Five days into the New Year, whether in caps or lower case, I’m leading off texts and emails with “Happy New Year!” Or, if on my iPhone, the rough draft of my message reads “Hairy New Year!”
My phone gives me the option of pecking at the letters or swiping between letters to form words. I’m a swiper mostly because I thought it was cool technology to vaguely swipe a word and see it appear on the screen. However, this is an imperfect science.
I edit for grammar more on that tiny screen than I do essays on my laptop, where all my fingers know there job and most of my typos are made in words that sound the same but are spelled differently. The “there” in the previous sentence proves my point. It appeared inadvertently in that form. I see now that it should be the possessive “their.”
After I’ve corrected “hairy” to “happy” twenty-five times, this little computer in my hand should learn that I never ever want to say “Hairy New Year!” Apollo went to the moon on a smidgeon of computing power compared to this smart little bundle in my hand; surely, someone can take a stab at improving correction recognition to create a more pleasing user experience.
I have the same issue with “would,” only it’s a bigger annoyance because I use this word so often. I’m not a conversationalist in my texts. The application is one of functionality for me: “World you like me to grab anything from the grocery store?” “World you like to have lunch Thursday?” Would. I want W-O to mean “would.” Not “world.”
While propaganda might make us think that technology aids in communication, in certain instances, these advances feel like an evil backward slide. Without seeing the nod of your head, I know I’m telling you nothing new.
One of the more comical text swipes with my friends happens when I’m confirming what time I’ll be somewhere. “Running late, I’ll be there stoned 5:00.” To which one friend replied, “That would be hilarious—you arriving stoned!” The frequency with which this happens does point out my grammatical problem of word over-usage: I use, or try to use, the word “around” too often. This goof provides comic relief when I tell someone I’ll be arriving stoned. Still—it’s funny until it isn’t.
I don’t normally verbalize New Year’s resolutions to the world, but for me, the New Year is a good time to take stock of life’s logistics. Today, I’m paying special attention to my communication swirling in technology. A few years ago, one of Will’s friends, Miles, helped me hard code my phone. The swipe reader was convinced that his name was “Mike,” not “Miles.” I dreaded typing his name; it immediately led to an edit situation. This was hellish torture. Miles showed me how to force “Miles” upon my entry of M-I. I resolve to research that hack and fix the issue of hairy, stoned world messages.
Technology has blasted off to infinity. Telepathy has not. I can read texts and emails on my phone wherever I am. This fact has led me into a toilet vortex. Really, I don’t need immediate knowledge of most messages; however, I’m of the mind that communicators of the world expect information to be immediately conveyed, chewed upon, and responded to. This assertion is an enigma: Am I putting this on myself or are there true expectations of instantaneous knowledge transference and consequent action assumptions?
Either way, I’m putting more space between me and the outer world. Wait, that’s not true. I’m going old school and setting aside time to communicate, for as I pointed out earlier, my telepathy hasn’t kept up with the advancement of technology. For instance, that reality unfurls when I read an email in my van, say while waiting for my son Liam to finish track practice. I nod in appreciation of the information or formulate a question in response to it or conjure up a personal note in reply. Rarely do I reply to the communication there and then.
I don’t reply for two reasons, both related to swiping. Word recognition issue is part of the problem, but my true hindrance is that I think best and convey words and thoughts most completely on my laptop. The open geography of the letters laid out on a memorized physical slanted grid is where I first learned how to communicate in writing, beginning in Ms. Roths’ high school typing classes. Talking with my fingers started on manual typewriters; I’ve since emigrated to the computer keyboard. However, I have a disconnect between reading an email on the go then remembering to sit down at my computer and reply. Effectively, I have already conveyed my thoughts, yet telepathy hasn’t advanced to the point where the other person realizes that.
Since the era of desktop-only computers evaporated, now I can fold up my laptop and take it or leave it anywhere. In this New Year, I’m setting up a home base for communication on the unused dining room table. I pray that the days of looking for my main communication device within my house are gone. Organizers and minimalists are ardent believers in that everything should have its place. If I buy into this with respect to my laptop, I should save a lot of time wandering and looking for the flat machine that disappears so easily under folded clothes in my bedroom, a pile of bills in the office, the to-do list in the corner of my kitchen. I’m testing the dining room home base.
If this plan works, I will not even consider responding to emails on the go. Rather, I’ll sit down, think, and write.