I started this blog seven years ago. In that time, technology has opened its maw wider and all but swallowed us. People check Facebook umpteen times a day. Texts fly from microwave towers millions of times a minute. We check our email once an hour and access the web with smart phones from just about anywhere. We are psychologically enmeshed with virtual space and technology in general. Enmeshment is a serious psychological condition, and we need an intervention, people.
It's bad enough that we have to listen to other people's conversations on line at the bank and grocery store or while sitting in a doctor's office or walking through Walmart. For example, I don't care whether the woman in front of me is having problems with her promiscuous sister in Arizona. I have enough problems of my own without listening on a daily basis to several dozen that belong to other people. Enough! people's public use of technology is rude, and I also hate being interrupted ten times during a conversation because someone says, "Excuse me, but I have to take this." You're not excused!
As mentioned in my last post, I recently returned from Tibet, where I was on assignment. When I finished my work, I stayed for a few weeks and decided to unplug all the way. No cell phone, no email, no PC. Cold turkey. It was pretty hard, and I felt isolated at first. But then I felt quite peaceful and recalled my childhood, when computers were nothing more than glorified word processors. In Tibet, there was no Internet, no constant demand for my attention, no messages, no calls. It was me and beautiful blue sky with mountain ranges in the background. I'd forgotten what "normal" life felt like. I could actually talk with people and focus on daily activities, like walking and eating and reading a book without interruption. I believe my brain chemistry must certainly have changed, for being "normal" was paradoxically now perceived as an altered state.
I'm stepping back from technology, people. If I don't get every piece of info in a timely fashion, or ever, so be it. Besides, I don't need to know who won American Idol or what Justin Bieber is doing. I have a life to live, and it doesn't depend on silicon chips.
Cat Spaulding.
Showing posts with label cell phones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cell phones. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Cell Phones, Hell Phones
Cell phones are here to stay. I guess that's a good thing for the most part, but I recall George Carlin's theory as to why we call each other on the phone: to make sure the other person is there. In public places, however, I think it might be the better part of courtesy for people to momentarily assume the other person is indeed "there" and spare the rest of us from the mundane details of their lives.
I was in a doctor's outer waiting room the other day when a woman in her late fifties unfolded her cell and began talking to her friend Agnes. "I'm just sitting here, Agnes. Nothing to do. You know the way it is in doctors' waiting rooms. I think I'll turn into a potted plant before they call me." Never mind that nine other people were trying to read magazines or make appointments and discuss insurance coverage with the receptionist. We had to listen to the woman's life history for twenty-five minutes. In that span of time, I found out that she had a corn on her big toe, varicose veins, was a grandmother, planned on cooking meatloaf that night, and that her husband couldn't find a pair of dress shoes that fit him to save his life, which was a pity since he had to attend his sister-in-law's third wedding in two months. Wedding details then spilled into the waiting room, from the flavor of the wedding cake to the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. The honeymoon would take place in Cancun. So much for trying to read about the U. S. Open tennis tournament. Unfortunately, the woman didn't turn into a potted plant.
This kind of aggravation is multiplying. No one goes anywhere without their cells, and we must listen to the prattling of rude people in restaurants, stores, malls, and on public transportation. People using bluetooth technology walk about in public, appearing to talk to themselves. We don't give the slightest thought that others may not want to here chapter and verse from the narratives of our lives.
We're bored. We can't stand to be by ourselves. George Carlin was right. We call people because we don't want to be alone. We want to know that someone else is there.
I was in a doctor's outer waiting room the other day when a woman in her late fifties unfolded her cell and began talking to her friend Agnes. "I'm just sitting here, Agnes. Nothing to do. You know the way it is in doctors' waiting rooms. I think I'll turn into a potted plant before they call me." Never mind that nine other people were trying to read magazines or make appointments and discuss insurance coverage with the receptionist. We had to listen to the woman's life history for twenty-five minutes. In that span of time, I found out that she had a corn on her big toe, varicose veins, was a grandmother, planned on cooking meatloaf that night, and that her husband couldn't find a pair of dress shoes that fit him to save his life, which was a pity since he had to attend his sister-in-law's third wedding in two months. Wedding details then spilled into the waiting room, from the flavor of the wedding cake to the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. The honeymoon would take place in Cancun. So much for trying to read about the U. S. Open tennis tournament. Unfortunately, the woman didn't turn into a potted plant.
This kind of aggravation is multiplying. No one goes anywhere without their cells, and we must listen to the prattling of rude people in restaurants, stores, malls, and on public transportation. People using bluetooth technology walk about in public, appearing to talk to themselves. We don't give the slightest thought that others may not want to here chapter and verse from the narratives of our lives.
We're bored. We can't stand to be by ourselves. George Carlin was right. We call people because we don't want to be alone. We want to know that someone else is there.
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