These small and personal machines

Date: 9 Nov 2020

Just how close to us are these small machines we carry around with us?

I've used the same iPhone since 2016. It was slow and creaky, the case and the screen protector very much battered and timeworn, and not even in a particularly attractive manner.[1] And yet it was still usable, and I was in turn slow to consider replacing it. It was only when the wifi started failing that I finally, recently, bought a replacement. I've been told more than once that waiting such a long time before upgrading was basically unheard of.

Why was it so hard for me to replace it? There were a bunch of reasons, and some of them were even good ones; after all, we rarely do things just for one reason. A new phone was not necessary as long as the old one was still fairly usable. It would have been expensive. It would have drawn unwanted attention during the year I spent traveling, and it would have been disappointing to lose or damage it along the way. All of these were true.

And yet, of all the tools in my life -- spectacles, clothes, watches, computers -- it was my phone that was closest to my life. It was the device with which I woke up, it was the device I used last before going to sleep, it was the device that I kept my externalised memory on (in the form of notes, or photos, or screenshots, or messages) and that I used to coordinate my social and professional life.[2] All of this was so natural that I only realised the extent of it when there was a disturbance, i.e. in the intervals where I could not use it because problems happened, and at last, when I finally replaced it and had to migrate things to the new device.

I think this was the real cause of it.

We're a tool-using species. The earliest known tools that were made and used by humans or pre-humans are stone axes, and they date back anywhere between 1.6 to 2.6 million years ago. Our evolutionary path depends on fire and related technologies: our jaws became weaker because we could rely on cooking to soften food, and our brains were only able to grow larger because cooking made more calories available for us. In literature and popular media we often think of cyborgs as humans who have had body parts replaced with technology (*Deus Ex* or perhaps *XCOM* style) but it makes more sense to me to say we're all cyborgs in that we all rely on tools and technologies to survive, some of which are tools so simple and basic that we no longer think of them as such. Fire and cooking, baking and weaving; textiles and clothing to keep us cool or warm, wheels and ramps to move things around, language to speak and to read and even to think.

It makes sense to me that if we're that dependent on our tools (and there's nothing somehow "un-natural" about this any more than living in houses is unnatural), it would be easy for the self/other boundary to become a bit more permeable, to blur a bit with the tools we use the most. The phone I carried around for close to six years was not a part of me, but it might as well have been: it was almost always close at hand (usually in the same pocket), could be called up into my hand without thinking, and it basically carried my life in it. It was an extension of my self, much like my arm.

I think there's a way of thinking about our tools that flows from this attitude. Over the past decades we've become accustomed to thinking of our phones as, basically, disposable. Technology is often seen as either new or obsolete. We buy new things expecting to discard them when the upgrade cycle rolls around in a few years. In the meanwhile we largely focus on what the tool allows us to do (e.g. use Instagram, send messages, play games) while the phone itself, as an artefact, becomes almost invisible in the background. Since our phones are engineered in a way as to limit the possibilities of maintenance, we expect to discard them once they inevitably begin to decay. But to think of our phones as a *tool* without regard to its expected lifecycle, and to see it as both a thing in itself and as a reliable extension of our selves, much as a craftsman might look at the tools in their kit -- that seems to me to invite a more respectful and considered attitude to these small and yet incredibly personal machines.

And besides, if nothing else: I brought the old phone with me across four continents. It was the only camera I used on trips to at least six countries. I listened to music on it for years. I carried it with me through two serious relationships, and it was with me when both of those ended. It's hard not to invest sentimental value or significance in it, given how long it's been with me, in much the same way other artefacts that have played such a part in our lives might take on similar significance. After all, who among us isn't familiar with the old trope of the family heirloom or watch passed down through the generations?

Or perhaps these are simply the sentimental ramblings of someone who has yet to practice Konmari's method, an attitude better suited for the disposable character of our stuff today. Once, this device sparked joy, but it no longer does so. It's time to thank it, and then to move on from it.

Footnotes

[1]: From my point of view, the battered case gave it character. New items are all alike; used items bear patterns of wear that are distinctive of their history of use. There is a kind of aesthetic sensibility that takes pleasure in items and materials that have acquired character in this manner, whether they be denim, aluminium, or raw leather.

[2]: After I transferred everything to the new device, I began to go through my photo library and delete old photos. It felt very much like I was pruning my memory: recalling old memories, and then choosing what was worth keeping and what wasn't. A task I have yet to finish, and perhaps never will.

EOF