Sometimes there arrives a moment of such import, such significance in the history of expression and communication, that we must not do as we usually would, simply letting our tired eyes fly past in haste and hurry.
Rather, we must sit a while, and contemplate. And learn. And grow.
Word 1: “THIS”
*Knowing nod*
I mean that’s just it, isn’t it. This.
What is this?
For you, it’s your first tweet. For a mother in Minnesota, perhaps it’s getting the kids to hockey practice with a solid breakfast in them. For an Australian alligator-wrangler, it’s wrangling an alligator. In the country of Australia.
Point is, this is this, and it’s all there is. It’s not “that,” and it’s not “then.” It’s not a drunkard’s blues, or an old soldier’s shoes. Sometimes, though, it’s a tweet.
Let’s read on.
Word 2: “IS”
Wow. Stakes raised.
The present. The only thing we’re guaranteed, and yet the only thing that, in each moment, no longer exists. Funny how that works.
Ever try to grab onto the present?
Ever try to find the end of a rainbow?
Same results. Just different colours, friend.
Is. Not was? Not will be? You’ve made a choice here, and you’ve made it for a reason: you’ve chosen a moment.
But do you want to know something, Mrs. Martin? Now, already, this was your first tweet. And it always will be. Only certainty here is that things always change. And you can take that to the bank.
The Bank of Is.
Word 3: “MY”
Checkmate. King me.
Ownership. Possession. These are terms which, in our post-modern, pre-Foucaultian, intra-Chomskyite digital modernity, have seemed scarcely to retain their faintest slivers of meaning.
Can one own the internet? Can any individual count the information superhighway among his or her stock holdings? Can you hold deed and title to the rampaging data-packets and buzzing beeps of this sticky structure we call “the web”? No. Of course not. You can only own this tweet. Your tweet. It belongs to you, its benevolent creator.
Ecce Tweeto. Lorem Retweetum.
Word 4: “FIRST”
Deceptively simple. Much like Twitter itself. Much like, oh, I don’t know… life?
Certainly you could have written “1st.” Simple. Brief. Three quick letters and move on. Yet you didn’t, and I think we both know why: it’s called being an artist. This is your space to use, your canvas to splatter—why impose limits? Characters 1–140 are for you merely the stage of Carnegie Hall, waiting for you to dance, to roam free and far as you wish. As far as I’m concerned, you could have written “FIRRRRRRRRRRRRST” and I wouldn’t have minded. Would not have batted an eye.
But you’ve got class.
First-class.
Word 5: “TWEET!”
Excitement bursts forth as we near the close. Revelling in the pure joy of creation. Of communication. Of E-speak at its apogee.
Picasso had his brushes. Brooks Robinson had his glove. You’ve got your tweets.
We’ve got your tweets.
Looking forward to the journey.
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Full Disclosure: The author had a crush on the subject of this piece during the period from 1997–98, and during that time (for his school binder) once cut out a full-page magazine advertisement for the film Great Expectations in which she was wearing a black dress and there was a black background, as a result of which she looked like a floating head. And she still looked great.
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As always… You have brought a smile on a dreary day!!
Thanks so much! It’s the only goal over here!
We really haven’t been successful in changing the weather in any other way; the homemade weather machine was even more unsuccessful than you’d think. So laughs, comedy, n’ thoughts it remains.
Actually, the homemade weather machine was probably exactly as unsuccessful as you’d think.