Letters @ 3AM

Not 2 years old, and it's obsolete. Well, not quite obsolete, but definitely dated. When purchased it was a fairly high-end machine, this HP Pavilion zv524us notebook PC (that's what it calls itself on the sticker). It came with wireless, a high-definition wide-screen, a Pentium 4 processor running Windows XP, and exceptional speakers. It was so much better than the laptop it replaced that I named it, in my retro fashion, the Cadillac. I felt a little embarrassed for it, in a way, because my work is so comparatively simple; all I do with this machine is write, engage in e-missives, research on the Net, mix an occasional CD, view an occasional DVD. According to the manual (most of which I don't understand), the Cadillac can do much more, but I'm impressed enough with how it connects me with friends in China, Africa, South America, Europe, Thailand, and all across North America, even when I'm in a tiny hotel room in a vast desert – and it does so while playing selections from the roughly 20 hours of music I've stored in its memory. Like everybody else, I've come to take its marvels for granted. I've even come to take for granted that, roughly every two years, I've got to spend another $1,500-to-$2,000 on a new model. (I could get something cheaper, but I've been spoiled.) Can't live without it. (Live without e-mail? No!) Can't imagine how we ever did. (Oh, yes – spoiled.)

Given its quirks and mysteries, it almost feels wrong to call this thing a machine because it demonstrates behavior. Or something behaviorlike. Occasionally, the Cadillac catches a virus, like me. Occasionally, the column I'm writing disappears under my fingers. Poof! Gone. I've become obsessive about hitting "Save" every few sentences, since the Cadillac may go weeks or months without erasing me and then erase me several times in a night because – it's in a bad mood? When it breaks or fails, I don't know why. When an explanation is supplied, I rarely understand. But I've become so dependent upon it, for so much, that I've had to buy a cheaper backup just in case the Cadillac conks on deadline night – or any night, really, because I write every night. It's unsettling for a more or less go-it-alone person like myself to form a dependency on something I so little understand.

But dependency is endemic to these machines. Stepping back, looking at the Cadillac almost as a kind of life-form, its distinctive quality – fundamental to its function – is inter-dependency. Its strength is its weakness. For this dingus is one needy, dependent critter. (It just erased me again! Cross-my-heart-and-spit, it really did. Lost three sentences. Doesn't like me talking about it this way?!)

It's dependent, first and foremost, on a power source. If the power grid goes down, the battery is good for about 80 minutes. When the battery goes, the dingus is dormant. Useless. Leaving me cut off, my work life totally disrupted.

In addition, this dingus is dependent upon space satellites. Dependent upon a network of "servers" understood only by the cognoscenti. Dependent upon systems owned and run by people whose names few know and whom no one votes for. Those who control these systems control our access to, well, just about everything. At present, their control is more or less benign – as far as we know. Oh, cookies are planted in our dinguses at a rate that would be alarming if we hadn't come to take that, too, for granted. Our every missive, transaction, Web search, and keystroke can be recorded somewhere, and much of it is, mostly for commercial purposes. But actually – paranoia aside, and simply looking at the facts – we have no idea who's recording what we do on this dingus, or for what reason. We have no idea how our e-mails are routed. It would be child's play to route a copy of every e-mail in the country to the NSA; we'd have no way of knowing. The dingus has made us accessible as no invention ever has.

Personally, I don't care. Read my mail, keep track of my searches and purchases, log a keystroke record of my dreams file, knock yourself out. Given the state of my bank account, no one wants to steal my identity – and anyway no one can. I don't confuse my finances with my identity. I am my identity. No one can steal that. My privacy is a matter of my soul; perhaps if you put me through the ordeals of Winston Smith in Nineteen Eighty-Four, you could invade my soul, but you can't invade it electronically. (Not yet, anyway.) Vulnerability is one thing; accessibility is another. We determine our vulnerability, but the dingus has certainly increased, vastly, our availability. We can be, as the modern usage has it, "accessed." We've become dependent on the dingus, and the dingus is dependent on Lord knows what all. And we've paid for the privilege. The tag on the dingus measures the price thus far – but we may pay more.

It is a pattern of history that what a society can do it usually, sooner or later, will do. Or will try. Computer technology enables the powers-that-be to keep a record (somewhere) of everything it is possible to record about Jane and John Commonfolk. We're getting used to that. People pay handsomely for automobiles that supply electronic maps for wherever they may be, and they don't seem to mind that this means some dingus, somewhere, is recording everywhere they go, every minute they're in the vehicle. Your telephone can take photographs, send text, and hook up to the Web – but as long as you carry it, someone somewhere (unknown to you) can know where you are, what you're saying, even what you're doing. And anyone can Google a satellite photo of your address; Big Brother may not be watching, but Google is. Our machines have become a two-way exchange. We cannot use them without giving others our information, which gives others power. When you give others power, they use it, then misuse it. That, too, is a constant of history.

It is now technologically possible to cut off "undesirable" individuals from the web of commerce, communication, and information. With the flick of a switch or the push of a button, one can become an un-person, cut off, with your records erased from public access. And you won't know who flicked or switched what or where. Newspapers have become so dependent on computers that a troublesome rag could be shut down easily and instantly without a peep. No invasive action. Just some switches and buttons. To think that somewhere this will not be attempted is to dwell in a state of historical naivete.

That's all right. It's pleasant to be naive. This technology will be systemically employed against personal freedom or not. If it is, we won't wake up until it's too late. That, too, is a consistent pattern of history.

I have in my possession another machine, oblivious to obsolescence. It is in perfect working order, though more than half a century old – dating from circa 1950, when some things were still built to last. It's a Smith-Corona portable typewriter. It does nothing but type. Cared for, it can easily last another half-century. Limited, yes, it's limited. It connects to nothing but myself. Its frame is cast iron. Nothing electrical or electronic. Its keystrokes cannot be monitored. Though occasionally in need of oiling, it never crashes. No page goes poof. Limited, yes, but independent. If the grid goes down, light a candle and keep typing. You must physically steal its pages – can't steal 'em by a switch or a button. It doesn't speak to China. It can't research the bibliography of Willa Cather or the discography of Bix Beiderbecke. But it's private. Free. And ready to the touch. Compared to my electronic dingus, it's slow. But it's sure. And it makes a pleasant clacking. It ain't fancy. But it ain't dependent. And it ain't naive. It has a dignity my dingus lacks. A dignity we'd best not surrender.

The value the computer stands for – in its function – is interdependence. A vital value. The typewriter stands for the equally essential value of independence. True liberty consists of fair play between those seemingly opposite values.

The computer is many-leveled, a capacity that enlarges the scope of our sensitivities. The typewriter exists only for writing – it's single-focused, and good work requires that capacity. And, well ... there's something steadfast about a typewriter. My Smith-Corona belonged to a generous, tough, and wise gentleman, the late Howard "Goldie" Thompson. On its casement, Goldie taped a now-yellowed rectangle of newsprint, written by I know not whom, which expresses what I think of as the morality of the typewriter – its purpose and code: "Can the writing art be taught? The art comprises but two elements. The first is to have something to say that is worth saying. The second is to say that something well."