A kind-hearted Colin Robinson (from the TV show What We Do In The Shadows) asks “why do you see yourself more rooted in the past than you do in the future?”
My wife and I are considering moving to Hawaii. I see a map with a border marking the cutoff, where one island close to the others technically is in the French Frigate Shoals.
Scavenging just down the street in my neighborhood, I come across an inflatable armchair. The dirty mismatched arms have come off. I have to fiddle with them for awhile to get them inflated and finally decide it’s comfy enough to drag back. Perplexingly, I don’t even think I want it — there’s already so much furniture in my apartment.
Down another street in the perpendicular direction there’s an art store with a notable elevator tower in front, which some neighbors have started slurring as the “hatelift”. In some recent incident they were accused of bigotry, but personally I believe it was misrepresented and they were slandered.
I enter a rival small art space/shop on the other side of the street, diagonally opposite from our apartment. It’s a low-ceiling place with white walls and a vaguely Spanish feel. One of the people there is like Ted Danson’s character Michael from The Good Place, but he’s drunk and chaotic. He offers me some delicacy from a fancy hexagonal box, which opens with elaborate unfolding rose wrapping paper inside — though actually plastic, not paper. This is what got him drunk, apparently. Another odd gadget he rakishly offers is a tiny non-functional crossbow with a rounded pin at the draw end, easily workable if the pin were removed.
There’s a plan hatched to trap him into being alone with a young 17 year-old girl in the group (there are ten people in the store now), then accuse him of taking advantage of her. In the end he actually doesn’t; I’m then asked, as the story’s observer, to decide who was indeed the ultimate schemer among the diverse motives of the assembled cast. Like a game of Clue. This is phrased in terms of all of them being artist/magicians, and with the question “which witch was it?”
Well, I’ve already violated one of my rules. I said I was gonna call it an iThing—but now I’ve gone and named the beast.
See, even though it was the unlikeliest gift in the world, even though I specifically asked not to be given one, I’m still somehow feverishly tapping this out thumbprint by thumbprint at this very minute… on an iPhone. Which, of course, gives you some idea of the time involved, but that’s not really my point. My point is this: it’s absolutely bizarre.
There are many things I could write about: my surprise, my well-meaning reticence, my amazed gratitude, my quick and unplanned attachment, or perhaps the many ways it’s already changed my actions, the dissonance of having a status symbol when I’ve not earned its status, or how (in the past) I always’ve had a white one but could only get the 8GB in black so settled for a white case. I think they’re interesting stories, but maybe you had to be there.
The question is one I’ve never asked before. I wanna know, from those of you who still read this neglected yet beloved multi-spectral personal monolith, is it a good idea to write a lot of short stuff? I mean, would that get annoying? It’s obvious to me now that there exists the technology to blog about what you eat for every meal, every day, for the rest of your life. But maybe I could blog glot from the woods, or during a parade, or maybe in bed next to my exhausted girlfriend while on a mind-bogglingly extended multi-family Christmas? It’s just a pattern I’d like to pursue, and knowing me it’s possible that brevity could (at some point) be abandoned. I just want opinions. It’s the age-old question, really: to blog, or not to blog?
Oops I meant glot.