Last night I got up at three in the morning and wrote some stuff I can’t remember writing, and then mailed it off to people the next morning without reading it again. Upon inspection the next afternoon, I’m happy to say the piece I wrote last night was fairly well written, but full of gloom and self-pity, as were the dreams that caused me to wake up at 3 a.m. and flip open the laptop. I feel that I should apologize to those I bothered with my writing, but then realize that nowadays nobody reads anyway, so my apology would likely fall upon deaf ears.
I don’t have an Internet connection at the place I stayed last night, so being off-line forces me to think of my laptop in a different way. Indeed it’s a bastard computer, a chromebook, which means that it’s really just an android telephone with a full-sized keyboard and screen, and is crippled without wi-fi.
It’s quite a feat of discipline for an Internet addict to face a chromebook offline. He feels lost, cut-off, abandoned by man and machine alike. He plunges ahead, typing away hoping that this effort is not mere folly, that eventually it will be shared with the whole world-wide web, and join the digital flotsam and jetsam that already clogs the servers of the world. But until that happens, the content created is just a promise, an unbaked lump of dough that may someday rise into a muffin or pizza once it’s finally been irradiated.
So the second I found wi-fi, I uploaded my three a.m. missive which now embarrasses me. Why was I so down, so troubled, so gloomy, and why did I send it to my friends and family? As far as I can see, it was the sober equivalent of a blackout drunk making long distance telephone calls, or ordering things from Amazon which will be delivered the next day because you’re Prime, and delivery is free and nearly instantaneous!