Sunday
September 25th
6:37 p.m.
Technology is moving along so fast it's tiptoeing into the realm of divination.
Once, when you took a photograph, you had to wait a week to see it. By the time most of us took the film in, we couldn't remember what was on the roll. Rediscovery. The receiving of the developed pictures took us back to show us our past. Oh look dear, remember when we went to the zoo? This picture came out well. Oops, should of used the flash there. Oh well.
Flash forward. Now we have instant gratification. You can preview your photo the second after you took it. In fact, the handy-dandy built in display shows you pretty much what your photo will look like before you take it, complete with auto-focus.
Divination.
Take Caller-ID. There is an interesting technology. I haven't actually spoken to a telemarketer in a month. Sure, they call. They call at least 10 times a day but I don't pick up the receiver anymore. I listen by the answering machine sometimes. Gone is that instant of not knowing who is reaching out to you. Hello? No wondering. Not anymore. If it's my dad on the line, it will say so. I have a moment to register before I touch the handset.
You notice when you call people. It's not the cautious, standard hello anymore. It's the custom-built hello that is intoned just for you. It used to be I'd phrase my greeting in that old generic manner anyway. It caused less confusion on the other end. Seemed more polite. These days, though, everyone has it or at least expects it. No hello. "Hey, Dad."
You have a moment of preparation now. Oh, it's my folks. Cool. I wanted to talk to them about x...y...z. There isn't that moment of uncertainty when you pick up the line. You've settled into your conversational mode before the conversation has begun.
Divination.
It can fool you though. It can throw you for a loop when you see a name that implies good tidings on that clairvoyant little digital screen and you answer and it's not such good news. It's Dad telling you to sit down. You shoot a disbelieving look at the little screen that betrayed you but it doesn't have anything to say for itself. It stands in defiance or culpability or insentience. It doesn't apologize for itself. Maybe it knew that your uncle was in the hospital and wasn't going to come out. Maybe it didn't. It hangs dark and silent on the wall.
You hang up and relate the news. "How do you feel?" he asks.
Questioning eyes look for the cracks in the levee, the break in the dam. How do you feel? Is this shock? Five hundred miles away in your world of routine and restart buttons, this information doesn't compute.
Sinking. Cold. There is a rock in your stomach. I don't know.
"I don't know."
Betrayed. You feel betrayed by the little screen on the wall that, like MacBeth's witches, gave you most of the future but withheld the little bit you needed.
It's just a phone.
Just a photo.
Just a moment.
A recorded moment.
A glance in time.