I wrote the following last night, in the middle of the night. I'm at work now, and it's hard to focus. So I'm going back to my first love, my old friends, The Smashing Pumpkins, for solace and sympathy. They always help me to take a deep breath and recollect myself.
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AIM pisses me off.
I love it anyways, because it truly is thanks to AIM that I know some people even as well as I do now.
But it pisses me off.
AIM gives the illusion of a real conversation, but when the rubber meets the road, it lacks all of the most important elements of a real conversation, right at the moment when you need them most.
Like the ability to look someone in the eye when you're speaking to them. A highly underrated thing, because the way someone looks at you can tell you everything about what the words they're saying actually mean.
Or the ability to hear a person's voice as you talk to them. Because there's so much that is communicated through the way a person speaks to you. And though we've learned to approximate some of it on the internet, so much is still lost when you read what they type, rather than hearing them say it.
Or the ability to just sit, and be, quietly, together. In person, that's companionship, and often a time when a look or a touch can say everything you're not even going to bother trying to put into words. On AIM, that's awkward silence.
Or the ability to cry on someone's shoulder, or to hold them as they cry on yours. On AIM, you don't even know they're crying unless they choose to tell you. And if they do, all you can say is, "I'm sorry."
Or the ability to give someone a hug when they need one. It's amazing what a good hug can do. But the best we have on AIM is, "I wish I could give you a hug right now," or, "If I were there...." And what does that do?
What's the statistic? Only 10% of our communication is done through the words we say? Something like that.
And that's why I hate AIM. It cuts out the other 90% and leaves us with just the words.
It lets you think that you're having a real conversation. And sometimes you even can, and that's deceptive, too, because then you start to really believe that it's not necessarily all that different.
But AIM also has this way of letting you start conversations that are going to need some of the things I just mentioned. A look, a touch, a shoulder to cry on, a hug, or even just the ability to be there, together, to hear and see each other. AIM lets you start these conversations that you can't finish, because you can't do those things through AIM.
Sometimes I just want to turn off the computer, ride across town, and show up at someone's door. And just say, "Screw AIM, I'm here now."
I couldn't live without AIM. I don't know where I would be without it. But I can't even begin to describe how much I hate it, sometimes.
4 comments:
I feel your pain.
I know you do, dude. You of all people, I know you do. This was for you and me and anyone else who rely on AIM only because we need it, and hate that we need it.
So do it. Ride across town. It doesn't matter what time it is. I know that that person would appreciate it and I know that they need it right now.
I don't know who that first Anonymous is, but this one is Daniel Clouser, and I think it should be mentioned that Tucker's comments regarding AIM go quite a lot deeper than than the average American citizen would imagine. We (those in the particular situation of Tucker, Hale--distortedstar--and I) are not in any sort of situation to drive across town to be with our buddies in times of need (I use the word "buddies" because I think that it does total disrespect to the institution--or whatever--of friendship, but it is so perfectly apt a term to describe the state to which it has seemingly degenerated in this fine nation). You see, Tucker lives in Oregon, Hale lives in Texas, and I live in Pennsylvania (sorry if I screwed any of that up, guys; I know living situations can change long before hermits like me figure out what's going on). That means that the angst associated with AIM conversations is related to the pain of separation from friends we lived with at a fairly repressive boarding school in West Africa. That school doesn't exist now, and even if it did, here would be no place for us there. Nor is there any place for us in Africa--at least one anything like the one we left behind. We lived in a land without border; really, it was without any geographic ties. The society we participated in over there had little to do with that of the country around it, at least in its essence. We come from a country that doesn't exist. Sure, we're Americans, but we absolutely do not think like Americans, and there is no way that I can explain how important the culture of one's thoughts is. The fact is that we spent our lives moving from place to place, sometimes thousands of miles, sometimes only hundreds. Each time a change took place, our entire world changed. I mean, everything. Do you understand how incredibly different people are from each other? Do you know what it's like to return to your supposed homeland to find that everyone behaves in ways completely foreign to you? We know what it's like to be criticized for everything from clothing to speech to the way we freakin' carry our books or even stand. Remember, we look exactly like your average American. I, for one, have absolutely no regional accent; I just sound like your noirmal, every-day American. But I'm not. If I was obviously foreign, a little incomprehensible behavior would be expected (though probably still persecuted, since in PA and many other states, it is apparent that about 95% or so of the population shares views on racial tolerance with Bubba the In-Bred Redneck and KKK members around the nation). And the criticism isn't the biggest problem. The problem is that we are lonely. So, so, so lonely in the midst of people who don't understand what makes us tick. And you know what? I'm pretty sure we don't understand what makes Americans tick either, 'cause usually I end up seeing no recourse but to condemn almost every participant in the mainstream culture as a shallow, self-centered worshipper of money and ego and all that is meaningless in the world. I'm not saying that's true, and I don't believe it is (or at least I hope it isn't), but few people do much to fight that perception. Okay, so I know you (Anonymous) probably had no idea, and that's fine. I'm just trying to explain the unexplainable: what Tucker really meant--really felt deep down--with the "AIM Sucks" rant. The pain there comes from growing up and realizing that you've lost your home because it never actually existed as anything more than a dream that we made real, only able to do so, perhaps, because we didn't know it was just a fleeting fantasy. Sure, this is an experience common to people growing up and figuring out the way things work--attaching meaning to words we had formerly reacted to with attitudes of "Yeah, whatever!" But what I'm talking about is something that goes way beyond your garden-variety coming-of-age story. No matter what you've lost, living in your home country all your life, there will always be that home. If your entire family, all of your friends, even your whole home town gets annihilated in some freak disaster, there will always be more America and more Americans. It's not the same, I know, but trust me, it IS relatively the same. Think about how different Americans are from each other. Believe it or not, Americans share a similar culture, from goths to rednecks to lesbian feminists to National Rifle Association members. What I'm saying is, we experience feelings that would make a neo-Nazi skinhead long for the company of a gay, black Jew just so he could talk to someone he had something in common with. Well, the whole concept is too big to ever adequately explain, but I gave it a shot anyway.
Later,
Daniel S. Clouser
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