Dear diary,
It was really storming last night. Thunder and lightning. Very scary. I was unable to sleep.
Then I woke (how does one wake from non-sleep?) and here I am.
Now I’d like to make an observation about the current state of humanity. Here’s what I’ve gathered: Every day we all turn on our computers. Am I right about this, or is this just something I presume that everyone does because I myself do it?
Are there people out there who don’t actually need to look at a computer screen, ever? Are computers escapable? Once you’ve tried it, can you actually quit computing? Or does one need basically to be born in a computerless land in order to avoid succumbing to the habit?
What kind of life can you live if you don’t interact with a computer? My guess is that your sense of taste and sight and hearing and smell and touch would return. You’d no longer be an avatar inside a circuit board; you’d be an avatar in the rainforest.
I say that a good day would be computer-free. But if we truly could launch ourselves backwards in time and land in a place where the population has never even heard of computers, then we all would probably find alternate ways to annoy one another.
Plus, undoubtedly, while we’re living in our Pre-computer Era, once a cowboy from the future walks thru the doors of our saloon & shows us a smart-phone, we’ll all be awed by its glow. That’s the way it always happens. Yes, then we’ll all wanna borrow his device so as to take motion pictures of our livestock.
But since our world would lack any Internet, we’d have nowhere to share our videos; unless someone could invent a projection device that enlarges & displays the recorded images on a wall. In that case, we could all meet at church and watch documentary films about everyone’s cows, goats, and chickens.
Anyway, that’s my goal: to have one day where I don’t use a computer at all. Let me plan what I’ll do…
My Computer-Free Day
(A blueprint)
First I’ll get out of bed, take a shower, and dress myself in my finest Italian suit. Then I’ll spritz on some cologne and walk over to the public square:
I will check the bulletin board to see what everyone has posted. It will give me pleasure to study the photos of people’s livestock.
Then someone shall tap me on the shoulder and say hello. It is one of my neighbors.
I will greet this individual warmly. Then, with my arm around the person’s shoulder, we’ll walk to the marketplace, me & my neighbor. (I’m purposely not giving this neighbor a name, so that you can imagine the person however you want them to be — tall or short, Catholic or Protestant — for I will accept as my companion anyone who approaches me: all I ask is that we steer clear of computers.)
Once we reach the marketplace, I will make a beeline to the Corn Kiosk. I will order Roast Sweet Corn for me and my neighbor-friend here. Thus we shall break our fast.
“This fresh ear is delicious,” my companion will say; “I thank you for treating me to this meal.”
“You’re welcome,” I’ll reply; “there’s more where that came from.”
Then I’ll head back to the Corn Kiosk and pay for another order of Roast Sweet Corn. In fact, I’ll return two additional times and order more of the same, this corn is so good.
Then I’ll say to my neighbor “Well, shall we move on?”
Then we’ll proceed to the other side of the marketplace (note that this is an outdoor market whose floor is a strange type of orange sand that you’ve never seen anywhere else in the world) and we will stop at the booth that sells Pronto Pups and Corn Dogs. My neighbor will buy a Pronto Pup for herself and a Corn Dog for me. Then we will ask each other “How was your dog?” And we will both say “Pretty good!” And then I will go and buy two more dogs, so that we can each compare what we just ate to the other type of dog. So, for this return purchase, I’ll eat the Pronto Pup myself & give the Corn Dog to my companion:
“Notice the difference?” I’ll ask her.
“Yes,” she’ll answer; “the Corn Dog contains a hint of sweetness which the Pronto Pup lacks.”
“Do you have a preference?” I then will say.
“Yes, I prefer the Pronto Pup,” my neighbor will answer.
And I shall smile and admit that I share her opinion.
*
Then we will leave the market and head back home. When we reach the place where the road veers off in opposite directions, I will stop and salue my neighbor, saying:
“Here’s where we part ways. You will take the western path, which leads to your split-level house; while I take the eastern path that leads to my rambler.”
Then we will carefully pace fifty steps in either direction, until we are exactly one hundred paces apart. At this point, my neighbor shall shout:
“Bryan! Can you hear me?”
And I will say: “No! Come closer!”
And we’ll race back to each other until we are near enough to kiss. Then I will hear my neighbor’s minty fresh breath whisper to me the following words:
“Maybe you could walk me to my house and spend the afternoon with me. I’d like the company. I intend to make food...”
“Food?” I whisper. “Count me in!”
So we both take the western path to my neighbor’s gray split-level. This is what we shall decide to do on the day when neither of us need to use our computers.
*
My neighbor enters her kitchen and undresses and then comes out into the living room holding a large plate of cheese curds, which she sets down on the coffee table in front of the sofa where I’m reclining. We share this food while discussing the state of the economy.
Once the cheese curds are gone, my neighbor brings the empty plate back to the kitchen. While doing so, she shouts “Go ahead & switch on the TV. I’m gonna make French Fries — it’ll take me a minute. Make yourself at home.”
So I turn on the tube & watch a program about gods and shepherds. It’s very dreamy.
Eventually my neighbor returns with Course Numéro Deux:
“Fresh French Fries!” she announces.
They are a piping hot delight.
*
Then, at around 2:34 p.m. my neighbor comes into the living room with two servings of Pork Chops.
*
& around three o’clock she appears with a pan of Bacon:
“I hope you don’t see this as just a bunch of fat & grease,” she sez.
“No way,” I say: “to me, this is premium pork belly.”
“Ah, what a relief!” my neighbor sighs. “Some people think of Bacon as something that should only be eaten at breakfast; but I like to serve it for luncheon or supper as well, or as an in-between-meals snack, as we’re doing this afternoon,” (here she takes a bite of one of the crisp, wavy strips,) “it’s pretty fantastic at any other time of the day, too,” she laughs.
“Amen,” I say, very solemnly.
*
Then around 5:30 my neighbor’s husband comes home. He enters the house & stretches & grunts “Arg!” then he steps into the living room & finds me & his wife on the sofa eating Bacon.
“Is that Bacon?” the husband asks.
“This is the last strip, honey,” sez his wife, as she bites the last strip.
“That’s OK,” sez the husband; “you know that I only like Bacon for breakfast, anyway. O! howdy, Bry.”
“Hi, John,” I say. “How was your work day?”
“Uh, it was alright,” sez the husband. “We built twenty-five igloos. That’ll provide shelter for a quarter of a hundred displaced families, until they all melt. — But I can’t grasp why we don’t just tax the ultra-rich, instead of…”
Here the husband’s wife stands bolt upright:
“Never mention such things,” her voice is trembling with emotion.
“Sorry, hon. Yeah, well, anyway, on the way home, I picked up a few necessities: here I got some alligator sausage, some deep fried hot dish, and some deep fried scotch eggs. I hope you still have room in your bellies!” the husband laughs while placing the various cartons of cuisine before us on the coffee table.
“I can eat anything, anytime,” I say. “Some people even accuse me of having a hollow leg. The insinuation is that I probably store the food inside of a compartment in my fake leg to save it for later, instead of digesting it in my stomach like a real American. But this is false. I am simply a gourmand.”
“Say no more, friend: I understand,” sez the husband, while enjoying another scotch egg.
So we finish the food that the husband has set out for us. Then I rise from the sofa and declare:
“Well, I better be heading home. I thank you both for a perfect day.”
“Perfect?” sez the husband. “It was good, I agree; but I think that labeling it perfect might be going a little too far.”
“No!” say I; “it was just what the doctor ordered: A day without computers. Plus I love food, so all this eating really hit the spot.”
The husband chews & chews while staring up at me.
“Have a nice walk home,” winks the wife while licking her lips.
“Yes, safe travels!” adds the husband. Then, as I open the door, he shouts: “Oh, hey, Bry, wait, I just thot of something — here, let me dash downstairs & fetch you a jug of white rum for the road: Cuz you’ll need something to wet your whistle.”
“Thanks, man,” say I, “—you’re too kind!”
So I stagger off with my rum-jug, singing sad songs. And whenever I can’t recall the lyrics, I just hum or blurt nonsense syllables until the words come back to me.
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