I usually write this blog at home, sitting in the living room in front of the telly. This one is being written over several days in various outdoor places. As I write now, my internet connection has been down for 10 days, two hours and 17 minutes. (That’s why there was no blog last week. Sorry!) Since I’ve got out of bed this morning, I have not read an email, or visited a Web page, or downloaded a song, or sent an instant message. I am coming to you live.
It is just me. Just a guy with a disconnected laptop, lounging on a deck chair in Hyde Park, alone. No little windows will pop up with a friend wanting to chat. No emails telling me how to artificially extend my penis. No bad news about the economy and Syria and reality television. An argument could be made that this is as undisturbed an environment as I have seen in years.
And I hate it. I can’t breathe. I am lost. I am a man without identity.
Here under the trees near the Serpentine, I have set up my outdoor space to reflect my online world. I am speaking to no one. I have put on my music, as loud as is acceptable, and tuned out. There are other people around, but I will not speak with them unless absolutely necessary, even the really attractive ones in hotpants — say, if one of them is on fire or about to eat something poisonous. I made a deal a long time ago that my writing self would be different from my real self, and this deal has required me to make some sacrifices. Social skills were the first to go. Talking no longer happens. I spend a lot of time online for reference and research, so when I am writing this blog, or poetry, or a few pages of what I hope will someday be my debut novel, I am no longer David. I am simply my online identity.
When I am writing, I will only communicate online as well. And I write a lot. So there are these people… people with whom I have discussed particularly memorable past sexual experiences and debilitating hangovers and illicit substances, all on Facebook messenger, or via e-mail and text messages, or over MSN and BBM… these people, I’m not even sure I would recognise their voices.
Watch! Watch! Watch as my tentacles spread throughout the country and, lo, the world! Here I am in London — and now I am in Edinburgh! To New York! To Australia! To Mali! I am everywhere at once. Ding! A missive from Italy! Allow me to join you, weary traveller. I would stay longer, but I must go to Spain! There is sun there, but I have not the time. I am everywhere, but not too long, because there is more and more and more. And it all comes with a soundtrack of my own choosing. Do I want the Stones to accompany me on my journey? Vivaldi? Ella Fitzgerald? How about Bob Marley? Wait, I don’t have the new Jay-Z/Kanye album? Click-click-click-woosh… now I do! Where to next? Where to? And on and on! And on!
And it is now gone. The Internet is down. What the fuck is the problem anyway?
Who am I if I am not an MSN handle? If I am not intothenightlife, what is it I have become? My link to the world, where people create and envision and dream and hope, it no longer exists. It is a Microsoft Word file, empty, cursor blinking, taunting me, type, type, here, no one can here you scream, your life is a vacuum.
Back home… I am venturing to the bathroom. On foot. Shit, remember when I used to shower and dress nicely every weekend morning? I am wearing the only clean t-shirt I have left, and I have not shaved since Tuesday. My head has indents in it, in the shape of the headphones, and my face is pallid, empty … but yearning. I must get back. There is no time. I must get back to my laptop. Perhaps the Internet has returned! Perhaps we are back on the road! Perhaps I am me again!
We are not back. The Internet is still down.
BT has sent around an engineer, an IT gentleman. It is his job to fix this problem. He is from Ireland, has curly brown hair, wears an earring in the wrong ear, and stands about five-foot tall in heels. He looks like a particularly butch Premiership midfielder. He is a nice guy, jovial, upbeat, hopeful. I bet he talks to his parents weekly, at least. He likely has a dog who follows behind him, and licks his face in the mornings, and fetches his slippers. He pays his bills on time, loves TalkSport radio, and smiles and says, “’Ello mate!” to the newsagent when he buys his Sun newspaper every morning. He is telling me he cannot help me. Right now I would like to rip his fucking face off with a staple remover, slowly, meticulously snipping at the edges of the cheeks, under the chin, around the ears, fftt fftt fftt at the hairline, nice little clips all around, and then, yes, we’re ready now, YANK, splurt, splash, all that’s left is a skull with some wet flesh and that earring attached. (So sorry… I watched Red Dragon the other night!) I hope his eyes stay in their sockets. I want him to see what he has wrought.
Help me. I’m lost. I am a broken man, a ghost, a shell, a dead desiccated oyster buried under dry sand. A character in search of a play. A camel in search of a desert. A bone in search of a dog. I have been out there for so long, hiding from the rest of you so well, that the shakes are uncontrollable. Perhaps a drink of water. No, no, what if it comes back while I am gone?
I don’t know what to do. Maybe I could look through old screen shots. Yes, yes, my Microsoft Explorer, if I shift to offline mode, has saved some sites I visited a few days ago. Ah! It’s a Google search from Thursday! A preview of last night’s game! (Didn’t quite turn out as predicted.) Oh, look, it’s a story by a friend of mine — by friend, I mean an email address halfway across the world which belongs to a body I have not met — on a spunky little independent Web site. That story was funny. Remember that story? Remember when you read that last week, intothenightlife? Oh, those were the days. Such memories. Such great times.
Ah, but I am hungry, and I must find more sustenance. Regurgitation will not suffice. The big dog must eat. Connecting to server… connecting to server… connecting to server… sweet heavens, can’t I just connect? Help me connect. I need to connect. I am nothing here. I have no leg to stand on.
Help. Help. Yelp. Yellow. Yemer. Yemen. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. A rat in the house may eat the ice cream. Algebra. Trigonometry. The unbearable lightness of being sad I miss the comfort in being sad two’s comfort but THREE’S A CROWD! THREE’S A CROWD!
Wait, wait… wahey, check it out… what’s that… the Internet’s back! The world has opened again! OK… see you later suckers!