I don’t welcome hand-held computers where they don’t blend well with my polished, romanticised, yet unwaveringly upheld conception. To see or even smell one around the eating table shared by multiple persons either irritates me or frustrates my effort to sustain legitimate table rapport which I hold as something ineffable when realized …
Should the rapport be severed by an attention divide these days almost universally owing to the hand-held computer, I may not evince the remotest concern in the majority of cases - for although spent over a half of my life under a more traditional, more tractable, friendlier table dynamic (insofar as my recollection paints, supplemented by the high-table-coefficient TV shows as Seinfeld), I’ve became initiated to the disturbing phenomenon way back when it more frequently manifested as a plain button phone SMS - but my mind will inconspicuously ruminate the question why am I here?
Not that I’ve not faced other adverse eating table dynamics not entirely polluted by the hand-held computer; not that I’ve myself not succumbed to attend to some phone matter behind a table or at a gathering less than opportune, though so relatively infrequently if that same hardly reliable recollection doesn’t entirely betray.
(I even carry this or other model of an ancient Casio watch, each with a broken or an altogether severed band - the band somewhat pricier to replace than it used to, this attained the status of a relic, though strongly compelled to pay out, preferring the object on a wrist than pocket like an even more antique chain based counterpart - to eliminate the urge to summon a device more intricate for no better reason than the wretched time.)
A Brazilian friend of mine would incessantly practice drawing behind the table as we gather to eat - not improvised haphazard drawing on some old receipt paper with a random ballpoint pen as I might be compelled were I any better groomed or motivated for the craft - but on specialized canvas and pencil always at a reach within a bag, with all the ceremonies I might expect of a sketch artist: all awe and respect inspiring as I’m not accustomed to such dedication, but still at a sacrifice to the table rapport.
I myself sport a many-years-long obsessive compulsive habit of carrying a sort of paper parchment (whose variation has varied across mood and occasion) for idea gathering or draft composition, the contraption hardly alien to the eating table as I lay one down in the vicinity of the plate for a dual role: one, to secure my psyche against the inevitable table rapport violators in a way that at least feels more traditional and organic (like the sketch practice); and two, in that (obsessive compulsive) agenda of not letting anything slip nor risk forgetfulness or dislocation. For unless I’m legitimately communicating (in which case I’ll not so much as bulge towards that motley of scribbles likely to be eradicated from sight) - an ideal I’ll never abandon however much dwindled the expectations - my mind, when not engaged in healthy table rapport or occupied with this draft or idea documentation pursuit aforementioned, pretends to think in abstract ways.
As a sort of postscript, the malicious side of me has always toyed with the notion of straight out abandonment - abandonment of the table irredeemably consumed by hand held computers, towards the pursuit of finding a more suitable company when possible or even feasible: subject to the environment, whether an upper scale restaurant or pub, a hotchpotch eatery or a breakfast buffet at some auberge. In desperation I’ve even carried this out on a small batch of occasions, more relieved than anything, but never entirely without sour considerations in the aftermath. To any kindred dealing with similar allergies to inopportune table technologies (and by the way, I likewise hold barcode menus in scorn), I’d say handle with care.
Questions, comments? Connect.