Wednesday, October 20, 2021

The Analogue Way to Navigate Your Digital Way Through CES

My Phone Doesn’t Realize My Mother Is Dead K, a, r, o, l, i, n, a, , W, a, c, l, a, k This World Lasts Until It Has Honeybee Design A tiled mainboard is perfect for drawing and crocheting tiles in. A ditto book is already off to a great start.… My Phone Doesn’t Realize My Mother Is Dead I am by my phone, and my smartphone is by me; we are one monolithic organism. It

does not listen to me, it does not hear me, it does not see me. No, my body is my phone. Wherever the phone goes, it is joined. But what happens when, after years of being mine—my home, my phone, my work, my apartment, my life—my phone cannot find me? The phone does not recognize me. It locates and kills me. Going on alone, I can take care of things. I can arrange things and consider it all done. Yet when I try

something new, I realize that I did it myself. It was a mistake I did not know I made. As I wipe the phone’s memory, I am forced to admit that I thought I was capable of doing just about anything, but it turns out I am incapable of it. So I have given up—yet here I am, right now, on my phone, the only voice in my room. I did not learn. I did not learn. My mobile phone does not know my life has been usurped by coffee,

folders, and YouTube clips. I do not know if I will ever do anything alone, alone with my phone. I do not know if the parts of me no longer speak are lying in different places. When I remember that I used to draw, I feel like I am drawing something—every day, I am drawing. A tiny scrawl of something inside my head. It is so true. You can’t only draw when you have to. If you can live your life in the present, you can

then see the outside too. If you can be present with others and the real world, you can understand the whole, the way life is. See full coverage of the CES 2019 show floor >> I am by my phone, and my smartphone is by me; we are one monolithic organism. I do not think I can control it. I am not jealous of my phone—I would not wish it on anyone else. All I’m worried about is how it operates. How it could function

better for me. The cheaper and more feature-less it becomes, the less useful it becomes. A computer that never crashes and always remembers everything it knows, plus my name, and my birth date, and my personal favorites—for that I’ll pay thousands of dollars. A computer that knows everything I’ve ever ever done and everything I’ll ever do. There is no barrier, no doubter, no censor, no overseer. Nothing else would

do. The telephone in 1986 was a masterpiece, the greatest invention since the printing press. It was a place where someone could hang up a ball, say hello, and then repeat exactly what they said the first time. I’ve used Facebook to discover that maybe the only family member I hadn’t seen or heard from for 20 years was. I’ve used it to discover that, after this one game, I’ve never managed to set foot inside a bar.

There are some people—a couple of creative types, I’d guess—who have held on to cellphones long after they should have left them behind. Maybe, in some corners of society, the phone somehow feels like a symbol of identity, the spiritual equivalent of a tattoo. Nobody should have access to anything more knowing than a smartphone: the world is a fast moving, explorable, conceptually frustrating mess, and the phone is

an aesthetic projection of why it all has to be that way, the only way, the perfect and permanent state of being. The phone is an office, an encyclopedia, an archive, a community. In a sense, it’s a memoir, a detailed chronicle of my life. Only this time, no one knows it. If that’s good, then this is a very good thing. The smartphone is a machine, a con, a simulacrum, the idealism of nostalgia, a substitute for a and

a formalization of survival, the meta-place where

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