A couple of months ago, I disabled the Facebook Messenger app on
my cell phone. I had heard, from people I trust and don't consider to
be alarmist, that the app could turn itself on, activate your
phone or camera and record conversations or phone calls.
Messenger, it was explained to me, transformed your phone into a
surveillance device, and even if it was only interested in consumer behavior, it meant you were being watched.
We all have our lines and this was mine. Although the Messenger plot turned out to
be grossly exaggerated, the thought that my pocket computer (this thing that only by
an accident of history is called a "phone") could be used
against me struck an emotional chord. My phone is my friend and I
didn't want my friend turned against me.
I have other friends – flesh and blood friends, not pieces of
hardware – who draw the technology/privacy line much closer to home
than do I. Some of them won't use Facebook at all, won't do Google
searches or carry a cell phone, out of concerns of their privacy being invaded. I understand that. Most of
them are a little older (and likely a little wiser) than me. If they
hadn't passed puberty by the Summer of Love, they at least remember
it. They grew up with a mindset of personal freedom and beating the
But I graduated from high school in the auspicious year of 1984.
George Orwell's novel of the same name didn't strike me as cautionary when I read it
for English class, it just seemed like a foretelling of the
inevitable. I grew up under punk and under the mindset not of beating
the system but simply surviving it. So while the Messenger rumors unnerved me, I had never really expected much different. At some point
in my life, I'd always thought, I would more than likely be required
to carry some sort of monitoring device. We all would.
A lot of the punk I was listening to in high school was revolutionary, of course, in the literal sense
of preaching political rebellion. But the post-Orewellian songs rang
truest to me, the songs that told us that in the scheme of things we
were nothing but consumers. We were numbers. If Joe Strummer
disparaged the suited class that was "turning rebellion into money," Thomas Franck informed us that we'd been suckered into buying it nevertheless. So explicit has our duty as consumer citizens been made since then that one
of the most common things our elected leaders tell us in the face of
a crisis is to go shopping. For the love of freedom, keep spending
Consumerism as patriotism was engrained in our cultural consciousness after Sept. 11, 2001. In the
immediate aftermath of the terrorist attacks 13 years ago, then President
George W. Bush addressed the nation in what Time magazine called the
"finest, strongest, clearest, several-times-chill-giving speech
of his life." And it was a great speech, defining the enemy and
promising swift action. It was probably what the country needed to
hear. In the conclusion, he turned the tables to say what the country
needed to do. "I ask you to live your lives and hug your
children," he said. "I ask your continued participation and
confidence in the American economy. And
finally, please continue praying for the victims of terror and their
families, for those in uniform and for our great country." Bush defined the three tines of a better
future: God, children and shopping. Buildings can be rebuilt but the economy can't be allowed to collapse. Then New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani, looking understandably
exhausted, actually put shopping before children on the day after the
So shopping is our civic responisbility but we're not yet electronically checked to make sure we're meeting the obligation. The Messenger monitoring scare was just a bit of mass paranoia. It will be a relief when that
day comes, though, when we don't have to worry about whether it's happened yet or not. In the meantime, however, I still haven't
reinstalled Messenger. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just one final
throw against fictional fears.
In truth, I never expected privacy. I never expected individuality. I just
want to be a meme. Message me.
stone clapper made of clay, long,
once again occurs, they say. Creeping
ivy grows, the
blinds drawn – the room got so yellow! Ignored
the fact that Here it was
Fred! the singer from
the East! The second he began to play,
working down again, as
it sometimes more
is forever at last. Those
things seem – it lasts
all day one day and then they say:
bells until tomorrow.
"For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody, just notes, a myriad of tiny tremors. The notes know no rest, an inflexible order gives birth to them then destroys them, without ever leaving them the chance to recuperate and exist for themselves.... I would like to hold them back, but I know that, if I succeeded in stopping one, there would only remain in my hand a corrupt and languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must even want that death: I know of few more bitter or intense impressions."
- Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea (1938)
"Today, you're gonna be sick, so sick. You'll prop your forehead on the sink, say, 'Oh Christ, oh Jesus Christ, my head's gonna crack like a bank.' Tonight, you'll fall asleep in clothes so late. Like a candy bar wrapped up for lunch, that's all you'll get to taste. Poverty and spit, poverty and spit."
Kurt Gottschalk is most interested in what Anthony Braxton brilliantly termed the "post Ayler/Cage continuum." His writings about music have appeared in All About Jazz, Signal to Noise, The Wire, Guitar Player, Goldmine, the NYC Jazz Record, the Brooklyn Rail, Coda, Musicworks, New Music Box and Time Out-New York, and publications in France, Germany, Ireland, Portugal and Russia. He is the producer and host of the Miniature Minotaurs radio program on WFMU and is the author of two books of fiction. He almost never writes about himself in the third person.