The Library of Missing Datasets is a physical repository of those things that have been excluded in a society where so much is collected. “Missing data sets” are the blank spots that exist in spaces that are otherwise data-saturated. Wherever large amounts of data are collected, there are often empty spaces where no data live. The word “missing” is inherently normative. It implies both a lack and an ought: something does not exist, but it should. That which should be somewhere is not in its expected place; an established system is disrupted by distinct absence. That which we ignore reveals more than what we give our attention to. It’s in these things that we find cultural and colloquial hints of what is deemed important. Spots that we’ve left blank reveal our hidden social biases and indifference.
While 2020 had been overwhelming, December, in particular, had me carrying extra weight on my emotional front. This month itself I lost my aunt and it was also the month where we lost my dad about 9 years ago, and I am typing this while watching the new neighbour carelessly held a maskless, no social distancing grand wedding for their son which was attended by possibly the entire state. At the same time, as the government allowed interstate travels, people start to assume whatever is left of the semblance of their ‘normal’ life pre-Covid. There are crowds everywhere now. The only difference between the time before the virus tore through our social mettle and this time now, is that this crowd have their masks on — whether it was donned appropriately, or hanging underneath their chins or their noses is another story. As someone who is caregiving for an elderly parent, my anxiety shot through this roof thinking how even if we do everything right — just like the idea of data protection where even if you avoided any trace of social media you still could get sucked into being profiled when your friends tagged you on their timeline — the virus could still find its way into our household through other people who just happened to briefly share our space. The year and the virus also had most of us taking refuge in our lairs to escape an invisible threat that could kill us and anyone we love just by being close to them, thus having us deprived of their companionship. Not only that, for some of us it robbed the livelihood, and for all of us, the act of lingering (no more book browsing or lazy cafe hopping) and exploration. It also had us confronting the illnesses of our society that had become more apparent — something that even with the arrival of the vaccine itself could not cure.
I forgot how much Google, as the search engine, had permeated into our everyday lives when I tried to Google, “how do you live with these feelings for the rest of your life”. The first top five results pointed me on how to master(?) depression, how to handle stress management, a toolkit for emotional intelligence, and 33 quotes to keep you motivated. None of this specifically points out to whatever I am feeling right now. I forgot that Google does not have all the answers and I somehow take comfort that it does not, while being fully aware that whilst in the midst of our search, our bodily agency and integrity in the form of our data is increasingly being collected within a very vague consensual contract, to sell ads to someone who probably behaved, looked, and did the very same things we did today.
As I found from this Real Life, I am not the only one who tried to turn to the search engine to answer things we found difficult to answer ourselves — and the phenomenon also has a name:
Maël Renouard begins his 2016 book Fragments of an Infinite Memory by recalling an evening when, walking down the street, he had the urge to google what he’d been doing at 5 p.m. two days earlier. Linda Besner, in a 2019 essay for Real Life, recounts a similar experience: “I was walking down the street when it crossed my mind to wonder if my grandmother had ever had a nose job, and I thought, I’ll google it when I get home.” Realising instantly, like Renouard before her, that she can’t actually do this, she calls the phenomenon “ungoogleability.”
I try not to succumb to the cosmic weight of ending (and beginning) on a high note for 2020 and 2021, so here is a humble newsletter entry to close the year. It felt good to end and begin together collectively around the globe, but what time and calendar again are constructs, so you are free to end and begin whenever and however you like. If you need some sort of approval to do that, you have mine.
See you in 2021.
Reading in my tabs:
The Shitty Tech Adoption Curve describes the process by which oppressive technology is normalised and distributed through all levels of society. The more privilege someone has, the harder it is to coerce them to use dehumanising tech, so it starts with marginalised people. Related: technologies for liberation.
“Social distancing reduces opportunities for interaction [so] I watch TikTok not to be numbed but to remember what I like about being alive, the elements of which we’re now largely deprived: unexpected spectacles, spontaneous conviviality between strangers, accidental hilarity.”
“These apparent strengths of data for social research are outweighed by a problem in what we call the ‘measurement conditions’: platform data are platforms’ records of their own behavioural experimentation. Trying to know ourselves through platform data tends to yield partial and contorted accounts of human behaviour that conceal platform interventions.”
Teachers across the world are trying to spice up their virtual lesson plans by meeting their students where they spend their free time and attention: on social media platforms and games.
An open letter to the Supreme Court changed the way many Indians thought about women’s rights. The rest should be history.
Why did Wikipedia succeed in 2001 when several others during its time failed?
The first words transmitted by various technologies, labour and tech reading list, and a tool to suggest books to read outside your usual bibliochoice.
“Hang onto your hat. Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.”
STATUS BOARD
Reading: Julia Armfield’s Salt Slow.
Listening: Maaze Mengiste, of whose book on the Italian invasion of Ethiopia at the start of WWII I really enjoyed, talked about collective memory, women warriors, and decolonising the archives.
Watching: A Simple Favor, of which I am drooling over Blake Lively and her suits!
Food & Drink: Sweet and sour tenggiri, with brown rice.