Scattered Thoughts on Being Seen
Today Cohost goes read-only, and as of writing this its users are still playfully grasping at branches before they’re scattered to the winds. I meant to write something else on there before the end, but I’ve said what I meant to say, and - thanks to the ethos it helped to instill in me - I have no further need to be seen there. My post from a few weeks ago is more truthful than anything I can say now under the pressure of the moment.
It has me thinking about being seen vs. being remembered, and how, in our current landscape, the former is almost solely designed to conflict with the latter. It was strange to be remembered on Cohost. As a micro-famous personality of the indie sleaze web, I vaguely felt like I didn’t belong. It doesn’t feel entirely genuine to approach people who already (to a limited extent) know your deal. Cohost users shared so much of themselves - so much that I carried through my days - and I lurked more than I posted or commented (which I may end up regretting, now that it’s too late).
It was also lovely to be remembered, as if I’m seeing a return on an investment that no longer requires my attention. It was a balm in a present reality where being visible is not a given for anyone. In my daily real-world interactions I am, by and large, my son’s mother, a role I’m quite proud of but only a fraction of my being. (I’m working on this, slowly forging a local games community, but boy does it take time.) In my online life I am locked in a years-long struggle for visibility that no game developer is free to neglect.
Being familiar to someone for years of comic-making work that was once central to my life, but over time has flattened, is like drinking a mild tea. I get a little kick - nothing strong enough to hook me - and it does my heart well.
That was the beauty of Cohost, and the thing I’ll be looking for in the years ahead. To be something worth remembering means imbuing language and images with power, and somehow, against the odds, reaching others. It’s easy to scream into a crowd and let eyes brush over you. That’s sometimes all our world seems to offer. But we have more to offer each other - not just immediately, but in the long timeline of our lives and our collective memory. I’ll continue to imagine a world where we can know that.