I’ve always prided myself on my spelling. It’s got something to do with having been academic, good at school, a keen reader and a lover of the written word. But it’s slowly begun to dawn on me that my ability to spell is not what it used to be.
There are some words I’ve always struggled with – like the word ‘rhythm’ which for the life of me I simply can’t get right (I always forget the first ‘h’ and want to add an extra ‘y’). But lately I’ve started to hesitate when deciding on practice or practise, to question whether or not to hyphenate ‘matter of fact’ and to frown when deciding whether to type ‘er’ or ‘or’ at the end of a word. I feel like I’m losing touch with a skill that I thought would always be with me, that I could always count on myself for. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. It’s not so much that I’m losing it. It’s more that it’s being stolen from me by the tyranny of the computer spellcheck.
But that’s not all.
What I’ve lost to technology
While I used to have all the phone numbers of my nearest and dearest neatly filed away in my head, ready to be plucked out at a moment’s notice, to dial and connect, it’s as much as I can do now to remember my own number, never mind one belonging to literally anyone else (other than the emergency services). To be honest, this may have been stolen by the tyranny of hormones, but if they hadn’t nabbed it, my smartphone most surely would.
The list goes on.
My capacity to wait for more than a day – with all the anticipation that came with it – before receiving something I’ve ordered, has reduced to near zero, snatched from my hands by Amazon Prime.
My ability to concentrate long enough to read a newspaper from cover to cover – something I used to love to do at the weekend, flicking through the culture and travel sections in a leisurely manner, coffee in hand – has been totally decimated by the armed forces of social media posts and bitesize blogs.
My historic pattern of moving my body, clocking up the steps in my daily commute and even leaving the house on some days, has been slowly corroded by the drip drip of working from home, tucked up in lounge wear, recently accompanied by a heated blanket.
My inclination to think for myself – the capacity I’ve always held in highest regard – has started to decline, as the temptation to turn to Mr Chat – as I fondly refer to ChatGPT – for answers, grows with each day.
My capacity to create; to pen poetry and craft songs – is being lured into the lion’s den of the likes of Suno and Claude. And my commitment to learn a new language – something that used to give me so much joy – has been replaced by that sneaky little Google Translate.
I count up all the parts of myself that I’ve lost or given away to technology, reflect on how precious they were, and start to feel sad and a little alarmed. What will be left and will I still be me?
The seduction of speed
But then I remember! I remember that efficiency is the most important thing in this day and age, and that so long as I’m going fast, faster or fastest, that’s all that really matters, and therefore I really don’t need to worry.
I remind myself that the ability to spell, remember, concentrate, create, move and think are really not that important at all, that they’re much better outsourced to machines and that my life is surely immeasurably improved by these changes. For all the losses I’ve experienced, the gains are surely so much bigger. Think of all the time I’ve saved!
I let out a little sigh of relief.
So relieved am I by this reminder that I start to wonder what else I can ‘get rid of’ from this business of being human. I get excited by the idea; if technology can do all those things for me, what else can I get it to do? Can I get it to communicate for me? To entertain me? To bring me joy? Speak for me? Love me??
YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!
Oh God.
Suddenly I feel profoundly sad.
All that’s human is not lost
A well of grief and panic rises up inside me and I think I’m going to be sick. I rush to the wooden chest in my bedroom that my Mum gave me for my birthday many years ago and start rummaging in its bowels to find my old French dictionary – pages marked by my earnest late night student fingers – and old pads of writing paper on which I used to pen letters to friends, family and lovers. I dive for my journals and flick through their pages, all bursting with humanity, poetry and the outpourings of my dreams and despair.
The floor is covered. I’m sweating from the activity, surrounded by books, cassettes envelopes and journals: the vestiges of a life well lived, then deemed old-fashioned and outdated.
I look across at my devices – grinning at me smugly from the various corners of my room – and sit in the middle of it all, my legs straddling the chasm of technological change in my one little life.
A single fat tear dribbles unceremoniously from my lids. As my hand reaches up to brush it away, and my fingers feel the wet puddle of grief, the penny drops. With the realisation come more tears but this time I let them come. I release them willingly to fall down my grateful cheeks because at least they are mine. My tears – be they of joy or sadness – are still mine. My deepest humanity remains inside me, my capacity to love and to wonder and to stand in awe; my capacity to rage and rejoice, to hope and to hurt, to delight and to dream – they are all alive in me and no device, machine or operating system will take these from me.
Later that evening, I reach for my phone to stream some music. But then I pause. I check myself. I put my phone away and pick up my guitar instead. The fingers of my left hand form around the familiar shape of the A Minor chord as those of my right tentatively brush the strings to release the sound. My favourite chord fills the room and my shoulders soften.
It’s not perfect. I’m out of practice and the guitar’s a bit out of tune. But somehow I don’t mind at all.
It will take time, effort and practice. But for tonight, at least, that feels like the good life.