Last night, I was driving slowly through a parking lot, waiting for pedestrians to cross. A child was holding the hand of a parent, and in the darkness I could see that they had a glowing screen under their other arm. Perhaps that’s just the same as carrying a storybook. Perhaps not.
When I was younger, I couldn’t wait for the future to be here. Now that I’m here, I’m discontented at how artificial and simulated everything is. Staring at glass screens every waking moment wasn’t my intention. I long for the earthy rootedness of my childhood, which was one of blazing trails with my bike in empty undeveloped fields. Instead of an intimate knowledge of cyberspace and knowledge of what click-bait ads to avoid, I had firsthand knowledge of the landscape around my neighborhood. I knew where to find crawdads, dirt mounds from constructions projects to ride my bike on, and which neighbor’s yards I could trespass.
Which isn’t to say that my childhood was entirely Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. There was a ton of simulation in front of the television. But if it wasn’t Star Trek, Night Gallery, The Twilight Zone, or monster movies on an UHF station, I don’t recall being that interested. My father was horrified and embarrassed at my lack of interest in sports, or anything else a normal kid was into, and couldn’t understand why I wanted to read so much. I was checked out on a kind of vicarious experience.
I wonder what kind of person I would have evolved into with all the answers given, but without any reflection. I see myself turning into a relic from another era as I experience the present, and I’m no longer excited, but disturbed.
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