Death Machine

Recently, a friend of mine found out an old flame had died. I suppose this will happen more often as we all age, and it's never going to be easy news. But my friend didn't hear about it from a third party, or overhear it, or get an email. She was on the road, in his city, trying to get in touch, just to meet up. He wouldn't respond to messages. Then she saw his Facebook wall light up with condolences and had to draw her own conclusions.

No information on circumstances. No consoling messenger. No discussion, no human touch. She had to find out by eavesdropping on electrons.

Our world is getting less human--at least the information is, undeniably so. We have always learned of death from gossip, or firsthand; but always, hasn't there been a human? Hasn't the message been less cruel?

I didn't know my mom's father very well. He played saxophone in San Fransisco night clubs and lived in a universe apart from my academic Pittsburgh childhood. He died when I was in college; I got the message, voicemail, from my mom. I listened to it twice, struck cold with the pain in her voice more so than the loss I felt myself. I remember sitting on the floor, against the window, after I heard, before I called her back; I sensed the loss, dimly, more regretting that I hadn't known him better than mourning his death outright. It was a very human feeling.

Not so, my interaction with the internet. Whether scrolling Facebook or chatting with an old friend in Gmail, these electrons fail to convince. Nothing in a screen can even replace the sound of a human voice; much less a quiet evening out back with a happy fire and a conversation blended well with silence.

I mourn the passing of our humanity, as we slide toward being little more than excuses for the great electron dance. And, too, I pity our future selves, which will be bound in our most human moments to such machines as we can only now imagine.