Today in my house I assembled not one, but two handy space saving items. If this kind of thing ever excites me I’ll know my number is up. Note the other organisational tool next to the delightful shoe rack, a cardboard box.
Anyone want to buy a cardboard box? It’s the latest thing!
Technical hitches with a phone that won’t display anything, accompanied by intermittent internet connection, brings it home just how reliant I am on technology. I blog from my phone at times, use it for email, social media, research. A job came to me via twitter, that is a good thing isn’t it? I manage my work online. The screen, that most vital part of the phone, is not covered by the warranty. The phone was still working, (besides the screen of course) when I sent it off, like a defiant teenager sticking two fingers up at me. I could not switch it off, and my parcel started ringing whilst I was in the post office.
I know I had several notes on my phone reminding me of ideas for writing, topics I should explore, an idea for a crime story. Completing a survey once, to find out my ping quotient, I scored so well it’s a wonder I didn’t find social media updates telling me what I was doing before I did it.
Pondering this further I wonder about the negatives, I feel uneasy about requests from strangers on Skype, or things like foursquare which I LOVE but at the same time some people follow just a bit too closely for comfort. Not having my phone means no late night impulse shopping, no falling asleep mid text message or setting off on a long train of thought style research of articles online.
I’m resorting to old fashioned paper in the form of a ring bound notebook, for thoughts, ideas, reminders to myself. I keep forgetting to take it out with me.
The topic of diaries came up today. A friend who I have known since university days started a discussion on Facebook. I was surprised and almost flattered, but nonetheless pleased when she said that I was mentioned in these diaries. It reminded me of my own diaries I kept as a teenager, through difficult times. The world saw one version of me, the real me only ventured out in my own private writing. It was genuinely a tough time, my father died when I was 15 and I subsequently had a lot of responsibilities. I carried on with the diaries until I was at university, perhaps until I had got closer to being the real me in public, actually telling people how I felt, not pretending things were alright if they were not.
The diaries were always the same size, school exercise book size but with a hard cover. Before the advent of pound shops most towns had a ‘bargain shop’ which sold cheap stuff. One of my diaries was Chinese, bound with a red fabric spine and a yellow patterned cover. I spilled some essential oil on it which made some of my writing all blurry. Reading them is somewhat painful, but at the same time I see a strong young woman struggling but somehow coping. I have passed the point now where reading them puts me back in the frame of mind I had when I wrote them.
I don’t keep a diary now, not in the same way, but there are diaries of a sort out there, my Twitter feed, my Facebook. An old blog that hangs around waiting to be loved again. I’ve kept my old diaries used for appointments every year out of habit, I have several little piles of them in the house. Records of how my life has changed and how much I have accomplished.
I thought about looking at my old diaries today but something made me hesitate. Soon I will read them. And I will write some entries from it on here. I think the teenage me would have loved the internet.