Shove This Up Your Cloud

It feels like I’m living through an ongoing technological revolution. While others yell “Viva la revolution” I’m thinking “Vive la résistance.”

I have a unique relationship with technology – none. I change my Apple sign in daily. It’s not even ‘a’ thing anymore; it’s a ‘we’ thing. Anything electronic resists me so intensely there’s a team behind me so that I can operate at status quo.

No other generation of women has had to adapt to as much technology as ours. It’s not only phones and computers. It’s appliances, both big and small, jewellery, cars, homes, yoga mats, and apps for absolutely everything. These technological advances are fine, provided common sense, and good intentions are guiding its passage into the world, but I have my doubts. Mining for content seems to be the Holy Grail.

Moreover, I miss my Olivetti. Sure it’s not a smartphone which is a million times faster and more capable than what NASA employed in their 1960’s computers and calculators, but it felt honest to me. Reflecting thoughts that were imperfect and sincere.

Computers are a second language for kids today, but not necessarily for everyone our age. I have friends who resist texting, who don’t want to email and who long for the phone. Then there are those who have become incredibly proficient. Often they have kids living abroad. Technology allows them to stay connected, not missing a beat in any of their lives. For me, it feels like a tapestry of frustration woven together in a language that even Rosetta Stone hasn’t yet translated. All I can manage are the cyber equivalent of where is the ladies room or order a cocktail.

I know I’m not wired like the regular person. It has to do with the energetic frequency we all carry. A magnetic field filled with electrically charged particles in our tissues and cells surrounds each of us. There’s research to back this up. For me, that translates into being the equivalent of an electrically charged tsunami. Our magnetic field can upset our exchange with digital devices depending on how high our frequency is. Simply put, I wreck havoc and destruction with any electrical equipment that crosses my path.

Despite being a competent, smart woman, that dreaded beach ball surfaces on my Apple computer every opportunity it gets. In 1984, I thought it was a good thing, like Vegas. I believed it meant I was surfing this baby like a pro and it couldn’t keep up with me. Not the case. All these years later and the beach ball still appears with regularity on my screen. I’ve gone through so many computers that Apple owes me a loyalty card. Buy six; the seventh is free. Any digital device in my hand and I will show you virtual magic – a distorted void that would make David Copperfield jealous. And what’s up with the cloud.  A symbol of imminent trouble.  If I can’t find it on my desktop how is it suppose to show up in the cloud?

When things go wrong, and they frequently do, I go online to Apple and descend into the annoying labyrinth of questions to reach the Genius Bar. Why do they call it a bar anyway? It’s void of tequila at a time you most need it. The only part that resembles a bar is the cross section of humanity sitting there panicked, desperate and disappointed.

Is it a hardware or software issue? Is it your browser or your operating system? If I knew conclusively, I’d be the genius. Put a button already on the landing page for those of us that need to reach the Genius Bar ASAP in the same way you dial 911 to access emergency medical attention.  It’s the same thing, except you’re reviving a digital device. Why can’t you click ‘Help’ and go straight to the Genius Bar to book an appointment? Every other useless icon is there, except for the one that speaks to digital paramedics.

With an appointment booked, I enter the bright white digital temple and take a seat. A young kid approaches me. He looks like he develops sophisticated and brilliant apps but has difficulty dressing. His belt is on backwards, and his shirt is buttoned incorrectly with an opening hanging out underneath his Genius t-shirt. He is my genius today and the link to this digital abyss. He speaks computer language, rambling an array of possibilities while using linguistics that might as well be Mandarin to me. He’s not showing off; this is his lingo. I suddenly feel like I’m in a Gary Larson cartoon where a man is speaking to his dog and all the dog hears is “blah, blah, blah.” I’m the dog.

Every time I bring something into Apple’s so-called ‘Genius Bar’ they are as perplexed as I am. I can’t count all the times I have heard “I’ve never seen this before.” Well dude, neither have I. At one time it was a digital notation that surfaced that read, ‘operating in 1969.’ That was 14 years before Apple was invented. Another time, my packed desktop turned into a painting where the cursor gently moved around the screen, deleting and unveiling reams of information in a variety of shapes while revealing a slew of piled documents underneath. Salvador Dali would have been proud. Dumbfounded, I didn’t think to capture it on my iPhone because I don’t typically photograph my life, I experience it.

It’s not just with computers. Television remotes, appliances, you name it. If it’s electrical, we’re not friends. There is a polarity that transpires that I cannot explain. I don’t even hug my kids until the spring especially if I’m wearing wool knowing well that I house a severe electrical charge that can seriously injure another person.

I have a voice in my car, and yet we haven’t spoken since I bought the vehicle five years ago. No matter what I ask, she delivers an arbitrary reply. It’s an expensive joke. Siri is useless and has an attitude when it comes to calling up anyone in my contacts, Having friends who come from all over the world whose names are unique, has created a database that is too complicated for her. It’s like we’ve mutually agreed to take a pass on each other.  She’s not like those 6 o’clock anchorwomen who spews off that one word with perfect pronunciation and international flair like “Barthelona.” Instead, she’s Robert De Niro asking “Are you talking to me?”

Then, there’s Alexa. She scares the shit out of me. She was a gift this past Christmas, and I don’t trust her. I’ll use her to play music, but outside of that, she sits unplugged in a ramekin dish tucked away in my kitchen cupboard. Even unplugged I’m suspicious of her as she reveals a portion of herself through the glass cupboard door.  Rattled with what she asked me and how well she worked, she reminded me of a nosey aunt who knew crap about me that I didn’t even know. Like the aunt, Alexa needed to be shut down.

Our sisterhood had to travel literally from elegant cursive to cyber boards. If you stop for a moment and take that in, it’s remarkable. Our cool factor increased, so there’s a plus. But while I’m up for learning anything new, when issues arrive, I don’t have the logistical frame of reference to navigate my way. It’s alien to me. So I do my best to move forward, juggling spinning beach balls, attempting to explain issues that I struggle to articulate.

Though I’m a competent modern woman, I will cry like a baby if any of my devices fail me. Having a family who drives their digital devices like Lamborghini’s on the autobahn, I’m feeling like I’m on a refurbished Vespa barely keeping up in the distance of their rearview mirrors. I have to continue this journey unless I wish to move to some remote place in the woods and cut myself off and that’s not going to happen. I’ve been indoctrinated into this tech world and have become a cog in the same system I want to resist. It’s kinda’ scary.

Move over Alexa; you’ve become an aspect of me.