my new time suck, or: participating in the post-textual culture

-
My new time suck is not actually new, just new to me. There was a long New Yorker article about it a couple of years ago, and for all its thoroughness, the New Yorker doesn’t really catch things at the very beginning of their ascent. I think they accurately described Polyvore as “paper dolls for grownups.” At the time I thought, Wow, I should make sure to never try that out because it could be a huge time suck.

The site lets you create “sets”—fashion or design collages a la magazine spreads but without words as more than an accent or placeholder. (See where our world is headed! Aaaaah!) You can choose from the site’s vast catalog of dresses, outerwear, tops, pants, skirts, accessories, jewelry and visual embellishments, or you can upload your own stuff, but I haven’t bothered with that. Yet.

Since Friday I’ve made like a dozen of these things. I wanted to limit myself to two a day, but so far that hasn’t happened. I’ll set some boundaries…tomorrow. In the meantime, it is a really fun sort of mood board/poem-collage/visual diary, that by its nature makes whatever one might say in one’s actual diary (Dear diary, Why am I still all PTSD-y a year out, and why am I such a bitch to AK sometimes?) look much cooler. On Friday I decided to imagine what one of the characters in my circus novel might wear in particular scene. Yesterday I was feeling blue, so I made a set titled “the great depression was totally emo,” riffing on vintage dress patterns from the 1930s.

I also entered some contest to design a set featuring Converse sneakers and some semi-unattractive hoodies from Lady Foot Locker. I called it “love keeps going.” I’m not sure why.

Every time I’m playing around with it AK is like, “Are you getting Pintrested again?”

But I’m not on Pintrest (yet). I sort of like Polyvore because even though thousands of teenagers from, like, Belgium and Japan are all over it, no one I know is (p)intrested in it all. It’s just me and nine hundred pairs of shoes and none of the things I should be doing instead.

Comments

Peter Varvel said…
I don't mind acknowledging or even prioritizing the things that constitute my own time suck, but it sure does decrease my level of foc - whoa! Lookit those shoes! And THOSE shoes!
(gay man's version of "Squirrel!" perhaps?)
February 28, 2012 at 5:24 PM
Cheryl said…
We are living in a shoe/squirrel universe. :-)
February 29, 2012 at 3:21 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

soleil for a day

-
Image
1. cirque love Since starting gymnastics at age five—or at least since reading Geek Love in college—I’ve wanted to run away and join the circus. Actually, the problem was that I wanted to join the circus but I didn’t want to run away. How fortunate, then, that AK found out about Cirque School , where you can lea rn the trapeze arts without ever leaving L.A. She gave me a class for my birthday, which I finally redeemed last night (after reading up on it, I decided it sounded kind of hardcore, and that I needed to build up some flexibility and upper body strength before going—I’m not sure that happened, but a month passed, I was a little closer to reuniting with my left splits and I was itching to take the class). The classes are held at Absolution L.A. , a small West Hollywood studio walled with honey-colored wood and stocked with pilates machines, trapezes, a climbing wall, red vinyl chairs and other items of expensive-looking fu rn iture. It reminded me, I told AK later,
Read more

seasons of love

-
Image
Everything Cheryl does, she’s totally joking and completely serious.             --AK 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million moments so dear 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure, measure five years? In new jobs , in boob jobs , in blog posts, in cups of coffee In coffee, more coffee, in coffee, and tea In 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure five extra years? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love Seasons of love 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million plans gone awry 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure public places I’ve cried ? In grants that I wrote, and novels on the side   Facebook rabbit holes are no source of pride It’s time to kiss Dashaboo Though he’s sticky with jam Let’s celebrate, remember five years Of making people deal with who I am Remember the love Remember the love Remember the love Measure in love Rent rent rent rent reeeeennnnnnt! In diapers, in houses In homies , in couples t
Read more

tops of 2023

-
Image
Recently one of my therapists (plural) told me I talk too much. Well, technically she said that while doing EMDR, she needed to interrupt my highly intellectualized storytelling more, so that we could prioritize reprocessing rather than letting me tip into re-experiencing trauma. And she said it very nicely. But a little part of me heard "You're too much for your therapist, and now you have failed," and of course that kind of thinking is why I'm in therapy. Today I listened to this episode of This American Life, in which Yousef (above, with his family), an incredibly determined, kind, and good-humored Palestinian man, talks about how his two-year-old son wants "a thousand kisses" before going to bed. He laughs and says he doesn't mind. In nearly the same breath, he says he regrets having kids, because what's the point of having children if you can't protect them? I wanted to jump through my car radio and hug him, or some other useless action, be
Read more