My iPhone Died, and So Did My Motivation to Fix It
And the disconnection connected me back
Anyone who kinda follows my rants, is aware of how much I loathe the iPhone. The anger stems from the awful experiences I’ve endured with a gadget that costs as much my teeny tiny studio — and yet the performance so far has failed to measure up to the imposing cost.
I was coerced by a romantic gesture to take the plunge and I was actually quite pleased by the iPhone 4. To be honest I was crazy for that phone and the reason is simple. It was durably efficient, which elevated my ability to multi-task with ease and proficiency. I was already a massive fan of Apple — especially after I gifted myself with the final version of the Macbook for Christmas 2008.
Everything changed for the worst after my iPhone 4 dropped to the ground and shattered into countable pieces. I was upset — but consoled my self with the hope that the upgrade would more than compensate for the sudden loss.
I was wrong in my expectations — and soon began to peep the deviousness of a global powerhouse that has perfected the art of brilliant branding with the ammunition of intense marketing campaigns that give customers permission to hack up their savings for the pleasure of being socially current.
Now, I’m stuck with the iPhone 6 — and the inconsistencies never disappoint — as I’m saddled with incredulous monthly bills and a battery that needs to be replaced almost every six months — not to mention the charger that was obviously not meant to last up to four months before the fraying gets in the way.
Yes, it feels good to join the excitement of product launches that make socializing a lot more profitable and slyly simplified, but the catch happens to be how direly gullible we’ve become.
The web of remaining connected is fueled by the beauty of manipulation that enhances the irony of the old days — when we visualized the capacity of what we have now — and believed in its purity.
My phone died on an early Saturday morning while I was en route to my destination and when I readily attempted to charge it — there was no connection between my phone and the weary charger that was designed to choke itself out of its duties within a short period of time.
I decided to allow my phone to flatline because there was no real incentive to rush off in a bid to fix what will always be broken. Also, there was the blooming joy of being out of range for as long as I needed to be — in order to reset my faculties by cleansing the toxicity of jammed timelines that honestly produce a level of hysteria that no human should ever have to regulate.
The past few weeks have been excruciatingly hostile — thanks to the unraveling of Hollywood and the hot and bothered moguls who are being ousted for illegally demonstrating their power. Each day brings new revelations about hotel rendezvous and privileged tongues poking in places that were never on the menu. The testimonies are added to a master list that is re-distributed every five minutes from a gazillion outlets — all at once. There’s no consideration for the trigger-heavy material clogging the pores of corners that are mandated to shock us with outlandish headlines and images that heighten the disturbing themes.
There’s also the issue with anger — and how it permeates with wild abandon as if such a thing is a natural or even viable way to spend the days and nights. The extreme hatred we have for one another — and the way we plot downfalls and create maps that lead to the utter condemnation of a foe — is incredibly heartbreaking to witness.
At no time can you log on and not be met with a roster of reasons why we’re losing the fibers of connectivity that we thought we installed when our platforms were setup and our phones configured to finesse uninterrupted access.
When my phone didn’t respond to my method of resuscitation — I simply tossed it back in my bag and spent the day pretending that I wasn’t missing in action. It was interesting to settle back into the tendencies of 1997 — as I enjoyed the festivities without the option of plunging into my screen — whenever the slow period rolled around.
I was surrounded by many who were indulging in the habits that keep us from making eye contact in a way that could alter us for the better. Watching the amount of people (young and old) emphatically scrolling through what they were invited to attend was both fascinating and scarily revealing.
I realized how much of myself I saw in them — even though I swore I would never be the person who spends almost all her time checking Moments — instead of engaging with the elements around me.
My hiatus lasted almost two days — and in that time — I began to experience the sensations of what the thought process should actually feel like. I pondered my options with organic porosity that filled me with the familiarity of what presence of mind used to create when being “present” was still a thing.
It was frightening to imagine all the hours I’ve lost being “social” with strangers or bloated with the dismal findings that never seem to stray from the tragedy of being part of the group that has been scheduled for detonation.
You can’t underestimate the smooth and silent poison of erected feeds that feed you all the shit that’s bad for you — and no matter how much your swelling belly aches — you still stuff yourself until you can’t anymore.
And then the frenzy starts all over again — five minutes later.
The random disconnection ended up connecting me back to the person I discarded in favor of mind-numbing streams and the systemized delivery of unfolding tragedies that have officially become America’s favorite past time.
There’s nothing revolutionary about being able to witness the disintegration of mankind — in real time. There’s way more bad than good and the retweets don’t mean a thing — when you’re stuck on the notoriety of threaded words— instead of being alive for the substance that could benefit from your complete attention.
When I went back to the landscape of my discontent — the climate was still as potent as ever — and even though I was grateful for my much-needed time off — a bigger part of me was relieved to be back — especially when my notifications lit up — and I was greeted with proof that I was still verified.
I don’t need the blue badge to comprehend my worth as a user and abuser of my precious sanity. I just need to stay conscious in a world that is trying to knock me out each time I scroll by the recycled items of sexual offenders, noteworthy victims and the lives that have recently been bloodied by a culture that won’t change.
I’m planning on spending more time in an alternate universe, because I can at least control that particular outcome — and since the iPhone is willing to give me that pleasure each time it falters — I will gladly accept the offer.
And the best part is that it won’t cost a thing.