WRITER’S
LIFEGUARD
Computerless
More than a hangman loves his rope
More than a dope fiend loves his dope
It’s
not like I'm really computerless; I still have my iPad, which is, after
all, a computer… a small, primitive computer, but a computer.
And
if I meander down to the Apple Store, I can peck away on their computers, the ones that sit in tidy rows on their
blonde-wood display tables. I’m using one now.
What
I don't have is my own computer, my 2010 MacBookPro. It’s somewhere in
Cupertino or Sacramento or Texas having its logic board replaced. Not familiar
with that term? Logic boards used to be called motherboards.
Even old New York
Was once New Amsterdam
By
any name, my MacBook Pro failed while I was editing a movie at the Apple Store;
ten minutes later, off it went to the Circuit Board’s Hospital. And here I sit,
not really computerless but feeling like I am.
Sometimes I feel
Like a motherless child
I
know — First World Problem. Poor baby only has two computers at his disposal.
Diddums.
But
I’m not whining about reality; I'm sharing feelings. And what I feel like is a
dopeless addict, a nicotineless smoker, a boozer longing for bourbon.
Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine
When you gonna let me get sober
I
don’t know what to do with my hands. They want to flex over a keyboard that
isn’t there.
I
don’t know what to do with my time. Those pitches I need to follow up are on my
MacBookPro. So are the photos I want to download to our restaurant app. So is
that unfinished movie.
Yes,
they’re all backed up, but I can’t access the backup without — anyone? anyone?
— right… without my computer. I. Want.
My. Computer!
I
don’t have my computer. This morning
— morning — I found myself reading an awful historical novel in bed.
Last night, I found myself watching American television. I’m a mess.
Smokin’ cigarettes and watching
Captain Kangaroo
Now don't tell me, I've nothing to do
I
hear my voice muttering out loud, snapping at my wife, cursing an digital
object that isn't there. I see my feet pacing the floor of the Apple Store. I
sense other patrons giving me wide berth.
Several
times a day, I discover, to my embarrassment, that I’m close to tears.
I
also spend way too much time wondering if my computer’s on its way home. Maybe
it’s fixed. Maybe it’s about to arrive. Maybe the phone’s about to ring,
saying, “C’mon down! Your computer’s back. It’s right here, waiting for you to
pick it up.”
Sounds
like addiction to me. Or Madness 3.0.
My analyst told me
That I was right out of my head…
—
jules
PS
I'm singing a new song now.
He's been gone for such
a long time
(Hey-la-day-la my boyfriend's
back)
Now he's back and
things'll be fine
(Hey-la-day-la my
boyfriend's back)
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