If I did a thesis on Tumblr

I originally wanted to do a thesis on the nature of Tumblr, but the lack of related studies and material discouraged me.

Nevertheless, this does not change the fact that I am completely amazed at how this once little, unknown micro-blogging site has evolved into a community with a subculture of its own. Tumblr has its own unspoken rules of conduct. 

Within the realms of Tumblr, there exists certain groups of people. The dominant group (obviously the ones with the most followers) are the hipsters who post vintage and artsy stuff which may range from film photographs (usually with a totally unrelated quote photoshopped on it) and scanned polariods of models, to songs from underground bands you’ve never heard of. They are people of good taste. They do intensive research on sites like Flickr, scouting for the perfect photo that says “I am cool”. The subordinate group (aka the followers) strive to climb the Tumblr social ladder by mimicking the cool people through reblogging. 

Then, there is the deviant group who don’t give a dime about Tumblr’s unspoken rules of conduct. They don’t do reblogs, nor dream to get much followers. Instead, they do verbose text posts that are too long for anyone’s attention span. They follow a lot of blogs for pure entertainment’s sake.

Appearance is everything, even for this community. People will judge a person based on three things - username/url, portrait photo and theme.

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The Word Of The Hipsters

There is this emergent phenomenon called “hipster Christianity.” A hipster, if you may ask, is a person who values counter-culture, independent thinking, and progressive politics (source).Hipsters snub anything mainstream, and dismiss them as culturally-ignorant. It’s a way of trying to make these two polarized things co-exist - a genuine love for God, and a pursuit for the “cool.” It’s a mechanism developed by this generation to meet the world’s, and God’s standards halfway. A compromise of some sort.

It goes something like this, “can’t I have 3 piercings on both ears, have tattoo on my wrist, wear very short denim skirts, drink on a Friday night, smoke socially, and still be a Christian?” Well it’s not like all of the mentioned are deemed mortal sins. God’s love does not discriminate, but of course there is danger in between the lines.

The pursuit of the “cool” lies in the intention. It’s almost always about appearance, boosting reputation by banking on cultural capital (image is everything), and ultimately, about pleasing people. It’s a form of rebellion, for in order to be a hipster, and look “cool”, one has to have a vice. It’s inevitable. No goody two shoes will look cool to anybody’s eyes. So yes, a hipster Christian would drink a little, smoke a few sticks, drop some F-bombs when it front of peers and flirt with that random guy/girl at a party, and pass it off as harmless. 

At the end of the day, in an attempt to do away with the legalism and “religious” stigma of being a Christian, hipster Christianity has become an excuse to conform to the world, commit a few “non-major” sins, and just get away with it when Sunday comes. It does make you look cool with everyone, but how does it help your relationship with God? One can be a hipster, and be totally cool about it, but if gets in the way of you and your God, then there is clearly a problem.

Perhaps, I have become a hipster Christian, that’s why the topic hits right to my very being. It’s something I am not proud of, but I’m willing to be honest about.

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This writing was inspired by Brett McCracken’s article on the Sept/Oct 2011 issue of Relevant Magazine entitled “The Gospel According To Hipsters”. For a consolidated version of the article, you can read it here.

Epiphany

To you;

I’m sorry for creating you in my mind. You’ve been dwelling in the creases of my thoughts for months now. My melancholy has been haunting and lingering, and I need a face to displace all of this to. You are my no name face, a being I crafted with my own devices. But I don’t have a wand, and an abra kadabra to make you happen. Nothing can. You remain as the imperceptible creature I run into when I close my eyes.

I can only wish for your demise to come sooner, that you would have your own epitaph in the depths of my brain, that you would lay peacefully beside my long forgotten make-believe childhood friends. Your death would be like freedom and spring - an emancipation from the pathos of my heart.

But you’re alive and well, and you’re all over me - in my system, in my veins, in my head.

And so you take away my sanity for just a little longer, ‘til one day death claims you, and you come back for me as an incarnate being with a name to go with that beautiful face.

Candidly,

Your dearly beloved

Famous People

Fame. I’ve been thinking about it lately.

There has been a steady influx of famous people, specifically musicians, in the country. If they were goods, then this whole phenomenon would resemble a modern-day Suez Canal. Some are talented, alright. I give credit to their mastery of their craft and artistry. But most are just down right (how do I put this), well, lucky - being in the right place, at the right time, with friends in high places. Don’t even get me started with packaged artists on autotune.

Having fame is being put in a powerful position. Most consider it a pedestal, a high horse where one is able to exercise looking down at anyone. But if we look past the self-serving, egoistic implications of it, fame could really be something revolutionary.

I’m not even exaggerating here.

People follow the famous, both online and in the physical life. People care about what they do, what they say, what they wear, what they eat, even what color of underwear they put on in the morning. To get that much attention from a world of short attention span is truly valuable.

The power of fame lies in its ability to influence minds.

On Twitter alone, every tweet a famous person posts has the ability to reach and affect thousands. Famous people will always have their spectators because their lives will always be played out on a (hypothetical) stage. Consequently, their message will always end up with a receiver.

The crucial part is the feedback.

You see, fame is such a wondeful thing. It’s not that I’m power-hungry or anything. But I do see fame as a powerful tool to further the greater causes of this planet. If only fame would fall more often into the hands of people who actually understand and care about the magnitude of it, then the world could be better than it is.

Imagine a feedback that is far more significant - something that exceeds fan girls screaming or a crowd head-banging. Imagine a feedback of thousands of young, reckless fellows, putting their fists up in the air - not because they’re high on adrenaline and drugs - but because the fibers of their being are ignited to do something more visionary out of this short life.

But in today’s society, fame becomes an all-consuming enemy,  an instrument of endorsing promiscuity and vices.

What a waste, really.

Here’s to movement

She’s coming from a dark phase
She’s coming from a dead end
She’s coming from mockery
She’s coming from abandonment


She’s been strolling through the edge of a cliff
where life and death meet
She’s been idling in the the playground
where the enemy lies with deceit


Hushed in whispers
Masked with a face
Slumbered underneath
Shut out, shut out from you and me


She’s going to the next phase
She’s going to the diversion
She’s going to the truth
She’s going to redemption


Here’s to eyes wide open
Here’s to a heart set forward
Here’s to a warrior in battle
Here’s to the movement

Slow the evening down

In the middle of a stadium of 6,000 amped fans, I stood on a base of three monoblock chairs, stacked on top of each other. I was probably 5 feet away from the stage, never imagining I could get that close.

I raised my palms wide open up in the air. I closed my already watering eyes, and started swinging with the crowd.

I am engulfed by the music.

Every fiber of my being immersed in this energy, a mosh pit of voices singing to the music and lyrics and the rhythm.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. The world and its intricacies just came crumbling down into the background.

It was just me, and the music, and all sorts of meaningful emotions that came along with it.

I saw my life right there, flashing back as Jon Foreman sang his heart out with every line and word. 

It’s not really during the brink of death that makes a person look back and reminisce his life. It’s in those most blissful moments you’re so grateful to feel alive.

Dramatic and cinematic, just like in the movies. It could happen in real life, too, so I discovered.

It is like being swallowed by a beautiful black hole, floating on a cloud of musical notes, tugging the very strings of your heart and humanity and coming out feeling so much more alive.

I never thought it came this early, but I think I already have the best night of my life. It will be extremely hard to top that.

Thank you Jon, Tim, Chad, Drew and Jerome.

I think the next phase of my life starts after the fateful 30th of April, and this time, I want to keep it as long as possible.

Here’s to movement.

Dear Life,

You’ve been bugging me for a quite a while now. Yes, I do welcome your constant reminder that I need to get serious with you anytime soon. I have one more year left in the safety zone that is college. My time of being this carefree hippie is running out.

You’re stuck on my mind like a last song syndrome, dearest life. During that 8 hour bus trip to Baler, I was there sitting, looking outside the windshield of endless stretches of vast, green rice fields and waving sunburned locals, still thinking of you. You are that clingy to me.

I was thinking about us, and how we can compromise, and meet halfway. I have my wants and needs, and you have your conditions and circumstances.

And don’t even get me started with finding my purpose with you, life. I’ve been down that road countless times. And I am still dumbfounded.

I have come to terms with the fact that uncertainties abound and they will linger on ‘til I rest on my grave. There will always be episodes where my fickle-minded self reigns supreme in the art of decision-making. And you know me. I am not those uptight, on-top-of-the-game folks who are so sure of who they’re going to be ten years from now. Neither am I those kids walking around with fat bank accounts written across their foreheads with their whole future figured out.

I am just, well, I don’t know. I can’t even find the right term.

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