[11/15/12] Well, the phone was dead. And I did lose all those pictures of my son. More angry than I can express. I’m separating from technology. And returning in war’s mode. Using it a seldom as possible. On side positive, no pictures to transfer, “upload,” tonight. Just writing. Just writing, can’t remember the last time I had that on my priorities plate. Sipping a substantial amount of Sauvignon Blanc now, and for tonight’s rest. A co-worker today praised my blog, saying, “You’re an amazing writer.” The last time I had a complement like that, so sincere and emphatic.. no recollection. Another bullion’d blast from not being able to use phone, the devilish device, in tasting Room.. I could actually write. Take notes. Capture characters. Today’s traffic, once again chasm’d. Scattered, fragmented, uniquely rhythm’d. Giving me time for notes, which I’m saving for novel next. This SB, showing me poetic tropicality. When WAS the last time I dove into this varietal’s myriad of a character web? The cough still with me. Sipping, scribbling through it. This new phone, have to bring it into a useful fold, but I’m not in a tech-toned temperament. Not yet. I know, I’m a “blogger,” I guess, but I just want to freely write.
Just finished watching a sitcom that addressed this very dilemma with technology, how dependent upon it we all are. And with winemaking, what was done two hundred years ago in France, Italy? Did those winemakers have texts sent to them if something went wrong during fermentation? What happened to Creative purity, independence? Don’t ever claim to be independent, fellow writers, if you’re addicted to a button set [whether tangible or virtual].
My glass of SB, empty. Would have more, but cough persists. I’ll cease in sip, but not in scribble. Waiting for the rain. Could use its relieving race. Don’t want to spend the time to set up this new device. But I have to. I’d rather write, read. Capote never had to deal with this. Neither Hemingway, nor Plath. Not even Pac. Night, all but shot.