It used to be so much easier to write. I didn’t need a separated airplane pushing through the sky or a case of late night insomnia. I used to get buzzed by the words on paper and these were what kept me up past midnight, not the accidental caffeination of blue light and CNN.
For me, I think I’m caught up in seeking tools to help me realize just a moment of efficiency. Even just a glimpse of what a trimmed down task list could look like is enough to keep me googling myself in bed too late. I guess we’ll all just evolve to see between the upheld cellphones in our hands, glimpsing eyelashes and the cuffs of button-up shirts and blouses.
At least most of us still spend enough time away from the endless streams of information to properly slip each button through it’s opposite hole, wondering if it could be either possible to buy smaller shirts or to shorten our torsos. These next fashion statements all dictated by the efficiency of separation from our information.
I don’t want to feel so buzzed, and yet the time spent writing things on paper seems so much more impermanent. Even before my aunt died we had access to her stack of journals. I remember them as tiny brown volumes stacked up on the highest shelf of her boot room. I remember her writing as tiny letters on tiny lines, all neatly spaced, each day following the one before. Even as a child I couldn’t keep a regular schedule with a journal, even then I let myself be chided by the me that couldn’t even take a stab at calling himself a writer. Even then I was more concerned about the to do list than the words I could have been writing.
It was in my aunt’s dusty boot room where the internet was born for me. It came on floppy disks in the mail, some paid alternative to The OregonTrail and Donald Duck’s Playground. Like the steering of a pirate ship, it must have taken me weeks, months, or years to understand the complexity involved in just sharing the space between homes in the darkness of electrical wires. We were children born with pens in our hands, dusty journals in our memory boxes, and computer chips in our coffins.
Some have said that my aunt got cancer from the heater in her waterbed. It’s the water that takes us now, no longer drowning us from the outside but eating us up from the inside. She taught me to garden without knowing it. She gave me my first hot and sunny afternoons digging weeds and pulling up roots, picking berries at dusk. She was to become my muse tonight, once again urging me to pick up a soul’s notification to return once again to the dusty shelves and dirty feet before we all became trapped in the electricity.
Trevor Ellestad is a writer, an herbalist, and an ex-yoga teacher who spends his days creating plant-based magic at Vega. Trevor keeps a tidy home with his partner and their as of yet un-named spider monkey of a kitty cat in Vancouver, BC. At night, Trevor likes to surround himself with plants and obsess over the seemingly simple lives of cats and robots.