I have been hanging out in an 80-yr-old home on a decent plot of land backing up against a golf course. The place resembles a barn and is very minimal. Hardwood floors, low ceilings, 2nd-story decks, and some leftover hotel carpeting. There is a fireplace upstairs and musical equipment/record player downstairs. There is no TV, radio, and until recently there was no Internet (or heat!). The feeling of a home disconnected from the grid is hard to describe. Things slow down. Conversations become entertainment. Quiet. Quiet.
I don't know why I allow myself to indulge in what I know to be destructive. Maybe it is because I am a tinge nihilistic and don't care if I die an early death or pack on a few extra pounds. Or maybe it is because I can't slow down to connect with what I'm doing on an hourly, daily, lifelong basis. I think I've lost touch with ideals, not reality. Idealty. I don't daydream, or fantasize, or even aspire to much these days. When I was 16 I'd play out conversations in my mind that I would someday have with the boy of my dreams. It kept me conscious. Now I just go with the present moment. Zen? But it's not soothing. Life is outpacing me. How can I make a decision and follow it unless I know where I'm going--or at least where I'd ideally go.
Sitting quietly beside a fire, or when the cable goes out in your house and you decide now's a chance to pick up your guitar--I think that's how we'll survive technology.
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