One problem with using Purple Air to check his town’s air quality is that each time he checked, he ended up singing “Purple Rain” by Prince, but substituting ‘air’ for ‘rain’.
The Writing Moment
The moment was here: time to write. There was so much to do with storylines, plot points, and character development, his thoughts were like a clowder of kittens chasing one another and wrestling while also playing with a litter of puppies. Organization was required. Discipline. Focus. Direction. Yes, yes, yes. And, yes.
But first, more coffee.
Sat-er-day’s Wandering Thought
He wondered if it was ‘just him’. He didn’t really become annoyed, but it was a minor irritation when another person insisted that he make a call on the household’s behalf and then hovered nearby, eavesdropping, inserting themselves into the conversation by throwing out comments even though they have no idea what’s being said on the other end, throwing the conversation’s rhythm off. If they wanted to talk, why’d they give him the phone and asked him to call?
Yes, it was probably just him who found this rude and intrusive. It often was ‘just him’.
Wednesday’s Wandering Thought
His first brush with his daily coffee was through the nose – smelling the ground roasted beans as they went into the filter, and then sucking in deep breaths of the cup after it was poured, a scent that pleasured the senses.
It’s Alive
Three AM?
An insistence buzzing breaks my sleepwall. As consciousness is dragged forward, so comes awareness that this noise is arriving from the Fitbit on my wrist. Yes, I’m one of those who sleep with a bit on my wrist. Use it to wake up, check time, a quick splash of illumination when necessary, and such matters. But why at whatever broiling dark thirty hour was it going off?
Don’t know. Checked the digitalware and found it cycling through its functions. Perhaps it’d gone crazy from heat or being with me. It’s a Charge 2, an old device that’s not even supported any longer. I’ve worn the bugger for years, going through fasteners and bands.
A smart person would have plucked that sucker off their wrist and gone back to sleep. But I ignored it, leaving it on my wrist, as it came up and buzzed every three seconds, announcing, “Notification” like it was telling me nukes were inbound or fire was consuming the house. Eventually, no surprise, all those notifications sucked the life right out of it. It was totally dead when Tucker awoke me for Sixes, his affectionate term for a six AM feeding. He was meowing, “Get up, get up, time for sixes.” I put the FB on a charger. My wife started her day shortly later. I told her about the Fitbit and asked her to wake me when she left for her exercise class because I was going back to bed.
“It’s probably dead,” she said. “You probably need a new one. It is old.” Then she promised to wake me.
The final exchange left me wondering about electronic lifespans among devices and their ratio compared to human years. It probably varies to some degree between, say, microwave ovens and iPhones. I decided, without real reason except how often and quickly our tech marvels expire, that one human year equals ten digital years. Your ten-year-old electronic device is 100 in digital years. JMO.
When I checked on the Fitbit an hour later, it was fully charged and alive. My dashboard showed no data lost except for about two dark hours.
All’s well, then, though, looking at it, I could use a new band. This one looks fifty years old. Makes sense. I bought it four years ago.
Michael Seidel, writer 