Offline and off the grid

I ran into Marcel Proost this morning at the Gualala Farmers’ Market. He was inspecting a box of sad little parsnips. The market is held every Saturday in the parking lot across Highway One from where Bones Roadhouse barbecue used to be until it burnt to the ground last September.

“Not enough rain. I seen some good fungi up on the ridge this winter, but the root vegetables ain’t doin’ too well.”

I asked Marcel why he had been offline for almost three weeks. I knew that back in November he’d cobbled together his own computer from ancient Altair parts he’d found at the Annapolis dump and was surfing the Internet every day. He told me he was fond of visiting biker pages, reading about mushrooms and, being the devilish sort of guy he is, creating false Facebook and home pages. (The one he made called “Helmut Lachenmann: the paparazzi pix! ” caused a fury of consternation among hundreds of anxious young graduate students.) So I was curious why he’d not done any posts recently.

“You know, John, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been in a room or a public place and noticed that more than half of the people there are not there.”

“Not sure what you mean, Marcel,” I say. “How can you ‘be there’ and yet not be there.”

“Well, you take your average place where folks congregate—a coffee shop, or a library, or even someone’s living room. Nowadays at least half of the people in the room are in fact absent. Instead of “being here now” they are staring at some kinda screen, either their iPhones or laptops or Blackberries, or else their thumbs are working overtime on some text message of supreme, earth-shattering importance.”

“Yeah, I notice that a lot. I remember having dinner with family and friends recently, and one young person brought her Blackberry to the table and put it right next to her plate of turkey so she could keep an eye on it.”

“There’s a way in which being online is not being. That was sort of a Tao Te Ching realization I had on New Year’s Day. So I decided that instead of waking up in the morning and habitually logging on to Bikers World or one of my favorite libertarian sites I would just sit, enjoy my cup of chai and look out the window at those two crows who always are out there. Or maybe I might read a few verses from the Bhagavad Gita.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I see you have a nice new copy. Where’d you find that?”

“When I was in San Fran two nights ago I dropped by City Lights Bookstore and picked it up. You been there lately?”

“I have indeed, Marcel.” And a couple of years back I met Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I told him about my interest in Jack Kerouac and Big Sur, and damned if Ferlinghetti didn’t offer me use of his cabin at Big Sur.”

“Oh you mean Monsanto’s cabin! You know that ‘Monsanto’ was Kerouac’s nom de guerre for Ferlinghetti. So didja take him up on his offer.”

“I’m sorry to say not yet. I understand it’s a pretty Spartan place. I’m not sure whether even after all these years he’s still gotten round to going on the grid. You know, Marcel, I’m kind of a candyass when it comes to roughin’ it. I confess I do like good ole alternating current.”

“Well, you oughtta go visit there sometime. Anyhow, I gotta head out. That wild pig Zack shot last month? I’ve had it marinating in zinfandel since Thursday, and I gotta put it on to cook along with chantarelle gravy. So, John, Come on by the trailer tonight if you get hungry. I don’t think I’m gonna cook it with those lame little parnsips, though.”