. . . an almost comminuting blow . . .

I’m indulging in a surreptitious pleasure. Not “pleasure.” Necessity.

Is the the alterer of reality?

Is he the alterer of reality?

I’m supposed to be grading student essays. I have no choice. I must finish them today. But the writing must come first. This writing. I have no choice.

A couple of days ago I was driving home from a satisfying workout at the Landry Fitness Center at Baylor Hospital where I walk for an hour in the therapy pool as often as I can. (Thank goodness for Tim Berners-Lee. He, of course, made it possible for me to get on with whatever I’m writing at the moment without having to go back and explain everything in detail, and I can simply link to it. I’ve already this hour been spared three essays—three hyperlinks to Berners-Lee’s WWW.) I heard a snippet of a conversation with Berners-Lee on NPR’s “Science Friday” as I was driving home—recorded in 1999—because this past week was the 25th anniversary of the worldwide web. The interview had been recorded on the 10th anniversary of the worldwide web.

My first use of the internet—email—was in 1993. My partner had moved from Boston to Dallas to work for Hewlett-Packard. Out of the blue one day he called to tell me I should check the computer of one of my colleagues. I can say without hyperbole that I was dumbfounded by mystery to see a message to me on her monitor. I replied, and the rest . . . My life changed forever in that instant. By the time I moved to Dallas, Jerry had internet at our apartment, and a magician from Hewlett-Packard came to do whatever was necessary to hook my computer to the internet. I don’t need to tell anyone who was born before 1989 what an astounding change came over our lives—shall I say an almost comminuting blow (not almost) to the way we (at least I) thought about our place in the universe.

Suddenly I could be connected to everyone in the world who had access to a computer. My ability to “search the web” for information it would have taken me hours (days) to find the day before I hooked up to this worldwide phenomenon was more astounding. My experience is not unique and hardly interesting. I need, however, to remind myself of the person I am that I wasn’t the day before Roseann’s computer at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston received that message from Jerry at Hewlett-Packard in Dallas.

I ask myself if I am in fact a different person.

My selfie is blurred

My selfie is blurred

Affirmative. One example: Were it not for the internet my world-view would not have been shattered by my first trip to Palestine in 2003. On the WWW I researched the possibilities for that trip. I received the information that led me to the Fellowship of Reconciliation, with whom I toured Palestine, by email from Ann Hafften—who through email became my friend and colleague.

(If Yahoo can interrupt news stories with links to related stories, so can I. If you ever ask, “What can I do to make the world a better place,” go to this website – on the miraculous WWW –and make a donation.)

One might think that pondering the miraculous change in human activity that has occurred in my lifetime (the first computer that stored data instead of punching cards was built the year I was born) would bring wonderment and joy. I have to admit it was fun listening to Ira Flatow reminiscing for all of us about the history of the WWW.

And then grief.

Why should listening to Ira Flatow and Tim Berners-Lee talk in excited and at the same time almost reverent terms about the enormous changes in our lives brought about by computers and the internet cause me grief?

It’s grief that is not unhealthy or debilitating. It’s a joyful kind of grief. It’s knowing that I am already unable to keep up with “technology.” I can’t figure out how to download the app for my “senior pass” for DART onto my iPhone. I can’t figure out how to edit pictures on this computer (I’ve had it for three months now). I don’t have any idea how to use the “rubric” function in the Blackboard program to grade student essays. I who love music and used to listen to CDs all the time cannot for the life of me figure out how to use iTunes. And please don’t tell me—if I call you and ask me how to drive to where you are—to use the Google maps on the iPhone with which I am calling you. Much of the time I feel out of focus. My “selfie” is not clear.

This is not frustration (OK, it is) or sour grapes from an old man who sees the world passing by. It’s deeper than that. Not being able to use all of these devices that I used to see as playthings but which have become essentials to living in our society (if not in the entire world—I’m not sure about that) is a constant reminder, a daily, hourly reminder, an inescapable reminder that I am mortal—not simply mortal, but living on borrowed time.

Anyone my age who doesn’t understand needs more ROM. Or is it RAM.

I'll never figure it out

I’ll never figure it out