Author: Graeme McMillan

While the idea of being a true online citizen of the 21st century — so plugged into the modern world that I’m constantly online or receiving information from one source or another, switching between devices to maximize my experience effortlessly — is an attractive one and something that I like to pretend that I live up to, the reality of the situation is quite different for a simple reason: I don’t understand technology. I’m useless when my Kindle decides to cough up a virtual lung and offer the Kindle version of the blue screen of death, and I’m equally helpless when my iPhone decides that holding a charge is for losers.

When those things happen, I go online and Google things, hoping to find the answers. It’s something that makes me feel old, to be honest; in the back of my head, there’s this odd belief that younger people would just instinctively know what to do in these situations, and that by resorting to Google, I’m writing some pre-emptive death warrant for any pretense of being “with it.” Of course, just by writing “with it,” even with some sense of irony, I’m likely doing far more damage to myself. Growing old is no fun, although it beats the alternatives.

I’m getting distracted by the buzzing my desk lamp makes. It’s not a consistent buzzing, which I think would be easier to ignore; instead, it’s something that comes and goes, seemingly at random. I’ll be working away and then all of a sudden, bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. When I work, I tend to do so in silence — I can’t really concentrate on what I’m writing when music’s playing, unless I’m out somewhere (and even then, not entirely) — so it’s a noticeable sound, enough that part of my brain starts thinking wait what is that I don’t like it why is it doing that oh God make it stop over and over again.

The answer, I know, would be to swap the light out for one that doesn’t make any noise — or, perhaps, find out what makes the buzzing in the first place and get it fixed — and yet, I don’t, of course. Instead, I leave it there and get annoyed by it, like I’ve left the solar-powered toy on my shelves (a gift from friends) even though, everytime it gets sunny, it starts click click clicking. Without intending to, I’m accidentally allowing my office to become filled with things that distract me from work. Whether this is a commentary on my level of interest in work or not, of course, remains to be seen. (It probably is.)

There’s something about the need to start the week in something resembling — not good spirits, necessarily, but a frame of mind that suggests that you’re ready to tackle everything that lies ahead. For some reason (I suspect it’s the new Wait What podcast that I spent the weekend editing and putting together show notes for; I’m still putting those show notes together), this isn’t one of those weeks — I feel stuck behind already. It makes me feel anxious, ridiculously so, and as if I’m already playing catch-up even though everything’s barely started. If this is a glimpse at the week ahead, I’m not looking forward to it.

It’s not quite running away to join the circus, but last night’s dream involved my having agreed (pre-dream, of course, because this would never have happened had I been conscious of it) to participate in some kind of onstage hypnotism demonstration. The demonstration itself didn’t happen in the dream; instead, it was all about the dread of anticipation and waiting to go out in front of an audience, and thinking too much about the audience themselves — their expectations and my resultant performance anxiety.

That this dream happened the night after I spent hours editing a podcast and thinking too much about the reception it would receive does not escape me. Apparently, my subconscious doesn’t try too hard, sometimes.