Telephone
When I was in the first grade Mrs. Bacon taught us about how sound moves. As part of the lesson we made tin can telephones. Small holes carefully cut into the bottom of vegetable and soup cans with leather awls (though I wouldn't know that's what they were until I got older; at the time they were just "pointy things") and strung 4 feet of twine knotted between them. We pushed this amazingly simple science project to its limits.
We stood face to face and when we grew tired of the obvious, we went as far apart as our strings would allow us. We hid behind bushes and trees, desks and chairs as though the fact that we could not see each other would hinder the sound of our six year old voices tripping along the twine. All day we stayed amazed at the resilience of sound and the fact that we could connect to someone else from 4 feet away and still hear a whisper. We all had telephones at home. Telephones that would be used that very evening to order dinner, call friends, or talk to family members. But that device simply didn't hold the wonder of two tin cans and a length of twine.
I got my first cell phone when I was 22. It was a thin gold flip phone with a grey/green screen, no games, no e-mail and no text messaging just blocky pixelated letters and numbers that read the time or the name of the caller, if I had them already in my phone book. I promptly called every phone number I could remember to let them know that I had finally joined the 21st century. I did not realize at the time that buying that phone would negate my need for address books or to remember anyone's phone number. It brought me closer to everyone I wanted to speak to. I was mobile. It gave me a way to keep in touch with my family and gave me no excuses not to.
I occasionally used instant messenger programs when I was in college and sporadically throughout my adult life. Mostly, it was a way for me to pretend to be someone else as I giggled at cyber sex chat rooms while my friends sat around and took part in the joke. I didn't feel guilty about this because the idea of someone having a sexual conversation with someone they just "met" let alone someone they knew nothing about struck me as hilarious and a little deplorable. I was, however, kind enough not to let them in on the joke. I wouldn't admit until years later that I was, myself, intensely curious about verbal depravity. When I was much older I would finally admit to myself that I had found it exciting and erotic and that my laughter was more to cover up my own embarrassment than it was at someone's expense.
Also during this time I suffered from intense insomnia. I would stay up much later than was necessary trying to sort out my head and figure out who I was. While doing this, I would reach out randomly and, most often, desperately for someone to hear me, to understand me, and to connect without judgement. I wrung myself out on blog sites. I poured myself onto the page in words that I could rearrange and edit, presenting myself in a way that I thought matched how I felt on the inside, though it wasn't close to who I presented to the world. All of this before I considered calling myself a writer.
There were a few people at that time, ffrom my blog sites mostly, who would attempt to reach out to me in real life. I gave my phone number to one such friend that I have since not spoken to in years (though this wasn't the reason why). I was in a very difficult place and wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to hear a voice to match the words. I wanted that comfort. He called me and left me a voice mail because I was not brave enough to pick up the phone. I never called him back. His voice didn't match what I imagined. His voice was deep and rumbled like velvet over rocks. I remember his voice and I remember the panic I felt at the idea of actually connecting to that voice that was so real, so caring and more full of life than black ink on a white page. I have always regretted not answering that call, though I know he never knew that.
My cell phone and my computer are now my only connections to the outside world. A land line has become obsolete in my life. It no longer made sense to pay a separate bill for something I never used anyway. Now that I live in a location where the internet is touchy and my cell phone service even touchier I am more aware of my tenuous connection. As I have gotten older I have made more of an attempt to keep in touch with the people who mean the most to me. I am not happy with my forced seclusion, but I see myself more of a monk, sacrificing my convenience for the sake of a cause bigger than myself. An information martyr. I have obviously not outgrown my melodramatic tendencies.
Everyday I talk to the boy who stole my heart 9 years ago (though he only knew about it since last year) either online, by phone or, on occasion, by e-mail and it's usually while he's working, multitasking in communication. More often than not we both sit on our respective ends and don't say much. For me, the comfort comes in knowing that he's there. Knowing that on the other end of the 2100 miles of twine, he's breathing into my ear and waiting for me to share my secrets in a whisper.
We stood face to face and when we grew tired of the obvious, we went as far apart as our strings would allow us. We hid behind bushes and trees, desks and chairs as though the fact that we could not see each other would hinder the sound of our six year old voices tripping along the twine. All day we stayed amazed at the resilience of sound and the fact that we could connect to someone else from 4 feet away and still hear a whisper. We all had telephones at home. Telephones that would be used that very evening to order dinner, call friends, or talk to family members. But that device simply didn't hold the wonder of two tin cans and a length of twine.
I got my first cell phone when I was 22. It was a thin gold flip phone with a grey/green screen, no games, no e-mail and no text messaging just blocky pixelated letters and numbers that read the time or the name of the caller, if I had them already in my phone book. I promptly called every phone number I could remember to let them know that I had finally joined the 21st century. I did not realize at the time that buying that phone would negate my need for address books or to remember anyone's phone number. It brought me closer to everyone I wanted to speak to. I was mobile. It gave me a way to keep in touch with my family and gave me no excuses not to.
I occasionally used instant messenger programs when I was in college and sporadically throughout my adult life. Mostly, it was a way for me to pretend to be someone else as I giggled at cyber sex chat rooms while my friends sat around and took part in the joke. I didn't feel guilty about this because the idea of someone having a sexual conversation with someone they just "met" let alone someone they knew nothing about struck me as hilarious and a little deplorable. I was, however, kind enough not to let them in on the joke. I wouldn't admit until years later that I was, myself, intensely curious about verbal depravity. When I was much older I would finally admit to myself that I had found it exciting and erotic and that my laughter was more to cover up my own embarrassment than it was at someone's expense.
Also during this time I suffered from intense insomnia. I would stay up much later than was necessary trying to sort out my head and figure out who I was. While doing this, I would reach out randomly and, most often, desperately for someone to hear me, to understand me, and to connect without judgement. I wrung myself out on blog sites. I poured myself onto the page in words that I could rearrange and edit, presenting myself in a way that I thought matched how I felt on the inside, though it wasn't close to who I presented to the world. All of this before I considered calling myself a writer.
There were a few people at that time, ffrom my blog sites mostly, who would attempt to reach out to me in real life. I gave my phone number to one such friend that I have since not spoken to in years (though this wasn't the reason why). I was in a very difficult place and wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to hear a voice to match the words. I wanted that comfort. He called me and left me a voice mail because I was not brave enough to pick up the phone. I never called him back. His voice didn't match what I imagined. His voice was deep and rumbled like velvet over rocks. I remember his voice and I remember the panic I felt at the idea of actually connecting to that voice that was so real, so caring and more full of life than black ink on a white page. I have always regretted not answering that call, though I know he never knew that.
My cell phone and my computer are now my only connections to the outside world. A land line has become obsolete in my life. It no longer made sense to pay a separate bill for something I never used anyway. Now that I live in a location where the internet is touchy and my cell phone service even touchier I am more aware of my tenuous connection. As I have gotten older I have made more of an attempt to keep in touch with the people who mean the most to me. I am not happy with my forced seclusion, but I see myself more of a monk, sacrificing my convenience for the sake of a cause bigger than myself. An information martyr. I have obviously not outgrown my melodramatic tendencies.
Everyday I talk to the boy who stole my heart 9 years ago (though he only knew about it since last year) either online, by phone or, on occasion, by e-mail and it's usually while he's working, multitasking in communication. More often than not we both sit on our respective ends and don't say much. For me, the comfort comes in knowing that he's there. Knowing that on the other end of the 2100 miles of twine, he's breathing into my ear and waiting for me to share my secrets in a whisper.