(L to R from top)
Alarm clock: You made an uncomfortable grinding noise as you pushed minutes into the past, and your alarm sounds like a giant bumblebee who’s swallowed a outboard motor, but I loved you.
Handheld cassette recorder: I loaded you up with so many shitty song ideas, I’m surprised I didn’t melt your plastic with the focused intensity of my own self-loathing. I miss you and your hissy, crackling moments.
Maps: ehhh… not so attached to you.
Ah, iPod: the Jan Brady of the Apple family. Now everyone’s gushing over your prettier, smarter, more capable sister. Remember when it was all about you? Don’t get hooked on painkillers, that’s such a child star cliche. Maybe get together with a cassette player and start a candle store.
Metronome: I always found you kind of cold and snobby. Now you’re broken.
Calculator: We tolerated each other, like neighbors who are not friends. There was never a question of anything between us.
Calendar/phone book: I’ll miss you most of all. I put years into you, literally. You contained my life. Your dates, notes, old addresses and phone numbers conjure up so many memories that I get an unbearable ache of nostalgia just looking at you. You had space in your margins, you got better the more weathered you became — what electronic thing will ever be like you?
Digital camera: You were a sexy little number when we met but now you’re just kinda trashy. Don’t call me.
Previous cell phone: So small and innocent. Ours was a time of wonder. Now I will close my eyes and you will turn into a butterfly and fly away.
Guitar tuner: I found you backstage at a gig. I will leave you backstage at another gig.
Land line: In fact, the original land line from my childhood home. It boggles my mind, the voices that passed through you. I keep you like a holy relic, the ashes of a dead relative.
Postcards: I don’t travel as much as I used to, but when I do I mostly stick to email and picture texts. I hardly do anything with you except tape you up above my desk, a charming curio.
