I’ve been getting more and more obsessed with Tumblr. I find myself dipping into friends’ pages like a nervous Web 2.0 stalker, favouring hanging on the edges of a messy party while I pluck up the guts to get stuck in. Infact it’s more a fear of what I know is bound to happen once I do eventually Tumbl over myself that scares me.
A culture slut’s wet dream – quick, edible chunks of sound and film posted and spread about the site by an incestuous network of followers and followees – Tumblr’s demanding enough just pouring through the pages and lapping up the inspirations and obscure references to new and old, without having to create and stir your own into the mix.
And there’s the crux of it. My mind is a hoarder’s fantasy – the cultural equivalent of those quiet souls who find it impossible to discard anything until you hear of their tragic death, crushed under piles of used cereal boxes, election pamphlets and BT directories. This is a mind that struggles to remember presents given and received but can recite gig dates and support bands on command – ask me who supported Dinosaur Jr at Cardiff University in 1993 and I’ll tell you it was Superchunk and Come (both amazing), that it was a Friday night, 26th February and grunge upstarts Sloan played the Hanging Gardens (now ‘Solus’) upstairs afterwards. Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.