oh, laptop, how I love thee. when my body is exhausted, joints sore with insomnia, susceptible to chill, sneezing and blowing, but the racket in my brain sprung in small hours won’t kindly shut up, I can lie most pleasantly abed, muffled in flannel, propped by pillows, and give vent to the odd bits I can’t seem to slough. like projects in compulsive collection. like interstellar transcriptions. ibook, my trusty buddy, so shiny and white, so portable and flexible, so handy with usb and firewire ports for flash drives and dv recorder downloads. the best debt ever. debt being something I have a degree of expertise in.
looking in and looking out
Perhaps it’s a geek thing to have both a desktop and a laptop, but there are times for both. The laptop in its essence is some much more personal. It is the writer’s notebook. It’s a place to jot and hold forth and sway and convince. The laptop has replaced the spiral-bound notebook in my bag of tricks. To have a laptop is to say that computing can be a personal experience. It is to say that it actually isn’t about computing; it’s about the ideas I want to get down and capture this snapshot of my head on this day at this hour.