Man, the measure of the screen.
A Letter to Those Who Have Never Known a World Without Wi-Fi
"You shall choose your horse by placing a tray full of glowing embers in the middle of the herd." — Ion Creangă, The Story of Harap-Alb
Prologue: C:> and the Cursor That Waited
In 1997, I had a problem none of you will ever have: I had no access to a computer.
I'm not talking about a good computer, with a decent graphics card, or one that doesn't freeze when you open too many tabs. I'm talking about any computer. In Botoșani, in that year, a PC was an object you saw on television, in badly dubbed American films, or in a few offices where you had no business being. And yet I enrolled in a two-week course, "IBM PC Operator", at an institution that ran training courses. It had two working computers and one taken-apart broken one, a patient instructor, and a smell of heated dust that I still recognise today, anywhere I encounter it.
The course ended after two weeks. I stayed on for six months.
No one ever gave me written permission. The instructor chose not to notice that I kept coming back day after day, like a dog that had found its master. I would sit in front of the green screen, on which a single thing blinked:
C:\>
And after it, the cursor. That little line, white, appearing and disappearing every half second.
I want to describe what I felt then, because this entire essay begins there. That cursor waited. It didn't call me, didn't lure me, sent me no notifications, didn't know my name and didn't want to learn it. If I wrote nothing, nothing happened. The machine was completely, absolutely, reassuringly passive. Everything it did began with me. If I wanted to see what files were on the disk, I typed dir. If I got a letter wrong, the machine answered tersely, Bad command or file name—without getting annoyed, without judging me, but also without helping me. I had to learn its language, but once learned, it did exactly what I asked of it. No more, no less.
Three decades ago, the machine waited for the man. Today, the man is the one waiting for the machine: the vibration in your pocket, the blue tick, the feed loading, the next video starting on its own before you've had time to decide whether you want it.
I'm not writing this to tell you that "things were better in my day". They weren't. In my day, most people had access to none of what you have, and information was distributed at a trickle—through connections, through luck, through being tolerated for six months in a room where you had no business being. You carry in your pocket more computing power than the entire Botoșani Chamber of Commerce had in 1997—perhaps more than the whole county. That's an enormous gain, and I don't scorn it.
But something got inverted along the way. And I think it's worth us looking together at exactly what.