Have you ever had that experience in a conversation where you realize you seem to be the only one talking, or that for every comment one person makes you seem to have about five responses? It's not that you're trying to fill the lapses in the conversation, for there's no shortage of others who might offer their particular perspective. Rather, you simply can't stop yourself. It's as if you are working out your own personal view of the world in a sort of stream-of-consciousness dialogue with yourself, where others are simply there to prompt your process and acknowledge your success, with the enthusiasm of spectators at a sporting event, or maybe repentants at a revival meeting. And then there comes that moment when you realize that you no longer know what you are talking about. I don't mean you've lost the train of the conversation; I mean it finally occurs to you that your words have actually outstripped your understanding, and probably did so some time ago. Quite literally, you do not know what you are talking about. And yet you are still blathering on.
Upon reaching this moment of self-realization, a bit of self-preservation instinct kicks in and, with a sheepish apology for monopolizing the conversation or at least a bit of inward embarrassment, you finally shut up, and give someone else a turn. You scold yourself and promise yourself you'll be more considerate the next time. You may even look for another conversation you can join where you can practice holding your tongue and acknowledge someone else's thought process for a change. But in any case, the point is, you stopped yourself, because you knew that you should.
This conversational instinct, it has occurred to me, seems to be missing from online communication. At a dinner party or office party, or at a table with a round of drinks, the boredom or exasperation of our interlocutors is readily apparent, if we're paying attention. We can read it on their faces. In our online communications, however, we are free to be blissfully oblivious, to imagine that everyone actually wants to hear everything we have to say, is even enthralled by our supposed insights. Since we cannot see our audience we can easily picture them impressed by our endless pronouncements and piercing existential questions, enraptured by our regurgitation of ideas we naively assume are original with us. And so we blather on, in a sort of creeping megalomania, encouraged by the smiling faces of our followers stopped in the moment of a profile picture.
I have noted this conversational disconnect most often on Twitter, and it has presented me with a bit of a problem. Following various Twitter conversations that are relevant to my life and work, I notice particular voices that seem insightful in the moment, and so I decide to "follow" the persons who belong to these voices, which is what a good Twitter citizen should do, or so I've heard. Most of the time this works out nicely, with an occasional opportunity to overhear a good conversation or eavesdrop on the intriguing thoughts of another. At other times, however, the result is disastrous, as if I'm trapped in a conversation from which I cannot escape and into which no one, including myself, can fit a word edgewise.
I open my Twitter feed to find an endless stream of the same profile picture vomiting verbiage on everything from alpha to omega, and I don't know what to do to stop it. I could simply "unfollow" the voice, but then I might miss the rare moment of insight that could come within the long stream of tripe. I did follow the person for a reason, after all. I fight off the impulse to reply to each successive tweet, "Shut up!," "Shut up!," Shut up!" Instead I just give up for the time being and exit the feed, expecting that the individual will eventually decide to have lunch, or maybe need to go to the restroom. But, of course, laptops and cell phones are portable even into the most intimate of spaces. With no real solution, then, I find myself only hoping in the end that the offending "conversationalist" might realize what they are doing and simply stop, because they should. But they never do.
I'm beginning to consider now the possible advantage, and conversational authenticity, of uploading a variety of profile pictures from which I might choose in the particular expediency of the moment, from agreeable smiles to disapproving raspberries. I might then reply to these oblivious monopolizers with an appropriate countenance and the politest sarcasm I can muster, hoping they will get the message. But that would actually be an impolite thing to do, and conversational manners, I suppose, is really what I'm asking for here.
Yes, I am well aware of the irony of my writing about this annoyance. I'm writing on a blog, which I will publish online. To demonstrate the depth of my frustration on the matter I might do better to sign off of all my online connections, never to return again. ... But, of course, I'm not going to do that ... because I desperately want you to read this blog entry and admire how clever and insightful I am.
