alive. He does it because if he doesn’t share it, it feels as if it isn’t really happening, like that tree that falls in the forest when no one is around. It is less an act of remembrance, than that of loneliness.
