Years ago, in a previous public incarnation, I joked that, "In the future, everyone will be anonymous for 15 minutes." I felt pretty proud of that one for the way it subverted/updated Andy Warhol. It had a Wildean epigrammatic air about it that tickled me to the point where I was in a good mood that lasted for nearly an hour.
During my flu-induced hiatus, this blog passed the 1,000 view mark. That's kind of incredible when you think that the only real promotional outlet is a twitter account with 11 followers (YOU CAN FOLLOW US HERE! @KPostpunk). Now 250 or so of those views are b/c Tom at Stereogum re-tweeted The Top Fortys, a column that is many things: it is really fun to write, a shameless exercise in Gen X pandering, a self-aware commentary on the nature of grading things (I give the column, as a whole, an 8), and a kind of time-capsule unearthing examination type thing.
I started this blog because I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to write, work out ideas, without the self-consciousness that comes with knowing you're being watched. All you have to do is see how Facebook changed once everyone's parents and grandparents joined up to know how the awareness you're being judged can affect what people share.
Around the end of last year, I really wanted to get back into writing current cultural/socio-cultural thoughts in real time. I had spent the fall collaborating on a book proposal (found out last week it was accepted--congratulate me, this spectral anonymous online presence), and after spending months doing research-based, academic press-quality writing, missed the days of shouted off opinions and experimentation. I considered approaching some people in a position to make that happen, but quickly realized that anywhere I went I'd be limited, not only in what I could write, but how I could write about it (music, but not politics; no cursing, etc.). So I thought why not just start up this thing, just for myself, as an experiment. Put it in the lamest area of the blogosphere. Accentuate its amateurish-ness, its lack of venture capital, its desire to do nothing more than say things. To go back to blogging like it was in 2005-ish (from what I hear), a time when people (apparently) just found things. I missed out on those days because I didn't have regular internet, and I seemed to be on a path where my future would be in print (and I was a dummy, and maybe I was a snob).
Reading some Mark Fisher over xmas-time was a big inspiration too. I have problems with some of Fisher's stuff (more of a, wait, hold on a second than get the fuck out of here), but we have a serious overlap of interests with culture and politics, how they intersect, etc. And so I figured I'd start this thing that could be whatever I want it to be from moment to moment, and most importantly, I would not care if anyone read it.
....
But then why do I keep checking the stats? More importantly, why did I feel a genuine excitement when I saw the spike when Tom re-tweeted me? Why have I messaged a couple of friends after writing something I just knew they would love to let them know hey, I'm doing this thing over here, but it's kind of supposed to be anonymous. Why, even in a venue meant to avoid detection, am I still looking to uh, be detected.
I stopped putting question marks at the end there because I realized I wasn't really asking questions anymore.
I'm not surprised by any of this. Or upset by it. But I think it's worth being open about my own dreams of glory and recognition, esp. in a venue that is so critical of that quality in others. Some of it is just making something beautiful that you want to show to the world--because you think it could have a positive impact, or because your parents didn't like the drawing you made for them when you were 7. But narcissism is in all of us. It's deliberately cultivated. It's a hard fucking habit to break.
We want to be invisible; we are terrified that being invisible means to no longer exist.
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