doiknowwhatimsaying

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

In Heidegger’s philosophy, the concept of enframing stands as a crucial critique of modern technology. Heidegger isn’t just talking about technology as tools or techniques we use; he sees it as a fundamental way we reveal and understand the world. Rather than viewing the world as something with inherent meaning—objects, nature, and people with their own existence—we now see everything through the lens of a "standing-reserve"—as something to be controlled, categorized, and exploited for human use.

To put it simply, Heidegger’s argument is that modern technology doesn’t just help us do things; it shapes how we see and interact with the world. The "revealing" brought about by technology isn’t neutral, it’s an ordering, a process that reduces the world to a collection of resources to be optimized and consumed. We’re not encouraged to coexist with nature or objects, but to view them solely through the lens of what they can provide for us. Everything becomes about utility—turning objects, nature, and even people into resources that can be used, controlled, and discarded. Both Stiegler and Heidegger agree that technology is not neutral; rather, it acts as a structuring force that determines how we understand being and what we value. Stiegler’s emphasis on the historical development of technical systems aligns with Heidegger’s ontological concerns, as both highlight the ways in which technology shapes human life and thought.

Enframing isn’t just about a conscious decision to exploit the world, though, it’s something deeper. Heidegger argues that enframing operates as a "challenging-forth" that compels humanity to engage with the world in terms of control and order. We don’t necessarily choose this; it’s a force that shapes how we think and act, often without us realizing it. The way we approach the world isn’t one of wonder or connection, but of control and manipulation.

For Heidegger, this is a serious danger. By reducing everything to its usefulness, we risk losing our connection to the world’s deeper meaning and beauty. It threatens not only our freedom but our very sense of authenticity. We become "standing-reserves" ourselves, just objects within a system, reduced to parts of a larger mechanism of exploitation and control.

The challenge, then, is how to preserve our human freedom and authenticity in a world dominated by AI, biometrics, and pervasive data collection. How do we resist the forces of enframing while still finding ways to coexist with technology meaningfully? Heidegger’s critique feels more relevant than ever, especially in an era where our relationship with technology seems to be eroding the very sense of what it means to be human.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

am i a conspiracy theorist? yes. is it valid? also, yes.

Living in a world of constant surveillance feels like I’m always being watched, even for the most mundane things. Late-stage capitalism has made it so that every part of our lives is tracked, monetized, and controlled. With Alexa, Siri, and biometric systems everywhere, it’s not just about convenience anymore, it’s about data. These devices are always listening, always collecting, and the companies behind them are using that data to make money off of us. The trade-off? A serious erosion of our sense of agency and autonomy.

As a woman, this feels even more oppressive. With bodily autonomy being stripped away in so many ways, the idea of my personal data being out there is terrifying. Something as simple as using a period tracker now feels like a risk. After the recent attacks on reproductive rights, I’ve had to seriously wonder whether using these apps is worth the potential for my health data to be weaponized against me. It’s a sickening thought—realizing that something as basic as tracking my cycle could be used in a legal case.

Even talking to doctors about personal issues feels risky. What if they don’t agree with my choices? What if they’re required to report something? It’s not paranoia—it’s reality. Surveillance isn’t just about cameras or location tracking anymore—it’s the systems that collect, store, and potentially misuse the most private parts of our lives. And for women, especially, those stakes feel higher.

What’s really frustrating is how normalized this has become. Late-stage capitalism has embedded surveillance into everything, making it seem like the price we pay for convenience or “safety.” Want to check the weather? Sure, but Alexa is tracking your every move. Need directions? Google knows where you’ve been. It’s invasive, but it’s so woven into our lives that pushing back feels like a lost cause.

How do we regain agency in a world that feels like it’s built to take it away? And how do we fight back against systems that treat our personal lives like products to be bought and sold? These are the questions that feel both urgent and overwhelming, because the systems we’re up against are so massive and deeply ingrained.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

Caddie Alford’s idea of thaumazein, the sense of wonder, feels like such an underrated way to think about opinions, especially in the chaotic world of social media. In Entitled Opinions, she talks about how wonder plays a big role in shaping our opinions by making us curious, open, and even a little vulnerable (p. 78). Honestly, that’s the kind of energy I think we need more of, especially online, where it’s easy for conversations to feel combative or transactional instead of thoughtful.

Think about it: when was the last time you scrolled through social media and felt genuinely curious about something, instead of just annoyed, validated, or exhausted? Social media thrives on extremes - unpopular opinions, clapbacks, and viral outrage. Like I said for last week’s post it’s designed to keep us engaged, but not necessarily in a meaningful way. Thaumazein, on the other hand, invites us to slow down and approach things with curiosity instead of immediately deciding if we’re for or against them. That’s a huge shift in mindset.

One of the coolest things about wonder, as Alford explains, is that it’s not about being passive or neutral. It’s about being engaged in a way that’s open to possibility. Imagine if more online interactions were driven by “What if?” instead of “Here’s why you’re wrong.” Wonder doesn’t mean we stop having strong opinions or calling out harmful behavior, but it does mean we might approach disagreements with a little more curiosity about where the other person is coming from. What I love about this idea is how it ties into creativity and connection. Alford’s work makes me think about how wonder can disrupt echo chambers by encouraging us to explore ideas outside our comfort zones. It’s not about agreeing with everything we see, but about being open to the complexity of the world and admitting we don’t have all the answers. Wonder keeps us learning and evolving, which is the opposite of how social media often locks us into rigid “brands” or identities.

I also think thaumazein could be a great tool for dealing with burnout from constant online arguments. Approaching things with curiosity instead of defensiveness can make tough conversations feel less like battles and more like opportunities to understand something new. That’s not easy, especially when the stakes feel high, but it might be worth trying. At the end of the day, Alford’s take on wonder isn’t about being naïve or overly idealistic. It’s about creating space for opinions to breathe, grow, and surprise us—something that feels pretty refreshing in a world full of shouting matches.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

adoxa.. sometimes you don't need to shut the hell up

Caddie Alford’s discussion of adoxa, or “bad opinions”, in Entitled Opinions feels so relevant right now. She doesn’t just dismiss harmful or controversial opinions as something we need to get rid of. Instead, she shows how they’re part of this bigger picture of doxa (common opinions) and challenges us to figure out how to deal with them in a way that doesn’t shut down important conversations. In the digital age, where opinions can spread like wildfire, that’s easier said than done. One thing Alford points out is how social media gives adoxa a platform it might not have had before. Whether it’s conspiracy theories, hate speech, or just pure misinformation, harmful opinions thrive online, not because they’re logical or credible, but because they’re emotional and attention-grabbing. Algorithms designed to keep us engaged are a huge part of the problem. They don’t care if an opinion is good, bad, or outright dangerous—if it gets clicks, it gets amplified. That makes it so much harder to tell the difference between healthy disagreement and something that’s legitimately harmful. But the tricky part is figuring out how to respond to adoxa without going too far. If platforms crack down too hard, they risk silencing people who are just trying to express different perspectives. It’s a slippery slope—who decides what counts as “bad”? And how do we make sure we’re not killing off the kind of messy debates that push society forward? Alford’s approach feels like a good middle ground. Instead of trying to erase adoxa, she suggests we focus on building a better-informed public. This could mean teaching people how to spot misinformation and think critically about what they see online. It also means holding platforms accountable for how they amplify opinions—like making their algorithms more transparent so we can understand why certain things go viral. What really stood out to me is how Alford connects opinions to emotions and personal experiences. People don’t believe in harmful ideas just for fun; there’s usually something deeper going on, like fear or frustration. Understanding that makes it easier to have conversations that actually change minds instead of just shouting into the void. At the end of the day, adoxa isn’t going anywhere, and Alford’s work challenges us to deal with it in a way that’s ethical and productive. The question is, how do we balance the need for free expression with the responsibility to prevent harm? It’s a tough call, but one worth figuring out if we want online spaces to be better for everyone.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

me, you, and big brother

Electracy flips the script on what it means to be an “author.” In the past, we pictured a solo genius, a writer or artist pouring their heart into a project. But now, it’s way more of a group effort. Look at video games, for example. They’re not just the brainchild of one person; they’re built by teams of coders, designers, writers, and artists, each bringing their own piece to the puzzle. Then there are tools like ChatGPT and Midjourney, which make things even trickier. These AI tools can whip up text, images, even code, blurring the line between human and machine-made creativity. Sure, they’re fun to play around with and super useful, but they also make us question who really owns the final product. Plus, they bring up tricky stuff around plagiarism, copyright, and whether we’re losing something unique by letting machines create.

The humanities have always been about studying human culture and society, but now they’re having to keep up with digital everything. Scholars are using digital tools to dig into massive amounts of text, images, and other cultural artifacts, and they’re discovering patterns that were hidden before. It’s pretty mind-blowing how much they can do now with just a computer and the right software. But with all this tech comes some real challenges. For one, there’s the digital divide. Not everyone has access to the tech they need to learn or do research, which is a big problem. And as we create more digital content, we also need to make sure we’re not losing these artifacts to the constant cycle of upgrades and obsolescence. We’ve got to make sure that our digital culture is there for future generations to learn from.

Living in a digital world raises all sorts of ethical questions. Privacy is a big one. We put so much of ourselves online, and it’s easy to forget who’s watching or what data companies are collecting. Things like data breaches and targeted ads feel invasive—and that’s before we even get into the scarier stuff like surveillance. There’s also the issue of biased algorithms. Algorithms now decide everything from what jobs we see to whether we get a loan. But these systems can be just as biased as the people who create them, leading to some really unfair situations. It’s so important to push for transparency and fairness in these systems so they don’t end up reinforcing the very biases we’re trying to overcome.

And we can’t ignore the environmental impact of our tech obsession. Making and tossing out electronics contributes to pollution and climate change. We really need to focus on things like energy-efficient devices, responsible recycling, and reducing e-waste. In the end, we need to be mindful about building a digital world that’s fair, inclusive, and sustainable. It’s not just about keeping up with tech; it’s about making tech work for everyone.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

mystory... as a methodology

In the first half of Teletheory, Ulmer introduces this idea he calls “mystory,” and it’s honestly one of the most interesting parts of his whole argument. Mystory is about combining personal experience with cultural, historical, and theoretical knowledge. Instead of keeping our lives separate from academic work, Ulmer wants us to bring them together, making something that’s part theory, part autobiography.

Ulmer’s point is that mystory lets us engage with what we’re learning on a personal level, letting our own memories and experiences shape how we approach ideas. It’s not just about what we know; it’s about how we came to know it, how our experiences tie into bigger cultural stories, and how all of that affects our understanding. He wants us to bring ourselves into the work because our personal experiences can reveal things that purely analytical approaches might miss. It definitely pushes us out of the “objective” mindset we’re so used to in academia.

For example, in reflecting on my career in my mystory assignment, I chose this image of someone trimming a huge lawn with manicure scissors. It’s exactly how I feel—putting in tons of effort but barely seeing any progress. I keep working toward these big career goals, getting degrees and doing what I’m supposed to do, but sometimes it feels like I’m just snipping away at one tiny blade of grass at a time, with no big payoff in sight. This isn’t just me complaining; mystory pushes me to think about why I feel this way. It makes me wonder if the pressure I put on myself (and the pressure from society to keep achieving) has me stuck in this loop. Mystory helps me connect the personal frustration with bigger questions about success and what it means to be “making progress.”

One huge advantage of mystory is how naturally it fits with our media-saturated world. We’re constantly dealing with this mix of personal and public info on our screens, and mystory lets us bring in anything from pop culture to family history. It feels closer to how we actually process things daily, where everything we think about is kind of a blend of personal and public.

But mystory has its challenges, too. Is it even possible to mix our personal stories with academic theory without losing something important? There’s a fine line between meaningful reflection and oversharing or using “personal truth” to justify things. Plus, how do we stay rigorous and critical when we’re working so closely with subjective experiences?

Still, mystory opens up a more flexible, creative approach that lets us keep our lives connected to our learning. In a way, mystory can make our academic work feel more meaningful, because it’s not just about proving a point—it’s about understanding why it matters to us.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

lingua fracta.. back again

so, picking up from the first half of Lingua Fracta, the second half really digs into how Brooke thinks we should remix the old-school rhetorical canons (invention, arrangement, style, memory, and delivery) for the digital world. He doesn’t just want us to bring these canons into new media as-is; he thinks we need to completely reframe and rework them to match the chaotic, always-changing environment online.

Take invention and arrangement, Brooke argues that these aren’t just steps in a linear process anymore. In the digital world, invention is more like building off what’s already out there, sometimes responding in real-time, while arrangement is all about navigating through info overload. It’s not about organizing a single text; it’s about figuring out patterns and making connections on the fly.

Then there’s memory in the digital age, which is a whole new beast. Online memory isn’t just about what we can recall; it’s everything we leave behind..the data trails, the cached pages, the never-ending archives. Brooke reimagines memory as persistence, meaning our digital presence sticks around even when we’re not there. This take on memory really hits different in a world where we’re constantly producing digital footprints that are almost impossible to erase.

And with delivery, Brooke is essentially says, "Forget the old idea of just 'getting your message out there.'" Instead, delivery in digital spaces is more about distribution.. it’s about working the algorithms, timing, and figuring out how to get content to actually show up in people’s feeds. This connects back to his thoughts on virality: going viral isn’t just about posting great content; it’s about understanding how the platforms work, how to network, and sometimes even how to play the game a bit.

basically, the second half really backs up what we were saying about Brooke wanting us to actively engage with these digital tools instead of just analyzing them after the fact. He’s all about getting hands-on with the platforms and thinking strategically. It’s not just about making stuff; it’s about knowing how to move in a digital landscape where attention is currency and networks decide what gets seen. In Brooke’s world, if you’re not thinking critically about these systems, you’re probably missing half the picture.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

I audibly said huh multiple times while preparing for this discussion...

Lingua Fracta is all about how new media has completely changed the way we think about rhetoric and writing. Collin Brooke argues that the old-school canons of rhetoric need to be reimagined for the digital world. Instead of treating them as fixed categories, he thinks we should see them as adaptable practices that respond to the specific moment we’re in—otherwise, they’ll become outdated fast.

Brooke doesn’t just want us to analyze new media using traditional rhetorical tools; he believes we should actively create new forms of rhetoric that fit the digital landscape. He pushes for a more hands-on approach, where scholars work alongside technological advancements rather than waiting to react to them.

His concept on virality really hit me in the brain because I am chronically online.

Brooke thinks the whole idea of "going viral" is way more complicated than people usually make it out to be. While it’s definitely powerful, he warns against just assuming that virality is a simple way to explain how stuff spreads online. He says it’s both more and less than a perfect metaphor—it explains some parts but totally misses others.

Brooke also points out that we often confuse how fast and far something spreads with how good or successful it is. This leads to the problem where being popular is seen as the same as being valuable. He leans on Julian Oliver’s work to argue that oversimplifying digital trends like virality can really mess with our ability to think critically. It’s not just about having great content—things like professional strategies, networking, and even manipulating the platforms play a huge role in what actually goes viral.

Mueller would probably agree with Brooke’s take on the Matthew effect in virality—where people or content that are already popular just keep getting more attention because of how networks are set up. In Network Sense, Mueller uses visualizations to show how knowledge tends to gather around those who are already influential, which backs up Brooke’s point that success, whether in virality or in academia, isn’t always about having the best content—it’s about being in the right place within the network.

Both Brooke and Mueller emphasize the need to understand the strategic dynamics behind networks. For Brooke, virality isn’t just a natural result of great content—it’s shaped by algorithms, expertise, and manipulation. Mueller’s research, similarly, shows that academic influence isn’t just about groundbreaking ideas; it’s also about how well those ideas are connected within established networks. In both cases, being aware of these behind-the-scenes factors helps us understand why certain ideas or content gain traction.

At the end of the day, Brooke’s concerns about the ethical and societal risks of blindly chasing virality tie back to Mueller’s argument for being more critically aware of how knowledge spreads in networks. Both stress the importance of engaging thoughtfully with the systems that decide what gets noticed—whether it’s viral content or academic research. It’s not just about what we put out there, but how we navigate the networks that amplify or shut down certain messages.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

mueller

Digital technology has completely changed how we produce and share knowledge, and Derrick Mueller’s idea of “network sense” reflects just how much writing is influenced by these online connections. In the past, knowledge moved through formal channels like books or academic journals, but today it circulates quickly and widely, thanks to social media, blogs, and other online platforms. Writers can now reach global audiences almost instantly, and while this offers incredible opportunities, it also means the pace of writing and the lifespan of a piece can be much shorter. This shift has also leveled the playing field in many ways. Traditional gatekeepers, like publishers and academic institutions, don’t hold as much control over who gets to share ideas, which has allowed for more diverse voices to be heard. However, it’s also made it harder to determine which sources are credible, creating new challenges around misinformation.

Another big change is how interactive and collaborative writing has become. Whether through blog comments or co-authoring documents online, knowledge is no longer static. Writers today often engage with their audience in real time, which means their work is constantly evolving based on feedback and new information. This interactivity is supported by hyperlinked networks, where writers can connect their work to other texts and ideas, creating a web of knowledge that readers can explore in greater depth. But this also means that writers need to be more strategic, thinking about how their work fits into the broader digital ecosystem.

For today’s writers, there are major implications. First, there's the potential for increased visibility—your work can travel far if you understand how to position it in the right networks. But with that comes the responsibility to be accurate and ethical, since misinformation can spread just as fast as good information. Writers also need to be adaptable, engaging audiences across different platforms, whether it’s through a detailed blog post, a tweet, or a more visual medium like Instagram. Essentially, writing in the digital age is about more than just crafting good content—it’s about being aware of how that content moves through networks and how it contributes to the larger conversation.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

mueller

Derrick Mueller's idea of "network sense" opens up some cool new ways to look at how writing spreads and gains influence, but it’s not without its downsides. One big issue is that focusing too much on large-scale data, like Mueller suggests, might make us rely too heavily on numbers and lose sight of deeper, more detailed analysis. While distant reading and network visualizations help spot trends, they can miss out on the specifics of individual texts, turning complex ideas into oversimplified patterns. Another concern is that this approach can take away from the author’s intent. If we focus too much on how texts circulate through networks, we might ignore the original meaning and context the author was going for, which can be key to fully understanding the work. On top of that, networks aren’t neutral. Some ideas or voices get amplified just because they’re more popular or widely shared, which can create echo chambers where only certain viewpoints get heard. This can distort how information is understood, lifting up some voices while pushing others aside. Plus, the speed at which things spread online can blur the line between well-researched, credible work and stuff that’s not as reliable. As content gets reshared and repurposed, there’s a risk that the academic rigor could be lost along the way. There’s also the problem of fragmentation. When ideas move across different platforms, they often lose their original meaning or get interpreted in ways the author didn’t intend, which can water down the message. And not everyone has the technical skills to fully engage with network analysis, which could leave some scholars feeling left out. Even though these tools are great for showing connections, they’re not as objective as they seem, since what we choose to include or emphasize can introduce bias.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

shipka

shipka's emphasis on multimodality, especially in composition, got me to think about it could inform the pedagogy of rhetoric and theory. The incorporation of diverse modes of communication - spatial, visual, and digital- can force students to engage with complex theoretical concepts in more a more accessible fashion. Taking myself for example, who has let it be known that I think in absolutes and that there are only two possible answers either yes or no, multimodality can create new pathways to an understanding of a idea. Theory and rhetoric are heavy in ambiguity and nuance and shipka invites readers to use different modes to think through concepts and to make abstract ideas more tangible.

Like instead of writing a traditional essay on a subject, a student could create a visual representation that shows the interaction between speaker, audience, and context. Doing this would allow the student to see how meaning can be constructed and destructed, making the fluidity of rhetorical theory more intuitive. Shipka's framework pushes students to see theory as something that can be engaged with in multiple facets instead of having one succinct meaning.

Last semester, I started creating memes and comics for my weekly class discussion. This ties into what Shipka talks about with multimodality—using more than one form of communication allowed me to explore how text, images, and pop culture references all worked together to convey meaning. Incorporating pop culture references, especially in a time where TikTok and meme culture are everywhere, forced me to think about how all the elements on a page interact. I make the joke all the time that I have brain rot and only think in pop culture references. I think that instances like memes and little videos are great ways to get students to think about how could I make these things play off of each other to create a meaning.

And when you truly get to the nitty gritty of multimodality it forces students to be cautious of their choices. because every decision and choice could have a meaning behind it. Why did someone use a particular medium? what rhetorical effects where they aiming for? Do two elements and their interactions produce a meaning? When students are nudged to think reflectively it deepens the understanding of rhetorical principles and makes them more comfortable with ideas situational and context dependent.

[doiknowwhatimsaying]

shipka..

In the first half of Jody Shipka’s Toward a Composition Made Whole, she pushes us to rethink what we mean by composition, arguing that it’s not just about writing words on a page but about using various modes to communicate effectively. This really hit home for me, especially since I gave a presentation on multimodality for my ENG 7805 class last semester. While preparing, I realized that I actually prefer single-mode communication. I get easily overstimulated when there are too many things happening at once, like music, images, and text all competing for my attention.

Reading Shipka’s book made me reconsider my initial discomfort with multimodal content. She makes the case that to communicate well today, we need to understand how different modes, like visuals, layout, and sound, can work together to enhance our messages. She argues that mastering these interactions can make our communication more effective and engaging. So, I started to think that maybe my struggle wasn’t just about being overwhelmed but about not fully grasping how these various elements could complement and interact with each other.

Shipka’s insights tell me that instead of seeing my preference for straightforward text as a drawback, it could be a starting point for learning how to blend different modes more seamlessly. Her exploration of how different modes interact in the first half of her book helps shift the view from seeing multimodal composition as confusing to seeing it as a rich opportunity for deeper understanding and better communication. Her work provides a fresh perspective on how we can use multiple modes effectively, and it’s making me rethink how I approach and integrate various elements in my own compositions.