A defense of amusicality

I have a dirty little secret.

No, it isn’t a secret, exactly. Plenty of people know about it. They find out when I am comfortable enough to tell them, or when someone who already knows blurts it out to someone I’ve just met. They do it playfully – I don’t have particularly malicious friends, after all. But every time, it puts me in the uncomfortable position of downplaying the secret, qualifying it, stammering as if it isn’t entirely true. People don’t get it. When they find out, they tilt their heads – they furrow their brows and laugh, or worse – they pity me, as the crux of the issue is my own naivete.

I do not like music. Trust me, I have tried. I have explored; I have forced myself to sit through countless songs that people beg me to give a chance. It doesn’t grab me. It doesn’t enhance my mood, or elevate my mental state. I find it tiresome. I find it annoying.

Here come the qualifications. I am used to defending myself, because letting someone know that you aren’t a music person inevitably leads to a barrage that ranges from quizzical to antagonistic. There are, I admit, certain songs that I like. They are mostly Broadway showtunes or patriotic anthems of now-defunct states, with a few catchy pieces of pop thrown in. But I don’t use them as musical objects, per se – I use them as distraction. I will shuffle songs on iTunes while getting dressed, for example. Or I will play my Top 25 when walking to the Metro. But apart from these scenarios, I lead a relatively amusical life.

I always knew that people thought this factoid about me was a bit weird, but I never realized it was a social impediment until my freshman year of college. I’d habitually find myself at those crammed red Solo cup-type house parties, separated from my roommates within the first five minutes. I’d strike up a conversation with a guy. After I’d divulged the very basics about my biography (I’m Natalie, I’m a freshman, I’m a history major,) I’d inevitably field the music question. And you know what? The college party music chat is the worst.

I can picture dozens of wrong-for-me dudes from my life’s smear of parties – each very different, but maddeningly unified in their desire to evaluate some mystical sector of my personality based on my auditory system. It is as if the spiritual content of music is assumed, and the question is actually one about values, sensibilities and universal outlook. It is a question ripe with implication, after all. It goes far beyond asking what you like, and instead compels you to divulge who you are, what you believe, and what invigorates you. Musical taste is deeply political, and being amusical is seen as akin not merely to not voting, but to embracing complete ignorance of how electing an official even works. Even worse, though, is that as an attendee of college parties, I lacked the confidence in myself to admit I wasn’t much of a music fan – and I answered the question. And what followed was sure to constitute an intellectual stretch so overdone that my rhetorical tendons would ache for days. Those heady, pseudo-intellectual instances of conversational masturbation stand as some of the more taxing and contrived social experiences of my entire existence. The situation didn’t improve much when I did declare I wasn’t so musical – that invited them to assert I just hadn’t heard the right music, or worse – campaign for the gig of becoming my musical guide. Be held captive by a stranger’s imposition of his own taste? I’d rather slit my wrists with the shards of a cracked vinyl LP.

The thing is, my brain doesn’t work that way. I cannot muster the proper focus required to have a rewarding musical experience. I get antsy and restless – my eyes dart, and my thoughts get louder than whatever I’m hearing. Music requires too little of my participation – you need to experience it too passively. I get bored. I lack whatever faculty it is that allows music lovers to transcribe sound into emotional content. I love words, but I cannot embrace musical lyrics – you need to listen too hard, and I never even understand what they’re saying. It boggles my mind that so many people can engage with music as a primary activity – I envy whatever is in them that makes lying on a bed and listening to an album an enjoyable thing to do. It is as if everyone else is in on something I’m not. I know how important music is to so many people. I respect their relationship with it, but I’ll never have one.

So, please – party guests, harmless flirters, get-to-knowers and brain-pickers of the world, enjoy the music that you do. Hell, walk away from me and cease further communication with me if my inability to have a musically-induced emotion is a deal-breaker. But don’t flog me with the discursive crop of your impressions of indie punk. And don’t try to cure me with a patronizing dose of jazz education, as if my real issue is that I haven’t met someone like you to fix me all up and send me running toward the nearest used record store. I’m not in need of repair. I just see music very literally. For some of us, it’s really just noise.


Graphing evil: an insane and superfluous thought stroll

As the iconic figurehead of an overwhelmingly despised multinational terrorist organization, Osama bin Laden was bound to be an unpopular guy. His death has set off a media frenzy unparalleled in recent memory - I haven’t even heard a peep about Will and Kate’s honeymoon! Indeed, Osama bin Laden was a wicked man. His actions were condemned by billions around the world. Many people have drawn connections between Osama bin Laden and other famous superstars of evil, the most trite of which can be summed up as “OMG! OSAMA AND HITLER’S DEATHS WERE ANNOUNCED THE SAME DAY! SAY HELLO TO KARMIC JUSTICE, MURDEROUS BITCHES!”
The obvious point here is to draw a correlation between the deeds, identities and demises of bin Laden and Hitler, as if to suggest that they cosmically aligned – two peas in a bloodthirsty little pod. Obviously, factoids like these intended to elicit deeper consideration rarely stand up to threat of analysis,
but the rhetoric over the past few days has gotten my mind racing about our shared cultural notions surrounding exceptionally evil people. So much so that I made a graph!


At this point, please remember that I am not an economist, mathematician, analyst, statistician, ethicist or anyone with the credibility demanded to present this graph as anything besides a visual representation of my thoughts. My methodology was limited to mulling things over, and using MS Paint.
In any exercise ascribing value to something that does not inherently or obviously carry it, it is instructive to define one’s terms. I haven’t exactly established criteria, but in my admittedly somewhat subjective evaluations, I have considered the following things.

As for my x-axis, good and evil are obviously loaded concepts. I apply them here relatively externally - I am not attempting to delve too deeply into the internal psyches of people who are not me. I basically conceptualize good as improving the lives of others and making positive contributions to the world. I conceptualize evil as the opposite – people who leave their world in a worse position than it may have been without them. Whereas a good person might work to improve the lives of others, the evil one might work to destroy them. Still, this introduces a host of questions: in judging relative good and evil, how important is the number of people effected vs. the intent of a deed or policy? To what degree must we consider personal actions and stake in a given activity, vs. their influence over a set of measurable effects? Does the spiritual content of a deed matter?

These are deeply important questions, and I do not have an answer for them here. I can only say that I weighed each case individually, with deference to the particularities of circumstance.

As the Y-axis of my graph, the issue of ‘consensus’ was tricky as well. For the purposes of this graph, ‘consensus’ refers to my assessment of the public attitude regarding the good or evil of a given person, and the relative enthusiasm of their beliefs. The higher the value of a given person on the Y-axis, the more I perceive the general public to be in strong agreement regarding them. Someone who is extremely polarizing would have a value of 0, someone who elicits strong agreement would have a very high positive value, and virtually unknown people would have a negative consensus rating.

Obviously, I approach this little dalliance from an American worldview. I have tried to expand it to be more international, but I do not claim to have much expertise or ability to comment beyond my own national borders.

…Anyhow, here is my rough key for the graph as I drew it.

Red: I would argue that only one human being could possibly be represented by the red dot, and that is Adolf Hitler. He is the unequivocal villain of Planet Earth. Although he is an immediately obvious choice, other “honorable mentions” – Stalin and Mao, for example – have been argued in various forms to be ‘worse’ than Hitler. According to this graph, they are wrong. Hitler still takes the “top spot” as the sole occupier of the intercept of evil and consensus. This is for a combination of reasons: for one thing scholarship of genocide deems the act to be the inherently worst crime a human being can commit. As far as Hitler may lay claim to a big fat chunk of responsibility for the Holocaust – the most deadly, analogized, referenced and memorialized genocide in history – he is already in a pretty prominent position. Clearly, we know that Hitler’s crimes go beyond genocide as well – more than any other person, he was also responsible for the onset of the deadliest war in human history. Moreover, this assessment of Hitler has an incredibly strong consensus – he is an undeniably reviled man. Indeed, there are ugly examples of neo-Nazism – skinheads, Holocaust denial and the like – but they exist on the fringe of society, and Hitler is someone that nearly all of the civilized world can be unified in hating. Contrast this with the aqua dot.

Aqua: I would argue that Stalin occupies a space somewhere around here. I do not mean to downplay his contributions to the field of mass murder – they were indeed vast. But there are some important differences. For one thing, Stalin never quite got as ‘genocide-y’ as Hitler did. I add the –y because arguments have absolutely been made arguing that Stalin IS a perpetrator of genocide, specifically for his role in engineering a famine that killed millions of Ukrainians in 1932-3. Even if a person accepts numbers that place the deaths in the Ukrainian Holodomor as higher than those of the Holocaust, (and, some historians have made this claim,) I would argue that the lack of an intentional, coherent ethnic feature of Stalin’s murderousness places him a wee bit lower than Hitler on my graph of evil (this goes too for the Great Leap Forward and the like – sorry, Mao.) Genocides, after all, do kill many – but they are also serious attacks on communities, ideologies, and cultures. So genocide gets the edge. Stalin gets docked to aqua dot status as well because his consensus is lower than Hitler’s – more people are on his side. He simply doesn’t elicit the hatred in popular memory that Hitler does – not even close. This is especially true in areas of the Former Soviet Union. People certainly acknowledge and condemn Stalin’s crimes today more than they did at the time they were committed. But while Hitler died along with the Third Reich – Stalin is often regarded as the leader who led the USSR out of the war to victory. It is worth remembering, too, that some 28 million Soviets died in World War II (as compared to 400,000 Americans.) Many people who live there, especially the older generation, hesitate to desecrate that sacrifice by completely denigrating the image of the man at the helm.

Some of the other dots write themselves.

Blue: The upper-left indigo dot was a toughie, insofar as there is a very small pool of people who could occupy it. It is saved for very famous and uncontroversial do-gooders – Mother Theresa, for example. As far as I know, most people agree that Mother Theresa was a thoroughly decent person. The trouble with this space is that the person has to be very, very good and very, very famous – and, as we know, those are two things that it is difficult to be at the same time. To provide perspective and contrast, I added another dot.

The dark purple dot with the yellow inside could be someone like Bill Gates. He has a very high profile, and people generally conceive of him as being very good. I think that reactions to him are very positive, and he has certainly facilitated a lot of good deeds. I put him slightly into the ‘more good’ side of the axis, but not by much – I very much admire that he has done some very positive things with his money and influence, but I also do not think this is inherently exceptional. I would like to think that I would do similar things as the world’s richest person. Moreover, whereas Mother Theresa’s good works generated her fame, Bill Gates’ case is reversed – his high profile and means facilitated his exertion of goodness. One issue here is that one could easily make the argument that Bill Gates has probably qualitatively altered more lives than Mother Theresa did. I concede to this point. I also think that relative levels of sacrifice and the degree of personal responsibility come into play here. Mother Theresa regarded good as an endpoint, whereas for Bill Gates it is more of a dividend. It would be much more difficult for a soul to resign itself to being Mother Theresa than Bill Gates. But even beyond spiritual judgment, one must contend with the issue of personal responsibility. Mother Theresa, as far as I understand, dedicated her entire life to the mission of improving the lives of others, which is substantively different than funding a foundation, however impressive it is.

Though they do not express it this way, I am sure that the Nobel Prize Committee awards its honor for Peace to those who they see as landing as closely to the upper-left of my graph as possible. And, indeed, Mother Theresa won that very award in 1979.

The importance of the Y-axis will become more obvious now. In judging the contributions of individuals to the world, consensus and inflence is vital. The orange dot on my graph would be some sort of unsung hero. It would have to be someone very, very good, but practically unknown. I assume that clergy people serving the poor in far-off lands could occupy this space. If their work attracts attention, though, then they ascend to a higher spot on the Y-axis. And sometimes, if the work is good enough to fulfill the undefined criteria of being very, very good in the first place, it must reach a considerable amount of people, which garners attention. So you see, it is a very tough spot to fill, and I suspect that not many people do.

The bright green dot would be pure evil with no consensus, which is also logically troublesome. Evil, I think, is a title that in and of itself implies a sort of consensus, which is why I made this graph to begin with. I suppose that the green dotters would be unknown assassins, and nameless masterminds behind influential evil things. Their acts are generally understood to be egregious and reprehensible, and so they are evil but anonymous - their identities are obscured or secret. This is key, because a green dot may be just as powerful as a red or aqua dot by some measures. But they do not elicit passion or hatred, and they will not assume a place in history books, because people – almost by definition, require a name.

My graph is supposedly absolute, and so the pink dot would be someone like Barack Obama – he is very famous, but polarizing - and so his consensus is near zero. I admire the man as a president, but I don’t have a pressing human argument to slide him into the good or bad side of the X-axis.

The yellow dot is me – and you, and probably most of the people we know. We are private citizens living private lives. We try to be generally good, I hope, but we don’t do too much and we don’t yield strong results, either. The measurable meanings of our lives occupy a very small space – we are anonymous, one of about six billion dots halfway between good and evil. The good news is that, in a 5 by 5 inch representation of the totality of moral judgment of the human species, if you are reading this – you are likely to be a solid few inches off of Adolf Hitler.

The question I intend to beg by this discussion is this: Where should Osama bin Laden fall on my graph?

He is, undoubtedly, in the upper-right quadrant. He is one of the world’s most reviled villains, especially in the days immediately following his death. That entails a strong consensus. But what about his relative level of evil? How will history, culture, literature, and philosophy judge Osama bin Laden?

For one thing, the concept of terrorism in general presents its own unique intellectual challenges. Osama bin Laden, as compared to many historic and contemporary dictators – has racked up a relatively low number of corpses. I do not mean to make light of his actions; I only mean to point out that 3,000 is a number significantly lower than millions. Evaluating bin Laden’s evilness, then, relies on one’s conception of the moral content of terrorism. One could make a strong argument that terrorism, like genocide, is something that pervades its literal, physical effects. It is a tactic that depends on psychological victims, and it effects large groups of people by design. The 9/11 attacks terrified all Americans and imbued us all with a deep and lingering sense of anxiety. That is exactly what they were meant to do. Our foreign policy over the past decade has been dominated by the repercussions. In a sense, every American is a casualty of bin Laden’s actions – but most of us, save the 3,000 victims of that day, and the men and women since who have served in our military – not only survived al Qaeda’s attacks, but have lived normal lives. Another important factor to consider in judging terrorism in relative terms is the fact that by definition, terrorism is propagated by those outside of the traditional power structure. States have the legitimate authority of force; terrorists do not. Most “superstars of evil” were the heads of states for a reason – they had the resources to wreak havoc. Not only did they control money, law enforcement and the military, they possessed the psychological legitimacy of leading a state. They were regarded as leaders, within their own states and without. Terrorists are not. Does that inherently limit their ability to harm? If a state fosters or supports a terrorist, is the evil of his deed diluted as responsibility is evenly distributed?

I do not have a clear answer as to where bin Laden deserves to land on my makeshift little graph, but I do have one strong suspicion – given enough time, he won’t be anywhere on it at all.

Indeed, in designing a graph that attempts to depict somehow the influential figures at the intercept of fame and moral judgment, I am struck mainly by the fact that they are all so new. In considering evil, I mulled over Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Slobodan Milosevic - and it suddenly became all too clear that my examples were extracted exclusively from very modern history. Certainly, history presents us with no shortage of callous, bloodthirsty and vindictive people – but Attila the Hun, Ivan the Terrible and Genghis Khan hardly inspire the resentment that modern villains do.

Modernity breeds both the resources and the requisite sense of indignation required to land someone a spot near the upper-right of my graph. An aspiring evil person needs resources – methods of destruction and a sophisticated propaganda structure - to perpetuate terrible things. Memory, though, depends on shock and raw emotions – it is the enemy of the passage of time.

Every day, more and more people die who can deliver accounts of the atrocities of Hitler. Fewer and fewer people can cite family members as being among those directly affected by history’s recent dictators. Soon, there won’t be anyone left who remember the 9/11 attacks, and the narratives of our lifetimes will feel as quaint as those of our grandparents. Moral indignation, however justified, has a shelf-life – and, given that we are the ones who tell the stories, I suspect it is about as long as a human life. In the terms of my graph, everyone is destined to seep down toward the bottom.

I am curious where bin Laden will be placed, then, because I want to know how history will grapple with this. I want to know what the early 2000s will look like to a student who doesn’t remember seeing the Twin Towers fall on TV. I am curious where the chips of history fall in the aftermath of passion. In a world free of the spectre of bin Laden, I wonder how his legacy will be judged.


Reacting to a morally cumbersome death: Osama bin Laden

The scene that unfolded last night in Abbottabad, Pakistan, and the reaction to the news today, will be remembered for a very long time. The death of Osama bin Laden has arrested the attention of the planet, and his demise stands as the single most crucial plot point to spring up in a story that began a little under ten years ago. Last night, alongside three friends, I watched a live-feed online of Obama’s address to the nation. I was struck by a feeling I imagine was echoed in many, many others – I was overwhelmed by the recognition of the rhetorical gravity of what was happening, but I was uncertain what exactly it meant.
For the past 24 hours or so, people everywhere have grappled with that very question. Some have made lengthy arguments about the impact bin Laden’s death will have on the foreign policies of practically any given nation. They have questioned whether this will amount to a substantive change in the so-called war on terror, or whether it will prove itself to be little more than a change of guard. They have debated with passion about the most appropriate reaction to a death like this one, and many others have opined on the symbolic versus literal value in the death of only one man. There is a sliding scale of credibility in the limitless world of news commentary, but the genre itself invokes a sort of pressure to possess an almost preternatural insight, and to package stories immediately. It seems to me that many people in the world want this event to be a finite one. We want its implications to be tidy. One thing that I remember about September 11, 2001’s immediate aftermath was the wave of unbridled patriotism it inspired in my country. Stores sold out of American flags. We started saying the Pledge of Allegiance again. New Yorkers stopped acting like jackasses for nearly a week. It was as if the country was rising to a challenge with a sense of coherent resolve. Maybe I am wrong – I was only 15, and it is difficult to remember my immediate feelings about the 9/11 attacks without peppering them with the cynicism about the ways that bad politics and planning so deeply eroded that feeling in the years since. The death of Osama bin Laden does not set off an obvious shared narrative in the way that his despicable acts did. How does it fit into the story?
I have to believe that the people who so fiercely celebrated Osama bin Laden’s death today must have been led astray by their desire to infuse this moment with a sense of victory. I have to believe that they misinterpreted their emotions. I think that they wanted to laud the events as a conclusion of 9/11, as if the crimes have been avenged. This is a mistake, and I hope that those who danced, hollered, whooped, fist-bumped, cheered, gloated, hooted or otherwise acted like nationalist frat boys come to their senses and regard their off-the-cuff emotional response to this historical milestone as one which did not befit the spirit of the day. It is not a joyous occasion, nor is it an excuse for a pub crawl. This needed to be done. The death had to happen. I am someone who objects to the death penalty, and I do not believe that a state should have the right to pass judgment on an individual on such a cosmic level as to deem him or her unworthy of life. I have always believed this. But I don’t believe it today. Bin Laden’s was a case that transcends national borders, and his was a wrong that transcends my ethical system. I believe that his death was the only possible result of his capture, and so I concede to this instance of ideological inconsistency.
Yes, Osama bin Laden’s death was an act of justice. But there is no moral tit for tat here. His crimes have set off so much sorrow in the world; he destroyed so much. We must experience this moment with a grace becoming of a nation that has suffered immeasurable loss, but has also been productive in its grief. I hope that bin Laden’s end does provide closure to anyone in the world who has been harmed by extremism, wherever it exists. And for those who are inclined to high-five and revel in this victory as if it topped off a championship game, please consider the fact that the lives of the victims of terrorism are worth more than the scalp of a single villain.
I have little to say right now about the international political implications of this event, and journalists and analysts around the globe can do better at that than I can. I do, however, suspect that the way Earth’s story unfolds from here will have much to do with the way that America carries itself in the coming weeks. If it is true that Osama bin Laden’s death is largely symbolic - then let us ascribe to it a meaning of peace, worthy of the sacrifices that contributed to it.


A narcissistic analysis of royal wedding buzz

When I need an essentialized and skeptical point of view, I can usually count on my father. I regard him as a reliable indicator of a general public reaction to a given cultural blip. He knows, of course, about the upcoming nuptials of Wills and Kate (but is likely not on a first name basis with the pair, and would probably say ‘Prince William.’) He also knows that every woman in his family is planning on gathering with girlfriends at a terribly indecent hour to watch the wedding broadcast live. This confuses him. He has a way of speaking in italics and asks us repeatedly, “What on Earth do you wanna watch that for?

This puts me on the defensive. I do care about the wedding, and I am more than a little excited for my all-girls’ sleepover on Thursday night to watch not only the ceremony itself, but the hours of coverage preceding it. The media has offered up slide shows of Kate Middleton’s fashion evolution, William growing up, royal brides of the past and timelines of the royal couple’s courtship, and I have clicked on pretty much all of them. It isn’t simply curiosity, or boredom, or merely a guilty pleasure – I care, and I want to know.

It isn’t an entirely guiltless impulse, to be sure. I feel like I should perhaps be less transfixed by this wedding. I vaguely regret the fact that I am more likely to read news items on Kate’s possibly bitchy sister than on, say, the war in Libya. I grapple with questions of whether, as a feminist, it is appropriate to so eagerly anticipate a fairy tale wedding. Whereas I am being pressured by the pop cultural and commercial side to click everything pertaining to the royal couple that I come across in every form, I also feel a slight pressure from some of my intelligent, and irreverent friends and favored publications – that seem to be aligned with my dad, asking slightly judgmentally, “What on Earth do you wanna watch that for?”

Many people seem to be intrigued by the idea of princess-hood in the modern world. We live in a commercial culture inundated with princess imagery. Princesses are in our movies, our stores, and our happy meals. Still, there are not too many flesh-and-blood princesses pervading our everyday lives. Most people in my generation remember Diana’s death more clearly than her life. Some people have opined that it is this subconscious craving for a real-life princess story that has made the entire mythology of the royal wedding so hypnotizing – that the literal manifestation of a girlhood fantasy is too much to resist. I think there probably is some power in this argument, but I don’t want to be a princess, and most of the people I know don’t either. Ultimately, I don’t think the allure of the upcoming wedding is about a fantasy, or even about each of our ability to envision ourselves within it. It isn’t about William and Kate, and it certainly isn’t about the antiquated monarchy of England. It is about each of us, and the way we envision our own personal narratives.

My own royal wedding fervor relates ultimately to my desire to situate myself in the story. Not the story of the wedding itself, but of my watching it. Throughout life, I have heard or seen intermittent references to Diana and Charles’ wedding in 1981. I think it was the most viewed television event of all time, or something like that. My mom used to tell me that she woke up at 4:00a.m., at age 20, to watch it - and that if it weren’t for Diana’s unfathomably puffy dress, the rest of the decade’s wedding gowns may have all been a bit more deflated. She has relayed both the memory and the joke countless times. But, the thing is, that story is never about Diana – it is about my mom.

And, so, I too want to grasp a moment of relative cultural and historical importance and insert it into my own biography. I want to tell my own daughter that I went to a sleepover the night of Princess Catherine’s wedding, and I want to show her a silly photo of my friends and I wearing plastic tiaras before it began (which, by the way, my friend Lindsay has already purchased.) I want to tell a story years from now about how tired I was the next day at work, because I’d forgotten to take the day off. It will be a reference point – a silly, arbitrary reference point – but perhaps the woman I am speaking with will have a royal wedding story of her own. This is not the most major cultural or historical event that I have or even will witness in my life – but unlike so many major events, this one is scheduled ahead of time.

I suppose there is something very deliberate about planning for nostalgia in the future. Perhaps by envisioning future conversations I could possibly have about Wills and Kate’s wedding, I will merely be fulfilling my own trite prophesies. But the wedding broadcasts will reach millions of viewers, and I’d rather embrace those connections than boycott them. Friday morning’s spectacle will be mentioned for a very long time – there is something rare and special about having the power and freedom to create my own memory of it.


A cautionary account of one woman's loss of an iPhone

I was recently the victim of a dropping-my-own-telephone-into-a-toilet kerfuffle.

My memory of the incident itself is hazy at best – blurred, perhaps, by the emotional pain of recollecting it, or by the party’s Rubbermaid binful of Smirnoff-spiked fruit punch. I do, however, recall the drop. It was tucked in the pocket of a full-skirted vintage dress that I had to sweep up to perch myself onto the seat. My iPhone slipped from the pocket and tumbled. I scooped it out within five seconds of the initial plop – wet, but apparently unscathed.

I was relieved the phone was unharmed and returned to the dance floor. At one point, I sing-yelled about 50% of the lyrics to “Semi-Charmed Life” and fake slow-danced to “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” from Armageddon, a film during which I once shed thirteen-year-old tears. I ate a few cookies, switched to wine from vodka-punch and probably even checked my e-mail on my telephone. My life seemed pleasant, normal, simple, even. Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

By the time I arrived home and kicked my party dress toward the hamper, I noticed that my telephone’s screen was black. I couldn’t turn it on. I knew it had power – I had charged it before the party. What was happening, and why?

Standing there, I remembered the toilet occurrence. I turned the phone over in my hand, and saw little bubbles in the camera lens. I hoped my phone would work in the morning and my mistake would be undone. I went to sleep, covered by both a literal blanket and a figurative feelings-of-doom one.

The morning did not bring good news. My iPhone was still suspended in its watery grave, and the gadget seemed wholly indifferent as to whether I was pushing buttons or not. The sticker protecting the screen had begun to peel as if to assure me that, yes, the adhesive had been compromised. That rainy Sunday morning marked the beginning of my 12 hours with no iPhone.

Of course, I did not know at the time if or when my iPhone would function again. I didn’t immediately understand the gravity of the situation - I was suspended by my survival instinct alone.

I knew I had to take action, but I was crippled by the agony of waiting. It is more painful not to know the fate of our loved ones than to have even the worst news confirmed. When that happens, the process of grief can begin – I could experience nothing akin to grief, because I was unwilling to accept the possibility that my iPhone may never turn on again. What I felt was closer aligned to desperation, drifting into a malaise. I was distracted and stressed. I gently lay my iPhone 4G on a tabletop, hoping that its damp innards might do me the honor of drying gracefully. I waited.

I had no way of knowing what time it was. The sky was overcast; my apartment is under-windowed. My phone is the only reliable clock in my life. I had to have faith in my internal timing mechanisms, which are presumably born of the same mechanisms that caused me to drop the phone in the first place, and have thus suffered a blow to their credibility. I knew only that it was Sunday, at some point between dawn and dusk.

There was no way to check in on my loved ones. They were merely a distant memory. I could barely remember what love felt like. I was alone, for now. I had to sustain myself.

I tried to get a hold of myself. “It isn’t so bad,” I whispered. “You can do this.” After all, I’d only had an iPhone for three months. Couldn’t I conjure up memories of life without one? I majored in History – couldn’t I recall at least one historical instance throughout the annals of time that had occurred without an iPhone present? I could not – as far as I remembered, one of Custer’s last human actions was checking into Little Big Horn on his 4Square app. I am pretty sure Gorbachev live-tweeted the falling of the Berlin Wall. Halfway through the battle of Waterloo, Napoleon texted Josephine to ask her to cancel the caterers for his impending victory bash.

And so, I writhed in wait. I had no idea how much time had passed. I curled sideways in my bed, clutching my knees. With a shred of hope, I opened the Tupperware containing my iPhone and pushed every button I could find. I blew on the charging port, like people used to blow on old Nintendo games. No sign of life.

I hoisted myself up and looked in the mirror. I barely recognized myself. I tried to recall the girl on my Facebook profile that I was accustomed to, but I couldn’t. Nor could I recall the faces of my friends. I directed my attention to the top of my dresser lined with my favorite lipsticks. I couldn’t recall their purpose – I only understood they were richly pigmented. I felt an urge to communicate with others. I had a feeling to broadcast; I needed to express the monstrous yearning bubbling within me.

I unscrewed the top of a tube of lipstick and made a single stroke on the bedroom wall. I drew a small girl in bright berry, and a thunderstorm above her in party pink. I knew that if another human should pass through this place centuries from now, they would have a visual representation of my grief.

I opened my mouth and bellowed to no effect. No one came to my aid. Were I to see another human in my state, I doubt I would know how to react to them. I had utterly lost my capacity for language. I growled and rolled from side to side in my bed. I had forgotten to eat. I had no food at home, and I had no way of ordering anything. I knew I had to emerge from my den.

I swaddled myself under layers of cloth to protect my hide from the elements. The earth was soft with rain. My unwashed hair hung in scraggles around my jaw and I searched for something to eat.

I saw something I remembered – it reminded me of something I knew. It looked vaguely like me – it was tall, with longish appendages. It had eyes, level with mine – of course, I thought. It was human-shaped, just like me. I had all but forgotten what they were, what I was. I approached cautiously and sniffed it. I pawed it apprehensively. Our chance meeting unsettled my companion, who brushed me away. As the human continued behind me, I looked back – it removed something rectangular from its pocket. The object was shiny, with buttons – he held it up to his face and began to emit noise. Language, I thought. I remembered what the device was – it was an iPhone, too. I had forgotten what it was like to possess one. I had taken it for granted, and now I was living without one.

Nearly cripped by hunger and aided by the softness of the mud, I began to dig for food. I scraped off chunks of tree root with my fingernails and rinsed them in the water that had collected at the curb. I ate as many of these chunks as I could conjure, but the root was tough and deep – I would need more to prosper. I began to bellow. I ripped up clumps of grass and chewed on them, but it wasn’t enough.

I walked a few hundred meters bent over and dragging. I had no shoes and the soles of my feet buckled over the stones in the street – I would have to allow them to callous, I knew. I saw a small bodega on the corner. I burst in the door, sopping wet and famished. I had no means by which to pay – the idea of faith-based currency eluded me. In the wild, you play by other rules. I roared at the shopkeeper, stormed toward a bag of Doritos and ran back out the door, clutching my libations to my chest and grunting with joy over my impending meal. I did not want to fight the shopkeeper for my meal, so I crouched in a thorny bush around the corner. Concealed, I ate the contents in the bag by the handful. I rested.

I have no idea how much time I spent in the bush, but I emerged some time later, covered with cheese dust and bloody from the thorns. I was in a daze. I was sated, for now, but I knew that I needed something to store for future meals. I needed enough to prevent starvation, should I need to remain in shelter for a long period. I began to tread back toward the direction I recalled coming from – I couldn’t remember my home, but I had a vague sense that I belonged there. I knew that the sticks I had gathered would be too wet to create fire.

On the way home, I understood what I had to do. I needed my nourishment to ensure physical strength. I needed to hunt something to eat. I felt a biological drive to overpower a creature below me on the food chain. I careened home on my knuckles and searched for a vulnerable animal.

A few feet from the front opening to my lair, I saw a small, fuzzy animal with pointy ears and a tail. I paused, planning my pounce. I watched the creature lick its paw and rub its neck against the bricks of my dwelling. I stayed as still as possible – any sound of a cracking branch underfoot could send the animal fleeing. I stared at it. Had it noticed me? Would it fight back? Could I digest it after swallowing it whole, or would I have to chew? I bent down at the knees, lowering myself from my prey’s gaze. I held my breath and propelled myself forward with all of the power I could muster, pouncing toward the unwitting animal. I was not fast enough – seeing my pounce, it ran – and I was left in a heap of failure, curled on my front porch, awaiting my next chance for a kill.

Suddenly, I saw something through the glass of my home. A distant, blinking light, surrounded by darkness. I didn’t understand at first, but my memory came rushing back to me – the light was in the shape of an apple.

I dragged my entire body on my elbows and hands into the living room. I pulled myself up to the table with all of my strength to reach for the light. My arms were stretched further than I believed that they could, and the light was in my hand. I pressed the button below it, and an entire screen appeared.

Like Lazarus, my iPhone was back. I could barely place my faith in the good news, but it was true. My texts, my apps, my twitter feed and facebook notifications, they were all there! I had gotten a voicemail from my mom. I remembered her. I knew who she was. I was a human again. I knew my own name! Natalie! Natalie! With that, I was reconnected to the world.

Memories of my hours-long descent into barbarism without an iPhone feel distant, now. I have changed greatly as a result. I know now that I like having my iPhone, but I can survive without it. You can connect to others and be a part of your universe without a smart phone. The really important things in life do not fit within the confines of an iPhone screen. Like blogging, for example. Have you tried to do that with an iPhone keyboard? Tedious. I think I’m going to break down one of these days and buy an iPad.