The Day Gets Away

I had plans for today to get up, write Morning Pages, then see what I could accomplish. I especially wanted to clean the mess on and around my desk. Typing this now, at nearly four in the afternoon, a book, phone, planner, portfolio, and pack of post-it notes still litter my desk. I don't want to even describe the stacks on the windowsill and shelf or the footstool atop which I've piled papers that surely I'll get to later. (Probably not. And stop calling me Shirley.)

After sleeping past eight, I came down for coffee and Morning Pages but made the mistake of checking email. A notice from Google said some accounts of an organization I used to help manage are sending spam. Those addresses are abandoned by all but a few people. Even the program director and I stopped using them.

Okay, I thought, before I start Morning Pages, I'll just log in and fix things quickly. But I couldn't remember or find my password. I tried one thing, another, and some others. Ten minutes turned to thirty and then an hour. I requested help from Google, closed the computer, and went back to making coffee. Google, a leader in technology and efficiency, won't get back to me for at least a week.

I made coffee but the filter ripped and filled the cup with grounds. I started writing, but only the top half of the cup was drinkable after which I was easily sidetracked from the half page of writing I'd done by a possible way to get into the account. A minute turned into forty-five, but I recalled (lucked into) the correct password then lost another three-quarters of an hour monkeying with settings, reading and deleting old mail, alerting the few users that I'm shutting things down when the domain runs out.

Back to writing. I filled page one and was midway through page two when I remembered that the domain renews and charges my card automatically. I logged into the account again, drilled through menus, and fifteen minutes turned to forty.

Done with that, I made another cup of coffee thinking, I need to order a new chamber for my Aeropress. But I resisted that urge. Focus, I told myself, setting the kettle on the burner, placing a new filter, filling the chamber (which I really do need to replace), rinsing the mug, pressing the coffee. The whole time thinking, there's something I'm forgetting.

The clocked ticked just past noon. I sipped coffee and wrote into the first lines of page three. I finished the coffee and (maybe it was written in the bottom of the cup) remembered my one o'clock therapy appointment. The clock read 12:20. I still had two-thirds of a page to go.

I went up and dressed, told my daughter I was off to therapy, gathered the unfinished pages, and drove to the office. There I finished the last page and breathed a literal sigh of relief. I looked at my watch: 12:57 PM.

Where, I wondered, had the morning gone?

Digital Lost & Analog Found

I'm listening to Glen Campbell. Yes, Glen Campbell. Yes, I'm old. Yes, it's good, good stuff. And yes, it's on a vinyl record I bought, own outright, and, if you have a turntable, live nearby, and seem trustworthy, I can loan it to you without any corporation knowing about it. No breaches of privacy. No question about the format remaining compatible or the company going out of business. No user agreement forcing me into binding arbitration if I share the thing. Oh, and I paid for it once and never will again. Crazy stuff, really it is.

This week there was a report about a fire destroying a bunch of old recordings and master tapes. Depressing. Losing art saddens to me. My record collection could go that way if disaster strikes our house. My old record collection suffered the disaster of the CD, Napster, iTunes, streaming, and me selling all of them for a pittance at a garage sale. I wasn't playing them then and hadn't in years. These things happen. I'm not beating myself up. And I'm hoping the house won't catch fire.

I've been thinking about old writing files I've stored in the cloud or on hard drives. I still have things I typed at Clarkson University in 1987. They were written in an editor that saved things as text files. I can still open those with almost anything. By 1988 I was writing with an IBM word processor and, unless I'm willing to do a ton of work or pay some money, those files are gone forever. Paper is bulky and can catch fire, but it's a format that doesn't go out of style no matter how much the electronics industry has been trying to make it go away. There are reasons to hang onto the old ways of doing things.

Sometimes it's not disaster or the march of progress that ruins things. MySpace deleted millions of files from their service. All that music is gone. Corporate decision making, something we can always count on to do what's best and right. Yep.

This weekend I tried resurrecting an old iPod using iTunes. I found out that some of the songs I "bought" from Apple aren't playable without my Apple ID, something I deleted a few years ago. Oh well. I thought I owned those things. Not so much. Is it any wonder I buy records now?

This weekend I downloaded a non-streaming music app for my phone. It only plays music I own, downloaded to the phone. I like it so far. It works whether or not I'm connected to a data stream and doesn't tell anyone what I've listened to so I can be hit with ads. It's no turntable and amp, but those things are pretty tough to carry on a walk or play in the car.

Everything for sale seems only to be for rent. I don't like renting. Sure, ownership is a pain when things break down. Our house needs a roof, my amp has to be repaired, the car needs new tires. Still, these things are mine andhave more value to me than if they were rented or owned by someone else whom I pay in money, data, and the abdication of my privacy.

One of the computers belonging to a member of the band Radiohead was hacked and the bastards stole demo tapes the band had made. The thieves set a ransom and the band responded by releasing the tapes for a small fee they are donating to charity. Good for them and screw those thieves. I don't care if Radiohead has a lot of money. They probably do and I'm happy for artists to make that kind of money. They don't need to be punished for it. The thieves on the other hand should be drowned in a deep part of the ocean. And we should be wary of the progress around us. Nothing is safe online. Nothing stored online is private. Sigh.

Networks can always be hacked. File systems go out of date. Electronic storage breaks down. Just last weekend Google's servers failed on the East Coast. If Google can come as close to melt down as Nine Mile Point, how far are we from Chernobyl?

My records wouldn't survive a fire, but they survive time and the whimsy of the next new thing. Just like Glen Campbell. I swear, this guy still sounds just absolutely great. He's gentle as hell on my mind. Come on over. I'll lend you the album.

Truly Good Tools

In a few weeks we will lose Inbox by Gmail, a service providing an enhanced front end to Gmail. Google has decided that Gmail is good enough and is killing Inbox like a bull in the ring, spears sticking out of it and some fool in a ridiculous costume showing off like he's done something. I could complain about this all day, but that would be less interesting than comparing cat food.

Inbox has been a good tool. It looks and feels good, is efficient, and automates email some. I'm no fan of email — I'd rather write letters — but it's a necessity and so I sought out a good tool for it. That was Inbox.

Good tools are tough to come by and often require lots of experimentation. It took two semi-disposable fountain pens, and three really good ones to arrive at the pen I currently use which is just right for me in every way. Similarly, I've crafted a sheet of lined paper through trial and error over the course of years. (I don't make the paper but have designed a page I print on the back of used copy paper.) Online, I've found a fantastic minimalist writing tool. Six years ago my wife bought me the Chromebook Pixel on which I'm typing. It was the finest of tools when she gave it to me and remains fantastic no matter what Google says.

The best tools need to be owned outright. The fountain pen is mine and will be for another twenty years, maybe longer. The only way I'll lose it is if I, well, lose it, have it stolen, or break it somehow. It's the same with the paper. These things are mine.

The minimalist writing tool is great, but the guy who runs it can shut it down tomorrow. Google stopped updating the Chromebook. In those cases, I'm out of luck just as I am with Inbox. Much of why I prefer analog tools has to do with ownership which makes them much more dependable, as any good tool must be. Google can't end-of-life my fountain pen (though they might want to).

There is more than sentimental value to ownership. Ask any renter who has been told by the landlord it's time to move. It's possible to have a good tool that is rented or borrowed, but to truly good tools must be owned. I know everyone thinks Google Docs will be around forever, but I can't guarantee that, so it is only a good tool so long as Google allows me to use it. That's hardly dependable.

I thought Inbox was a good tool, but in a few weeks it will wink out of existence and there's absolutely nothing I can do about that. I just borrow it.

It's said that if you are not paying for a service, you’re not the customer; you’re the product being sold. I add that if you don't own the product even a little bit, you are owned a little bit by it. I got owned by Inbox just as I've been owned by Gmail for years. Sometimes that's okay, but the more I think about it, especially as I have to let go of Inbox, I'm certain that it isn't very good.

Compromise is part of life and my addiction to online word processing, email, and the rest come with a price. Every morning, and often through the day, I pick up the fountain pen, uncap it, and let it glide across the page. The words are all mine, the paper too, and the pen is completely my possession which kind of sets me free as a truly good tool should.

The Limits Of Technology

Several nights ago I ran up against the limits of technology. I couldn't remember a song. I was in bed with a snatch of lyric stuck in my head, unable to sleep until I figured out what song it was and hear it in my head. All I had was "Crisis of faith and crisis in the Congo" on repeat. I did not have the tune, the notes, the singer,or the rest of the lyrics, and it was driving me mad. Despite the late hour, I pushed the covers back to go get my phone and figure things out. 

I charge my phone in the kitchen so I can sleep instead of looking at the damn thing.  Technology in the bedroom, beyond clock, book, pen and paper, is a mistake. I went down to the phone and typed in the lyric, expecting my answer in a Google micro-second. I got nothing. I typed different combinations, but I had the lyric wrong. Google was no use. 

I returned to bed frustrated but also happy. I was on my own. Just me and my memory. I knew the song was in there and knew I had heard it dozens of times. I played the snippet over and over in my head. It was a male singer with a weird voice. I felt like the next line was, "yeah, we heard that before" but it didn't fit the rhythm. 

My wife asked if I had figured it out. I told her, I was still working on it. She said, thanks for putting it on an endless loop in my head. Marriage is all about giving. We turned out the lights and she rolled over. 

I kept at it. It wasn't the Congo. Crisis of faith, sure, but no crisis in the Congo. I played the line in my head without words hoping to hear where the crisis was. It remained mysterious, but the next line resolved into "Yeah, we'd heard all that before." It didn't come right away but began as a vague feeling of syllables, the sure memory that it began with _Yeah_ and ended with _before_. I tumbled that until the line came clear. 

Then I heard the voice. It was nasally, almost whiny. Later, I'd apologize in my mind to the singer, but he's dead and unlikely to take offense. 

"Crisis of faith and crisis in the hmm-hm, yeah we've heard all that before," I sang in my head, and though I couldn't put the next line together, the band and singer came to me along with the tune. It was as if I had plugged an extension cord from an outlet to the faraway, dark place where the memory lay. The light came on and music played:

“Crisis of faith and crisis in the Kremlin
And yeah we’d heard all of that before
It’s wintertime, the house is solitude with options
And loosening the grip on a fake cold war.”

— "Fireworks" by Tragically Hip (with apologies for my description of Gord Downie's voice) 

Had it been Google's answer, I'd have nodded, felt comforted, and gone to sleep like I had taken a pain reliever. Instead, I put it together slowly, piece by piece, with the possibility I might not figure it out. There's something so much more rewarding about that. 

I'm not about to ditch my phone or Google, but it's good to remember the wonder of depending on my brain while I still have it to use.