Updates as Storytelling

The concept of Twitter fiction is interesting to me because there are no real guidelines for what to do or how to do it, but we can still make a value judgment of good or bad use of the medium. Based on Ruth Page’s “Celebrity Practice” chapter, I think there are two distinct avenues authors can take, which is where we can split Cole and Egan. In her analysis, Page describes three different styles of tweets: the addressed message, the retweet, and the update. While the addressed message is “a public tweet that begins with an @username address” and retweets are “tweets that have been forwarded without amendment,” updates are, according to Page, “all other publicly available tweets that appear in a tweeter’s timeline” (93-4). Basically, the update is your average, everyday tweet.

Egan’s “Black Box” operates using the update style of tweet so well that, for the most part, you wouldn’t necessarily know that you are reading a segment of a complete short story unless you knew that you were reading a part of a short story. Most of the tweets that create “Black Box” are quips, observations, adages, and aphorisms that actually sound like tweets you could read if you were to look at your average Twitter feed. For example, “The first thirty seconds in a person’s presence are the most important” (1), “Never look for hidden cameras: the fact that you’re looking will give you away” (12), and “Knowing your latitude and longitude is not the same as knowing where you are” (22) all make complete sense when isolated and removed from the story. And, I can almost guarantee that similar tweets have been composed by “average” Twitter users outside of any storytelling context because they all have the observational quality present in many tweets, Facebook status updates, or Instagram captions—what Page refers to as “tellability” (104).

While reading “Black Box,” I went through the painstaking process of marking tweets that can function independently of the story and still make sense as well as the tweets that only work if you read the larger story. The former category outnumbers the latter. I think this is part of what makes Egan’s story a “successful” piece of Twitter fiction; “Black Box” is able to capture the essence of the social media site and re-channel it into a means for telling a story.

When it comes to looking at individual tweets, Egan’s choice of diction—beauty, Designated Mate, Hotspot, etc.—allows tweets that would normally make sense solely in the storytelling context to function as independent updates as well. Chapter 12 has a solid example of this in the tweet “The concerns of your Designated Mate are your concerns.” I think the most interesting part about this aspect of the text is the duality it creates. In the context of the story, this tweet means one thing—chiefly that the citizen agent must surrender herself so completely to the mission at hand that she must become one with this violent and dangerous man—and it means another thing entirely if taken out of the story context and looked at on an individual basis. In this later case it seems much more heartwarming and loving because “Designated Mate” does not carry an inherent dangerous and violent quality; it only gains those implications from the story.

When Egan uses linked tweets (tweets that cannot be fully understood independently and require knowledge of previous tweets to make sense) she often marks them with repetition, specifically demonstrating their connectedness, such as the repetition of “You will be tempted” in chapter 7 or “Only then” in chapter 9. The significance of these linked tweets, especially those marked with repetition, is that we are given another layer of understanding. On the macro level, we have an entire story unit. On the most micro level, we have individual tweets that are meaningful on their own. By linking certain tweets, there is also a middle ground where several consecutive tweets can be taken out of the larger story as a grouped unit and make sense that way. Therefore, “Black Box” offers several different levels of storytelling depending on how you orient yourself as the reader.

For my money (or lack thereof), I think Egan uses Twitter as a storytelling medium more effectively than Cole. Cole clearly does not use the update style of tweet for his storytelling. Instead, he plays with Twitter’s sense of community and interaction in “Hafiz” and “A Piece of the Wall.” While we do not necessarily need to frame these different approaches as a “who did it better?” throwdown, I do think there is something we can talk about when it comes to making effective use of Twitter as a storytelling medium that actually does something for the text rather than simply being a different way to deliver it.

The Mediated Gaze

(Apologies for the lack of paragraph breaks. I have been trying and failing to figure out why they’re not appearing).
Thanks, Hannah and Abigail for thoughtful posts. I, too, am interested in Oryx.
I tend to think that Oryx, at least when she’s first introduced as something more than a spectral voice in Snowman’s head, encourages us to think about the relationship between virtual and material existence, between an infinitely reproducible image (competing for attention amid a sea of similar images) and a singular body. Digitally rendered Oryx, staring at the camera, causes Jimmy to consider the act of spectatorship, and, further, a process of digital production that relies on the labor of real people in real places. “Then she looked over her shoulder and right into the eyes of the viewer — right into Jimmy’s eyes, into the secret person inside him. I see you, that look said” (91).
This scene stages, in some sense, a reversal of the male gaze, which, like Sartre’s experience looking through a keyhole and realizing he too is being watched, interpellates the gazer not just as an agent of patriarchal objectification and commodification, but also as a self-conscious human subject. I think this humanizing power of Oryx’s mediated gaze supports Abigail’s suggestion that, following Sandoval, we might see Oryx as a model of resistance to a commodified neocolonial world. And to Hannah’s point about cash value, I think this resistance points to the essential ambivalence of labor exploitation: the transformation of labor into a commodity is a source of both alienation and power for the worker. The conference of cash value onto the movements of one’s body makes the body both ripe for exploitation and a source of anti-capitalist resistance.
But what is it  exactly about Oryx’s gaze that unnerves Jimmy, causes him to start? What gives an image power to confirm its own authenticity, to insist on a material reality, a backstory that matters and humanizes? What breaks the spell of the image and the erasure of exploitative, sexualized labor on which it depends? What is the significance that, as Abigail points out, this power is conferred to a woman and the only character marked as non-white?
I think these questions get more complicated when we consider the media world of the Crakers, who communicate (or think they communicate) with really-existing gods (Oryx and Crake) through the medium of Snowman. Jimmy and the Crakers interact two very different types of media: one that is essentially mythological and which derives its authenticity from “internal consistency,” and another that cannot maintain its mythological status (its ability to absorb the viewer in a pleasant or compelling fiction) because of its essentially indexical relationship to the world. Can we say that it is these different types of media existence that account for the relative inferiority (in Crake’s eyes) of humans and relative perfection of the Crakers? The humans in Atwood’s corporatized world produce fictions that are always undermined by their inability to fully excise the brutal realities they both depend on and erase. The Crakers, whom we might call premodern, don’t have to worry about this kind of rupture because their fictions derive authority not from any sort of correspondence to reality but divine provenance.
This also has me thinking about Oryx and Snowman as media. Both mediate between the crackers and others. But what does it mean for humans to be media?

What’s true about language?

As Kevin’s post astutely points out, it seems like the reading material for this week orientate us towards a discussion of Language and language. That being said, I’d like to take up Kevin’s point about the relation between Language and truth. Does an entirely different relation occur between Language and truth if we substitute an understanding of ‘Truth as an immutable and transcendental series of facts’ with ‘truth as the processes of selection and evaluation that provide the conditions for truth claims to occur in the first place’? That’s to say, what happens to the relation between Language (and language) and truth if we understand this connection in constructive terms (i.e., language plays a part in constructing truth) rather than mimetic ones (i.e., language represents an already given truth out there)?

I think that the Ariekei’s system of Language explicitly participates in such acts of construction. Take for example Avice’s explanation early in the novel of the role of Language for the Ariekei:

‘For Hosts, speech was thought. It was as nonsensical to them that a speaker could say, could claim, something it knew to be untrue as, to me, that I could believe something I knew to be untrue. Without Language for things that didn’t exist, they could hardly think them; they were vaguer by far than dreams. What imaginaries any of them could conjure at all must be misty and trapped in their heads.’ (83)

This shows that, rather than there being no distinction between Language and Truth, the latter entirely depends upon the former to come into existence (or to manifest as anything other than ‘misty’ pre-thoughts). If the Ariekei are Hosts, then truth is a sort of parasite that feeds from their Language system. We might also look to the Ariekei’s construction of similes by manufacturing situations for (post?)human bodies and inanimate objects. This construction could be understood as a sort of truth-making: for something to be true, it must be said; if it cannot be said, then new forms of expression must be constructed to produce this information as truth.

This, then, begs the relationship of language to Language to code. Perhaps the mimetic understanding of the relation between language and truth (i.e., language as representing an external truth) is the same relation that Chun describes with the fetish of code: when the ‘outcome’ or ‘end’ of code obscures the coding process that enabled this object’s construction. In other words: can we draw equivalencies between, on the one hand, the situation in which representation through language masks the role of language in constructing this representation and, on the other (posthuman bionic) hand, the situation in which the outcome of code (e.g., an application or a game, etc.) distracts us from thinking about the underlying code that produced this outcome in the first place?

I think Kevin’s question about the defamiliarizing of language is a pertinent one here. And, so as to not to disappoint his expectations for theoretical conceptions of language, it might be interesting to think not about Hegel but Friedrich Kittler, and especially his idea of language as a sort of code. For Kittler, there was a time (which he calls Discourse Network 1800, which approximately correlates to the Romantic period) in which writing was a way of storing a transcendental meaning: trained to read for this meaning, audiences were able to bypass the material codes used to communicate and ‘hallucinate’ a meaning from the alphanumeric symbols arranged on a surface. With the development of new technologies, however, writing lost its monopoly as the primary material storage system. Reduced to but one mode of communication among many, the material conditions through which data was transmitted became apparent: audio playback is accompanied by the hiss of a gramophone needle; writing is exposed as a sort of code used to create a representation, rather than some sort of lossless transmission system for transcendental meaning or ‘Truth’. As Kevin noted, the lie makes truth conceivable: this is not to say truth was never there, but only that it becomes apparent through its opposite.

It’s certainly interesting to see a text like Mièville’s novel defamiliarize its own raw materials (i.e., language); I’m out of space here, but I wonder if such acts of defamiliarization could be trying to get us to think about the relationship between ‘fiction’ and ‘reality’, between representation and lived experience? On a different note, I think it would be helpful to scrutinize further the relationship between linguistic or natural languages and coding or ‘computer’ ‘languages’. Is it useful to associate natural and coding languages? What if we didn’t think of coding as a language at all, would that change our understanding of digital media? (By the way, these are genuine questions I don’t really have an answer to – but, especially given how most of the reading we’ve had so far has drawn a relationship between language and code in some way, I think it’s something it’d be worth thinking about!)

What exactly is the status of embodiment?

I’ll pick up where Jessica’s provocative questions leave off: Do we need to draw firm distinctions between embodiment and data flows? Is there a third way that can route us around the body/code binary? I’m not totally sure. However, I’m not entirely convinced Hayles wants us to think of embodiment as mutually exclusive with informational flows, since it seems to be the interaction of the two that, for her, constitutes human subjectivity.
Hayles’s critique is, I think, simply that Snow Crash leaves no room for non-machinic forms of human existence. For Stephenson, according to Hayles, “there must exist in humans a basic programming level, comparable to machine code in computers, at which free will and autonomy are no more in play than they are for core memory running a program” (258). The problem with Stephenson’s model is it presumes humans work like computers, and that there is a code capable of operating at the most foundational level of human consciousness, thereby fusing “inscription” and “incorporation.” In other words, executable code, a nam-shub, etc. Hayles considers this vision of humanity nightmarish, since it leaves questions of the human body — the finite body, the gendered and raced body — entirely out of the question. While I think Hayles’s insistence on embodiment is useful, I also think we should ask whether we think Hayles’s reading makes sense. Is Snow Crashs central metaphor in fact that “humans are computers”? Do Y.T.’s resistance to the Falabala’s brainwashing or Hiro’s ingenious hacking offer possible points of resistance?
Either way, for Hayles, the stakes seem really to be about the status of the liberal subject in post-humanist discourse. “I see the deconstruction of the liberal humanist subject as an opportunity to put back into the picture the flesh that continues to be erased in contemporary discussions about cybernetic subjects” (266). Hayles’s concern is not so much with the inaccuracy of Stephenson’s human/computer conflation, but with the tendency of some post-humanist discourse (exemplified by Snow Crash) to reproduce the fantasy of a disembodied liberal subject (one who can shed its body behind a Rawlsian veil of ignorance).
On the subject of embodiment, I also think it’s worth noting again the “racist overtones” Hayles observes in her reading of the novel. I’ve found myself particularly interested in how the novel’s xenophobic imaginary (a) reflects anxieties around the AIDS crisis, especially the fear that otherness will not destroy those in power but infect and change them, making them other as well, and (b) seems to shore up Michael’s suggestion that identity, as opposed to ideology, has become the primary political concept in the post-historical era. In a post-ideological world (where there is no longer disagreement, only differences in identity) the only way to exert total control — the only way to collect people under the same identity category — is to change who they are. It’s no longer a question of either coercion or hegemony but bioengineering. In this sense, the miscegenation proposals outlined by liberal identitarians resemble the virus  L. Bob Rife seeks to propagate through the population. Only physical transformation can ensure a change in belief, because belief is simply an embodied “point of view.” Scary stuff.