(Photo by Moritz Petersen)

“Where Are You?”

by Britt Julious

It is the weight that kills me. The wait too. The cell phone, regardless of how technologically-advanced it becomes, remains a reminder of things not done: phone calls, messages. There is a missing awareness of space and need. Simple requests become tests of patience. The cell phone – with its rectangular shape, its heft – is a black mirror of time.

In his latest essay for the New York Times, Jonathan Safran Foer examined the ways in which technology has incubated intimacy while reinforcing aloneness. “I worry that the closer the world gets to our fingertips, the further it gets from our hearts,” he wrote. “It’s not an either/or — being “anti-technology” is perhaps the only thing more foolish than being unquestioningly “pro-technology” — but a question of balance that our lives hang upon.”

I crave aloneness more than most. A friend asked how I had the time to write while working all day (and seemingly playing all night). The reality is that I am more with just myself than anyone else. Aloneness breeds ideas and curiosity. It is also a time of decompression. The mind breaks down the confusions of the everyday when uncluttered with the presence of others.

But aloneness is not everything. It can not be. There is a reason why we find ways – even online – to connect in person. Eye contact is underrated.

I am thinking about my desire to see those I love and admire in person and how technology impedes that desire. There is something quietly devastating in waiting. We have not lost patience. We have lost our ability to speak directly, to address things concretely and with speed. Speaking makes us vulnerable. It requires us to be open and honest, more honest than the written word, a practice in control.

I would rather know if a friend is busy or tired or not interested in spending time together as soon as possible. Foer wrote, “The problem with accepting — with preferring — diminished substitutes is that over time, we, too, become diminished substitutes. People who become used to saying little become used to feeling little.”

Without the face-to-face or voice-to-voice, we can ignore human interactions that might be anything other than pleasant. The easiest way to avoid pain is to text. The easiest way to feel pain is by text. A text message is short and pointed. The words must mean more for one to say so little.

But I too have lost a sense of self in the fray. A text is easier than a call. It is quick. Feelings can be stifled. A tone of voice says, “This is how I feel.” Words are up for interpretation.

“How do you really feel … about this? About us?”

I cannot remember the last time when I was so blunt. “These inventions were not created to be improvements upon face-to-face communication, but a declension of acceptable, if diminished, substitutes for it.” But the longer one uses them, the easier it is to fall into new habits of disconnectedness from the world around us. I try to pull away from my inability to be human, but is that even possible anymore, for someone so ingrained in my little black box of information?

The reality of friendship in your twenties is that what you once knew is no longer as secure as it might have seemed. I knew these things would slip away, but in the moment it was a pain I never grasped.

My mother asked, “Why don’t you share how you feel?”

“I don’t know if I should,” I said. “I don’t know if I can.”

Follow Britt on WBEZ and twitter @britticisms.

Are you ready for Derecho? Be careful out there, Chicago.

kartemquin:

Aged just 14, Roger Ebert was already a critic. Read his 1957 letter to “Amazing Stories.”

Amazing find by Ian Schoenherr!

Film: Life Itself

Chicago’s municipal device is the coolest city symbol you’ve never heard of- and it’s hiding in plain sight.

wbezdata:

Perusing Chicago Public Library data: Rogers Park ranks high among bookworms, Great Gatsby flies off shelf and eBook checkouts on the rise http://wbez.is/17FiJGF

nerdettepodcast:

Autopsies! Mormons! Time Travel! We asked for your nerdy summer camp stories and you didn’t disappoint. Hear three camp stories about what it’s like to grow up, go back in time and get your hands dirty. Plus an angst-laden list of how Game of Thrones is giving our intern Claire an anxiety disorder [spoiler alert].

Listen here or subscribe on iTunes.

(Note from Shannon about the photo: You can’t quite tell but my t-shirt is designed to look like a dragon, because that was the theme for our cabin at Mormon girls’ camp that year. Dragons.)

The New Yorker’s map of craft beer’s growth across the country reveals that Illinois is lagging behind many other states.

gapers:

chicagogeek:

“Like to live in a 60th story apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, park your car 18 stories high, ride an elevator to your boat? Then move into - Marina City.”

April 1963 issue of the magazine Popular Science with a cutaway diagram of Marina City by illustrator Ray Pioch.

Wow, cool!

(Flickr/life_is_good_pete)

“Booking It”

by Britt Julious

I am a collector. What I want is knowledge, the power to hold in my hand ideas not my own, ideas that are too great for any one person, ideas that startle and surprise. 

I used to move from apartment to apartment, feeling dissatisfied from year to year. There was always something that could be better, that should have met my wants. But I’ve lived in my current home for two years, the desire to go someplace else a dull ache of curiosity rather than a frantic urge. What I remember too is not just the pleasure of someplace new, but also the getting there. After the first few moves, my father said he was too old, too weak to assist in the moving process. But really, there were too many books. We rolled a dining room table up three flight of stairs. Boxes and boxes of books were another matter. 

My largest collection is of books, large and small, anthologies and novels. They are never organized. What I told myself was that each new move was a chance to start new, to refresh and organize. All of my books would be in their rightful place, organized by author or genre or seasonal purpose. But a desire to change and reality are two different things. And a part of me realizes that now, what I love most is the act of rediscovery. A messy bookshelf is a chance to hunt for that great little novella that got you through the early months of college. Somewhere deep is the first bell hooks you read. Hidden between two so-so works is the book of poetry you kept beaten and torn in the bottom of your messenger bag. Along the way, you will find the other things you’ve loved and lost in the recesses of your mind. Somewhere too are back issues of foreign magazines and shoddy, quirky zines. But my books are my glory, a reminder of what I now know. They are tangible, sturdy, encompassing a realness I’ve yet to find through reading through a screen. A lack of great knowledge does not upset me. I am more interested in what could become of the mind. I am more interested in knowing that there is always more to know. 

Every year, my mother and I attend the Printer’s Row Lit Fest. Both of my parents are eager readers, but it was through her that I found reading as an activity of pleasure. The Printers Row Fest then is a chance for us to indulge in public, with other like-minded individuals. There are a lot of head nods of community. 

We sat in the middle of Lula Cafe over a late breakfast today. The weather outside was pleasant, neither hot nor cold. It felt like the sort of spring that Chicago no longer gets. It felt like the sort of spring I will tell younger generations about when they ask about the Chicago of before. “We’re going to the fest again, right?” she asked while sipping a hot cup of English breakfast tea. “Of course! Of course!” I said. Why break with what is right and true?