first, remember to delete, nothing is important, next, when in doubt, hide, no one knows if you are really there anyway, third, bcc people you barely know, this keeps life interesting, forwarding messages is also a good idea, especially if they are attached, to you, or, if you have an attachment, don’t forget technology is a tool and it doesn’t exist at all if you don’t look at it, close your eyes, never open your computer or phone, it might come out and scare you, or ask you questions, especially ignore the inbox, it really means outbox, like outhouse, spam goes to the bathroom, always send emails before 5am, shows you really care, trash happens, enjoy destruction, the space bar is never useful, shift doesn’t matter, hit return to before.
Tag: Technology
Rembrandt & the Original Selfie
it used to be hours and hours of sitting staring into self, into a mirror, looking at facial skin, wrinkles, curved hat, tufts of hair, textured brushstrokes, somber color palette, a desire to paint that face, his face, my face, he thought, must be preserved, saved for the ages, or perhaps because it was always available, free model, he thought, whatever the reason, several selfies, over many years, and they took forever, each one, meticulous, now, we touch a camera app, press a white button.
Palo Alto Hermit
I live two blocks from the Apple store, don’t own a cellphone or a TV, don’t have an internet connection. Some weekends I unplug my phone and I’m an ascetic, surrounded by my volumes of John Muir, Jane Kenyon, A Buddhist Bible, and my journals of poetic plodding. I watch them on their headsets, talking to the air, talking about technology into technology. They fill the Starbucks on University Avenue with their napkins, sketching schematas of the next IPO. I’m a walking anachronism, a luddite they call me, voluntary simplicity, I call me. Doing the mental math, I calculate whether I’m the only one in all of Palo Alto completely disconnected. Maybe a couple of Stanford religion majors without TV, but none would be internet free, no, that is just me, 1 out of 66,000. But there is Greg, that isn’t his real name, no one knows his real name, he drags his feet, toes sticking out of his shoes, his long, unkempt blondish brown hair jutting in all directions. Greg and the other homeless people by the creek are my kin, my kind, fiber-optically missing, invisible, off the grid. One night I meet Larry Page at a Stanford pub, we don’t talk about his company, Google. He tells me he likes Dance Dance Revolution, but only does it in private. The seven minute conversation sticks with me, like the mornings when I see Steve Jobs at the farmer’s market. Me, Steve, and Larry, we’re in this thing together, makes me feel like I’m a part of the team, the future. But all I teach about is the past, the Cherokee, the Californios, the buffalo, the removed, the replaced. I hike miles on Sundays, Butano Ridge Loop, Foothills Park, my fern-filled temple, my isolation, my solace. I try to make sense of it all, the movement of time, my standing still. After many days, maybe hours, I plug my phone back in, walk down Kipling Street, go to the library, check my email.
When I Think Of Trains
human-made ocean tide of steel, freight and escape, like waves continually crashing, compartments rush by, sound bending wind, horn blasting, alerting animals that machine can collide, graffiti painted sides, desperate spray paint, crude canvas carried from small town to town, and this meant progress, loneliness, like a harmonica pretending, like running away, like blue collar grease, a sunset, a sunrise, an aching, a braking, cacophony, a screech and heartbeat.
Teenager After Airplane Flight
Don’t call it madness, there is a method, a way to best reconnect with my…..phone. Snapchat photos must be sent to dozens and dozens of people, this proves that i’m alive and have a face, or half a face, depending on my mood. Next, i check snapmaps, see who is alone, who is with others, who is traveling and where. 10 people in one place means a party i wasn’t invited to. That kid is in paris, i’ve never been, jealous, oh well, i will be in greece soon and then they will be jealous, karma. I don’t really know what karma means. Next, birthday wishes via snap messages, shows i care, although, if 80% of the people i snap with showed up at my house i wouldn’t know what to say, i mean, we are friends, sort of. Snapchat update complete, insta time: scroll, photos, videos, pause, beautiful dress, nice nail polish, that cat is so cute, like, like, like. If there is time maybe some tiktok, if not, back to snapchat, repeat, repeat, repeat.
The Screen Reaper
The screen reaper has taken all the books away. The ones we used to read by the fireplace, or on the rug, or in bed, or underneath a tree. The screen reaper doesn’t care about your memories or narrative works assembled on page after page, plots, characters, all those stories shaped in your head. No, instead it offers the everything/nothing, of videos, tv shows, movies, colorful clothes draped on dancing bodies, never-ending updates, snap maps, instagram images, and tiktok temptations. The screen reaper wants it all, all of you, your eyes, brain, mind, and time.
And most of us never fight back, we open the computer, clutch the clicker, scroll with our very own fingers, authors of our demise. The screen reaper has taken all the books away, and yet we let it stay, perhaps forever, it will be this way.
Let Technology Go
Sit in silence, with screens in another room. Wait quietly
for each word to arrive. Have faith
that they will, that the universe will guide you/me/us.
Alone, we feel detached from the world where everything happens.
Now someone is tiktok singing, now someone is
posting a photo, now someone is smiling on a screen.
But no one is here in this room, which could be an ocean or
the branch of a tree, free to be. Dare we separate from the
netflix masses and those who have lost their way?
I understand them, I too have been lost
but now found.
Dorm Hallway Phone
it rings and rings, that
sound now fabricated for
flat screened rectangles in
jean pockets, or purses
back then you had to jump
off the bunk bed, sprint
down the hallway hoping
whoever was calling would be
desperate enough to let it ring
8 times, 12 times, so important
that someone, anyone answer
because it could be a girlfriend
or boyfriend, or heaven forbid
a parent calling about a pet
dog who was put to sleep
then tears in front of all
the other dormers in Foss Hall
and to think this happened
maybe twice a day, the phone rang
twice a day, or maybe three times
Birth of a Poet
i lived five years
without screens
never bought
anything online
or watched
tv
or had
email
at home
never got a phd
but five years
without screens
that was my
doctorate
and what did i do?
oh, you can guess
i read and read
and wrote
instead
Self-Checkout
no more checkout clerks
at the grocery store
now it is us and the machine
little bar codes, red light
that beeping sound of
credit card accumulating debt
and no one smiles anymore
or says hello, or says
how about that football game
no, that is all in the past
now it is us and the machine
and sometimes we wonder
is this progress?
Daniel W. Polk 