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On cracked ipads…

December 21, 2012

So I’m trying to download some papers to read over coffee, still a bit tired from the night before and in between shifting on the chair to reach for something I drop my ipad. It hits the floor with an unpleasant crunching sound. After so many get out of jail free moments of ipad abuse my number is finally up. I turn it over and screen is cracked. Fuck. I watch the waves of frustration start to move up my body, projected stories about how much this will cost to fix, watch the fetishisation and attachment to the clean aesethics of the product (apple products seem to get in deep here) ripple across my thought patterns, wonder if it will cost as much to fix as my rent this month…and then smile. Such inconsequence in the context of the simple privilege of being. Noticing how the content of thoughts clouding for a moment the underlying awe at simply being a space in which thoughts arise, being here, being alive, being aware.

 

I watch a toddler crying until a bubbachino (like a cappuccino with no coffee) is placed in front of her. She grabs a spoon and takes to the task of scooping the froth and chocolate into her mouth and all over herself. There’s a group of Indian men behind her laughing and talking about business deals or what not. Next to me two women sincerely exchanging meaningful looks and nodding in between quiet words.

 

And the division falls away again into the wholeness of an evolutionary tide. The conceptual boundaries separating events drop off and I can feel each second as the frothy edge of a 13.7 billion year old drama. Both falling forwards and somehow happening all at the same time. Like each moment itself has its own heartbeat, expanding and contracting from millisecond to infinity…

 

And there’s nothing to do. And nothing left undone. But still. I pay for my coffee and wander upstairs to start the work day.

 

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