Deplatform Capitalism

Find me on...

We’ve all seen the shift in the past few weeks, the digital migration; “I’m done here!” “Find me on bluesky” “Find me on substack” etc etc, one of many migrations us late millennials have encountered on our long, trudging, slog through the quicksands of platform time. In 2020, I de-invested from Instagram in a way that’s been mostly holding for these 4ish years. My screen time then was 4+ hours a day, now it's an average of 1hr, scrolling mostly, aimless, disengaged and rarely posting.

It’s not much, I know, I don’t want to be there at all, obviously, none of us do. Someone I follow says “That’s it!” They’re “taking a week off!” 48 hours later there are 23 dashes at the top of their story, lined up like track marks; the post declaring their sabbatical has disappeared.

I was worried TikTok was really going down so I downloaded all of my content over the 3 personal accounts I run there. The content isn’t really much without the comment section, the beauty of that platform is the banter around the fire; the replication of verbal memes and text-based jokes. It’s really just a host for fantastic written history, the videos mere prompts for early twitter style weirdness.

In December I was applying for grad school; I stayed mainly “away” and was writing writing, writing. The opening line of my 500 word personal essay “When I was a child I had sex with a tree.” Something to wake up a room lulled by hundreds of milquetoast apps, I thought, but we’ll see. I figure a risk is better than being lost in the stream of content; as we’ve well learned, hook their attention for those first 2 seconds. Not me, TikTokifying my grad apps :P

I told myself that after finishing my applications I’d rewatch Northern Exposure in full; it’s been a truly prescient media binge (and it holds up, imo). The local radio station serves as the beating heart of the series, Chris Stephens acts as a bard-esque narrator, strumming his existential mandolin quoting Jung and Nietzsche and Maurice Sendak. Communication is the key and we are all the DJ now. But as we splinter, and the radio towers frazzle in the dry and smoky air–they start fires and displace us, we wander restlessly, looking for a home where we will maybe maybe be heard, loud and clear or soft and humming, a choir of little posters, posting, cooing for the closeness it provides, our campfires becoming wildfires and we run and run and run.

I’m going old school and imagine going back to get my degree will afford me the luxury of logging off. I won’t feel the need for the bullhorn, I’ll have a cohort to hear and be heard, entertainment the old way; little conflicts and gossip and alliances, ruptures, repairs. The boogeyman will still be braying into the ears of all who’ll listen, but it won’t be me. I’ll be etching my dreams into creamy veg-tanned leather and praying their sadism finds a healthier outlet. A horny sublimation, an appropriate technology for the libidinal death drive. I’m not self soothing when I say this, I’m in the murk of the Wounded Domme.

I finally found an affordable psychoanalyst, after a year of submitting arts applications to develop the project in this or that fellowship or residency. I’m self funding my own analysis and honey, it hurts. But I’m pressing seductively against the limits of consent; meeting the opacity of my own self knowing. There’s not an easy infographic for that. Not a digestible soundbite or skeet. Only in relationship can opacity be punctured and I weep as my analyst quotes to me “It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found” (-Don Winicott)

We should move with peril, this libidinal pleasure of hiding it all the way away; I observe the urge and oh GOD how I understand it. When I ‘left’ in 2020 I’ve found myself never quite found again. A disaster only these dispatches can solve; be it here or in the analyst's office or the gentle walks around my neighborhood, I am desperate to be found and warn against the Year of the Hermit swallowing us. A measured plea, I just think we need to trust the alchemical fire of connection more and find ways to warm ourselves around it.

What else?

RedNote (Xiaohongshu) is fun, the furries in China have a different and more aesthetically pleasing vibe to them.

Bluesky is still best for sex workers, I recommend it for that.

X is still better for reading a variety of opinions well outside your comfort zone; its good to read things you don’t think you agree with. It’s good to stay critical, IG feels unlikely to ever provide this kind of contrast.

IG remains (for my feed) a bubble of reactionary headline readers, desperately sharing superficial, under-researched info, presumably for the dopamine hit of a list of hearts at the bottom of their story. It’s pathetic and I hate it there, leaving is an ok idea but also maybe just posting pictures of your lunch and friends is awesome too. There’s an anarchist autonomous school re-organizing here in LA if you want a nice place to share and deeply digest information.

I’m obsessed with r/polyamory and I don’t care what you think about it!! (I do)

I read Social Practices by Chris Kraus a few days ago, and enjoyed it more than I thought I would. I found it in a free pile on the side of the road. At the end she and a friend talked about how happiness is overrated as an emotional state to strive for in some kind of permanent way. I laughed out loud and muttered “My people”; I am a lover and a dreamer and I think happiness as a goal is a spiritual bypass for a life lived in balance with the ravages of nature and survival. It’s nice if you can get it, of course.

I read Sexuality Beyond Consent: Risk, Race, Traumatophilia by Avgi Saketopoulou and am deeply grateful for the insights. Life altering work, really. She has a talk today with CUNY and CLAGS, free on Zoom at 3:30PST/6:30EST if you want to join, I highly recommend it.

If you made it this far thank you for bearing with my shift to a more whatever, less structured writing. I need this right now. Maybe we all need the ease of the IG caption but elsewhere. This might be my elsewhere, for now.