I have a love-hate relationship with my computer of late.
On the one hand, I don't even need to leave my house to
communicate with hundreds of people every day. I can
access information with just a few seconds delay.
I have my need for exotic male visuals sated within a few
keystrokes. I can seek employment, do research, write, edit,
engage in politics, and more from the safety and
comfort of my home.
But for a recluse with agoraphobic tendencies, this is a
mixed bag. And as a card-carrying O.C.D. member, it takes
very little for me to become addicted to anything.
The p.c. can easily become a diseased distraction from
actual living. Hours end up spent having my energy drained
through the monitor. I already have severe carpal tunnel and back
problems. There is also the worry over promoting the illusion of
connection through electronic correspondence, as opposed to
legitimate intimacy.
There's a frustration, too, that in my ability to theoretically
connect to maybe a third of the world's nearly 7 billion people,
I still can't find someone who wants to have regular conversations
with me. Ouch.
There is a great opportunity for sharing ideas in a global community,
of course, but everything tends to degenerate to 'e-first impressions,'
even amongst erstwhile intellectuals, activists, and artists. There is a
human element of scent and eye contact and body language essential
to bonding that is absent in these disconnected electronic meeting places.
It just doesn't compute.
The shorthand that is taken with e-mails, facebook messages, message
board postings and other online correspondence simply falls short. No
face, voice, tone, or spirit to connect to; even the most poignant and
carefully selected words are hollow. Having Internet friends may beat
being utterly alone in the world, but it is a far cry from friends visiting
you in your home.
My writing provides me release. I fervently hope that one day
my words will be of use to someone, somewhere. But like most
things, the Internet is false promises and the hope they will one
day be fulfilled; there are no facts to support that there is anything
more substantial to the beautiful lie than smoke and mirrors.
"And still I type...."
Maybe when it boots up tomorrow morning, the message
I've been waiting for will magically appear.
Is the futile push past mediocrity and disappointment in the belief
that 'something good is just around the corner,' is Internet surfing any
different from the real world?
I know it's a lot less humid and a lot easier to navigate.
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