“I’m pingless,” said I.
“And I thought you were just brainless.” Replied Yer Man from Pearl River.
He had been wondering why I hadn’t replied to his text immediately.
Meanwhile, I was wondering why I’d ever given him my phone number in the first place. I hadn’t heard from him since well before the Pandemic.
In fact, I assumed Covid had done a number on him. But then, I never really knew him. He was a self-appointed literary guardian – “just making sure you don’t lose the run of yourself,” as he put it one day.
Did I need such a person in my life anymore? He also commented on my Celtic Crush radio show, and attended many Black 47 gigs, around Westchester and Rockland County.
But how could I tell if he was even the original “Yer Man From Pearl River;” or a Bot out of Hell come to haunt me? What times we live in!
I’d long ago stopped giving out my phone number – not that I’m particularly paranoid, it’s just that as a self-employed person I work on deadlines, and don’t have time for random phone calls unless they’re from family or close friends.
I’m not much of a texter either, especially since you’re expected to return such jittery interruptions forthwith.
Hence, my choice to go pingless.
I have all rings, prompts, buzzes and nudges silenced on my iPhone .
“Aren’t you afraid of missing out on something?” Yer Man from Pearl River inquired solicitously during our reunion call – he snuck through my defenses because I had been expecting a call from my sister in Ireland.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m far from some solitary monk squirrelled away in the bowels of Manhattan.
It’s just that I value my time.
Think of it! When you’re pingless the world is your oyster.
You’re not jumping from Billy to Joe on text, plus I rarely get spammed anymore.
Am I any happier because of this? Immensely so!
When I go for a walk, I often don’t even take my phone, nor do I wear the obligatory white Apple earbuds.
Instead I amble along like people used to.
I’m tuned into the same rhythms of the city that poets and musicians from Walt Whitman through Miles Davis, Brendan Behan to Bob Dylan moved to.
I have no need of podcasters or other “influencers” screaming in my ears.
It’s a lot safer too. I’m less likely to get a belt in the back of the head from some crazy who doesn’t appreciate my hair-style.
Although a majority of contemporary lunatics appear to be conversing with argumentative old girlfriends or concerned fathers-in-law through concealed microphones.
This makes for a noisy world and I’m determined to keep my little patch of it as quiet as possible. That’s not to say I’m some kind of luddite.
I use my phone and laptop frequently to seek or confirm information; for instance, I was stuck for a name a few minutes back and googled “first poet of the Manhattan skyline?”
Walt Whitman.
Bob’s your uncle, out popped Walt Whitman.
The old poet and printer has always fascinated me, consequently I had to restrain myself from following him down an AI rabbit hole, one of the temptations of modern life.
I don’t use Instagram. Nor do I subscribe to X or anything of that nature, and the thought of getting information on current affairs through social media strikes me as beyond ludicrous.
Try it sometime – de-ping yourself! You’ll find a certain sense of self returning.
You’ll definitely be less stressed and time-constrained, and your neck will feel a little more supple when you no longer have to crane it downwards to fixate on your phone.
You may even find an original idea or two bouncing around again in your cranium.
Don’t take my word for it, I’m merely heeding the advice of Mr. Joyce.
Would Jamesy have written Ulysses if he’d been following Taylor Swift on Instagram?
As the great man put it, “I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art... using for my defense the only arms I allow myself -- silence, exile, and cunning.”
As for Yer Man from Pearl River – Ah well, I guess everyone occasionally needs a guardian angel.
