On Six Randomly Chosen People from Twitter (27/30)
I'm writing 30 posts in 30 days, this is number 27.
The project linked in your pinned Tweet was beautiful. All the numbers forming from the fog, which is to say, noise emerging from other, lower-resolution noise. It sort of reflected the process of spending five minutes getting to know you by scrolling through your timeline. I started with no idea, and then, in the end, I have an impression of dubious accuracy. It seems to me like you’re on the cusp of personal change—you allude to applying to a graduate program. I hope you get in. Previously, you only posted pictures—great pictures, by the way—but now you’re starting to talk a bit, to air sentiments, opinions. If I’m right, and you are in a period of becoming, I hope it’s only as nauseating and fearful as it has to be, and that you resolve into something that you’re satisfied with, whether it’s strange to you or familiar.
Ah, Clifford Nash. You are an intelligent person. How do I know that? Because I don’t know anything about you, really. Sure, your bio has some info in it: you’re a father, coder, weightlifter. But those abstract nouns only hide the truth—they make you inconspicuous. The best OpSec isn’t nonexistence, which is suspicious. You’re a cypher, a minimal entity, retweeting reasonable accounts at a reasonable pace. My guess is that you could be trained and highly dangerous. Or just a nice guy. The point is I don’t know. Perhaps your libertarian instincts are kicking in here. Twitter and the state are becoming more entwined, and why would you trust Twitter to be any more responsible than the US government? Your timeline is a great reminder that I need to be more vigilant, although I probably still won’t be.
I see that you’ve done 30 for 30 as well! It seems you’ve executed this smoothly, producing crunchy little essays, gemlike in their insightfulness and economy. I appreciate them very much. My approach has been more chaotic. I’m writing this at 10 PM like a fucking moron, on my quiet Bluetooth keyboard so I don’t wake my wife up. This is reminiscent of my whole way of being. Perhaps your process is reflective of yours, as well: maybe you’re controlled and intelligent in your way of life. Scouring your website, I see that my instinct seems correct. You’re informed by stoicism, and interested in clarity. Your website’s minimal design is exquisite, and it’s copied exactly from someone else’s minimal design, which is the best possible way to design a website, honestly—why do the work yourself? Of course, all of this just makes me want to huff nitrous with you and get stupid, but I feel this is something you would not do.
So, I think… I think… I talked to you on the phone once? In a move blatantly ripped off from Nicole Williams, I tweeted my phone number and asked people to call me, and you did. Maybe. Maybe it was you, who discussed small-town life with me, during the summer, between semesters. You had some job, perhaps, in a non-threatening industry, and you didn’t make me despair at the state of the world—you were pleasant, accommodating, low-key. I could nearly hear cicadas in the background, sticky summer air, potential, the pulsation of pregnant emptiness. That was in my apartment in Glendale, the best apartment I ever lived in, from which I decamped with my wife to this dark canyon. If you called me here a month ago, you’d hear a defeated tone in my voice, the vagueness of a man whose convictions have been tested with no obvious benefit. Now, though, I am triumphant, nearing my escape. But I’m too busy to take random phonecalls right now. Otherwise I’d speak to you again. If that was you. If it wasn’t, I’m sorry for all this wabash.
Hey man! I solemnly swear that you were, indeed, picked randomly. Which befits our meeting each other at the crypto castle, right? You stood out among even the freaks and weirdos there, in a good way—actually open-hearted in stony rooms of people who bragged of their cosmopolitanism but in fact hid themselves behind facades, including me. A strong impression, though we only spoke briefly. Only you would dare interrupt an orgy with nothing but the power of your heart. The willowy Slavs in attendance wouldn’t even know how to be that powerful. Seeing your evolution has been wonderful, and I’m glad I played a part in peer pressuring you into lifting weights. Though something may come of these words I’m emitting, perhaps it’s nothing as consequential as your newfound swoleness. Someday we’ll grapple in the Bay Area grass, I hope.
You, as well, are a coach! I’m not sure that we’re legally permitted to talk to each other outside of a costly boutique leadership seminar or whatever. Nevertheless, I’ve occasionally thought of partaking in your services. There’s all sorts of philosophical dissonance in my life—I think things are aligned, and then they slip sideways. This is something I’d instinctively trust you with; your online presence has always projected sincerity, wisdom, integrity. You don’t seem like a bullshit person, you don’t seem like you’re making stuff up. And this is what I’m skeptical about when I investigate the possibility of any kind of talk therapy: the possibility that someone could sort of verbally seduce me into thinking my life contained all sorts of complexity that it actually doesn’t. Also, I implicitly trust anyone who has kids. Which is weird, because so many people do have kids, and a lot of them are terrible. I’m sure you’re better than them, though, and that your kids are better than their kids. Not sure, exactly, but that’s the hypothesis I’m going with.
this should be a monthly tradition, it's a fun "get to know the gang" activity now that we all live on the internet