Thursday, February 27, 2014

If procuring a smartphone and then spending three days in the Chicago tundra doesn’t age a man, well, chalk that up to the curative, cryogenic properties of sub-zero temperatures. I despise my new phone. Truly, fucking hate it. After about a week of texting, the practice appears to be a bite-sized mix of stream of consciousness and cries for validation. If a longform news article is like a turkey sandwich for your brain, then texting is the mental equivalent of Corn Nuts. With 4G LTE at my disposal now, too, I can carry the Internet around in my pants, which is what I’ve always wanted.

But that’s the price of admission for modernity, I suppose, and I’ve got to wield this infernal, chirping device, if only as a prop. There’s simply been too much talk recently–a breezy cacophony of texts and e-mails and calls from the present, the Charlotte past, and even from Chicago, long ago–and I’m adrift. I need to reclaim my peace, find that clarity of intent. I need to anchor myself.

To do this, I’ve been checking my phone less frequently. I also need to seek out that sense of home. It’s strange, really, because you’d think it would exist here in my apartment. It doesn’t. It’s absent, too, from my townhouse in Charlotte. Instead, there are flashes of it: at work, at Snug, over Bakespeare’s cooking, during the walk back from a workout. That’s my main motivation for clocking in 2.75 elliptical miles, honestly–the 250-feet stroll after it is amazing.