So, this Apple iPad thing was announced and demonstrated, right? Man, how exciting. How wonderful and interesting and everything. It’s like, man, you know? Or something.

And the thing is, we all wanted to be excited about this, Apple. We wanted to give you our firstborns in exchange for a small tablet-sized device that would revolutionize the way that we interacted with computers and the internet.

But we can’t be excited about what you gave us, Apple. It’s just an iPod Touch with a big screen, Apple. Why did you think that was a good idea? It’s not. Because I already have an iPhone and that has a camera and makes phone calls.

The screen size, Apple, is not the point of the thing. That’s a side effect of the form factor, and the form factor is not why people really wanted a tablet from you.
They wanted a tablet from you because they wanted a fresh round of innovation, Apple. They wanted to be inspired. They wanted to see how Steve Jobs would make an awesome, useful device if he was given an excuse to launch one.

It’s not the size, Apple. It’s the opportunity to release something new. Because you usually rise to that occasion with characteristic aplomb.

But you, you thought it was all about the size of the device. You thought we wanted it for a REASON and that REASON was the FORM-FACTOR. That’s not it at all. We wanted you to push limits, make technology improve our lives in ways we didn’t even know we needed improving. We wanted to be surprised, but we were going to settle for you listening to our suggestions.

Oh, but Apple, why did you do what you did? You didn’t surprise us. You didn’t even listen to us.

Why can’t we run background applications on the iPad, Apple? You’ve built a computer. Why can’t we use it like a computer?

Why isn’t there a camera, Apple? We wanted to finally make video chat a part of our lives on a regular basis. We can’t do that without a camera, Apple.

Why isn’t there built in handwriting recognition, Apple? Sure, we can buy a stylus and an iPhone app like WritePad to do this, but we can’t do it in Safari, or email, or anywhere else. We don’t like typing on onscreen keyboards without tactile feedback, Apple. Why can’t we write instead, with our hands, dead simple, the way we learned in first grade? You put “pad” in the name of the device and yet the device cannot be used as a note-pad.

Why did you pick AT&T again, Apple? Their data network can’t even support all the phones you made. Why don’t you give us a choice, Apple?

Why won’t you allow users to install whatever programs they want, Apple? Why do I have to ask you for permission to do what I want with my device?

Why didn’t you give us a reason to use your device, Apple? Why didn’t you make us think – wow, that’s something I’d like to do someday, as we all looked on in awe, glimpsing into the future? Why didn’t you do that?

All you did, Apple, was make it easier to watch movies on the couch. Now, I don’t mind holding my hot laptop on my chest. But now, I can hold a tablet instead. I didn’t ask for that, Apple. I don’t need that, Apple. I’m not inspired by that, Apple.

I asked to be inspired by the future and by your relentless march into it, leading ahead as a visionary, while we poor naves wandered behind, squinting at the bright light. Instead, you want to charge me 500 bucks for a laptop really big iPod Touch.

Thanks, but no thanks, Apple.

Growing up in Maine, I was always a scant hour’s commute from the grey shores of the Atlantic, but my father also built us a house on the edge of a small lake. Barely a few miles long and possible to swim across if I was feeling daring (though too far to swim back without an inner tube), I was always near the water. Somehow, even an hour from the ocean and on the shore of a land-locked lake, being by the water made me feel as though I was connected to something bigger than myself – not in a spiritual sense, the way that people seem to be eluding to when they speak about a deity or larger social consciousness, or even some natural phenomena, but in another way, a way that gave me the grandiose sense of limitless possibility, the glistening wet bravado. The water represented freedom on a magnificent scale. Its waves undulated into the future.

It seems disingenuous to draw a connection between the way the water made me feel and the way a connection to the web makes me feel – they are so very different, any connection between the two borders on the ridiculous. However, and I’m aware this may be a wholly singular experience (I apologize for such a personal entry), but the connection between the two bodies is apt, at least for me. The water was freedom, a connection of molecules and atoms that linked my sensation with the opposite shore – ocean people, seafarers, water folk, even in their tiny hamlets estranged from thriving metropolises where human life teemed, seemed more connected, more mystical, more in tune with the goings on of the larger world. They are in love with the weather, and they hate it, they are linked with the global ecosystem in ways that are much more ancient and unforgiving. To stare out into the water is to stare into everything all at once, including back into oneself, into one’s, and please forgive an agnostic for saying this, one’s soul.

The web is much the same. Those travelers who would brave its dark corridors and trench-like depths, plumb down into the swirling nexus of data exchange, transfer a reflection of themselves to other surfers, these are the mechanical mystics, the digital monks, the cyber-seafarers. Perched upon the brink of the global data network, I feel much the same as I did standing on the cliffs at Hermit’s Island in Maine, my toes a little too far out over the edge, the wind slapping my tunic against my chest, rhythmically, and with stark purpose.

The web is also the refuge of pirates, much as the sea once was, a romantic place – it’s easy to lose yourself beneath the waves, to suffocate under the pressure of so much to see, to explore. It is a place for all the great heroes – the cowboys, the pirates, the soldiers, the explorers, and the pioneers. It is possibility, ripe with pitfalls, poisonous serpents, and untold wonders. It is a young boy standing alight on the brink and gazing at the wonder of himself, standing tall by the edge of a digital sea and waiting for his opportunity to cross to the other side, one day, if he gets his slim chance. Even if he does not, it’s possible that waiting and dreaming could be enough.

But more than anything, that connection is a harsh thing to deprive oneself of – dreamspace is sometimes all we have – those cliffs, just to stand at the edge and gaze out over those churning waters – they are ours – our gateway, our Atlantic, our salvation.

So, it’s will be very hard to explain the look of pained relief to the man in the blue uniform when he shows up, a DSL modem under one arm, a clipboard in the other.

“Ready to get on the net?” he’ll say.

“Buddy,” I’ll reply. “You don’t know the half of it.”

-m.

p.s. if you’re coming down to rescue me: now would be perfect.