My tablet-keyboard combination inspires a number of reactions. Some have never witnessed the kind of setup. I’m guessing it’s the BT keyboard that draws most attention, especially a decrepit one such as mine.
For one, the setup often gives the impression that I’m engaged in productive work. Or that I’m always writing, per those that know that I write a lot. I’ve once been criticised for writing 24 hours a day, a hyperbole which stemmed from the image of me often on my tablet (though far less than one carries a smartphone on their person).
As it stands, I feel fortunate to produce even two hours of sloppy writing on any given day. Otherwise, the device can involve anything from content management, research, world navigation, email, document synchronization, financial transactions, self-facing camera for shaving, or a dozen routine affairs I initiate to self-induce the idea of productivity (which I assume stems from being productive, or to produce) and provide myself with an excuse to drink coffee in dangerous quantities. The tablet is my only real computing (and internet connected) device after all, yet the mere sight of that keyboard triggers all sorts of wild assertions.
On numerous occasions I’ve had not only kids but older beings (including momipherous animals) approach and gaze with awe over my shoulder at the clear text over a black terminal, akin to an eclectic art exposition. Slightly invasive.
On that note, I still occasionally struggle to reduce the pomp around possession and intimacy. Like that peeking at my tablet workflow. Or the audacity to peruse the notes in my index card stack (also a subject of widespread curiosity), which I consider almost as violating as reading my journal. Where’s the grace?
Then again, I even scorn over the inspection of my food plate, nor particularly care for any commentary to the regard, however innocent. And to share plate contents: nearly as intimate as sexual intercourse. Remnants of suburban pomp, like I said. Nonetheless …
Strangely, I’ve never felt shy or squeamish at sharing a Yerba Mate, same bombilla, can be a near stranger as far as I’m concerned, pandemic or whatnot. Try reconciling that. My Yerba supply, however, is growing scarce. Resorted to a tiny (coffee) cup serving this last preparation. Three-four sips and voilá. Next serving.
But to me the stranger phenomenon is the combination of Açaí with fish. Not the sweetened Açaí most of the country consumes as dessert, but the raw Açaí cultivated here in the state of Pará (the proud capital region of Açaí) or the neighbouring Amapá, consumed as an entremets or independently. Three years back in Belém, I found a portion plain intractable, all that experience with the processed variety in the South. Now I’ve grown quiet fond of the concoction. To eat it with fish is a common dish hereabouts. My initial impression was that of incredibility. Then I tried it and loved it. Tons of Açaí, tons of fish. Blended well in the stomach. No awkward aftermath. They even produce coffee with Açaí here. But this is where my curiosity knows limits. One shouldn’t be too curious. No, scratch that. One should absolutely exercise pragmatic curiosity. For personal development anyway. But pedantic curiosity often drains energy. At least my own. It sometimes kills. Ie, Germanic folklore. Gastronomical curiosity nonexempt.
Stranger yet is the dish consisting of larva wrapped in Tapioca. But that too reconciles.
Questions, comments? Connect.