Actually, an iPad mini would fit quite well into my life.
Case Study: Bed, lying down. My iPhone 5 is a tad small and tall for Comixology (currently entombing Terry Moore’s Echo). Reading in bed —lying down— the iPad 2 is a bit unwieldy and the MacBook, while it is by no means a scorching hot, nor does it sound like a cheap and nasty leaf blower coughing up a reeking oily lung; it does get heavy. I would worry about dropping it on myself as I fall asleep, or worse; it sliding off my corporeal lassitude, over a teflonic cotton sea, and Baam! Onto the floor. Hurruck, churns a great few empathic readers’ stomachs.
It is hard to subscribe rigidly to only one philosophy when you read into ontology, epistemology, axiology and consider the different stances and branches you can grip. Stepping outside your comfort zone and the seemingly frictionless network of deeply carved, raw and tender pathways in your mind.
Instead, give these bleeding, searing trails a rest. Let healing take place from a remove. Enlarging the horizon of possible, allowable thoughts from new and alien perspectives is uncomfortable. You hate something because you cannot access it in your mind, and you cannot make the journey to reconcile this. You have no capacity to even release that there exists another way. Or do you? Screeching in.
Scar tissue forms when tender roots are spreading beyond a link to the past. Tender roots are fragile. Nurtured by a thirst for knowledge, an open-minded curiosity towards appraising many approaches, and the will to suffer the fresh pain of living in these roots as they die or thrive in the battle against the concrete that is our own stubborn preconceptions and limitations; breaking through a new plane to breed seeds of hope. Pollinating, only then, gnarled trees of hard-won experiences; together, not alone. Vulnerable still to diseases and abuses from proximal beings and poisonous feedings.
Now I think about it again. An iPhone is just dandy dander. Compressed like carbon in the fabrication of artificial diamonds. No, that’s not right. Dander with a latent film of smug yuppie pore excreta, smearing and swirling invisible, till the lights go down.
But in fact, I wrote and edited (thirty/seventy split) all this while lying in bed, tapping my thumbs onto a foil of glass, the busiest section four postage stamps wide, two tall, and promising to realise all dreams, with so much potential, until next year’s new model steals eyeballs and bile again.