tech lament

my whole life, my dad has frequented electronics recycling centers - both to drop off old items and to scavenge for reusable tech. almost every game system ive owned, along with computers, ipods, etc., came from these trips. at one point, there were four or five different locations close to where we live. now there is only one, and you're not allowed to take anything. there's a guard that sits there and watches people.

i find that absolutely despicable. apparently, it's to prevent copper stripping and general destruction, but honestly, as long as an individual isn't harming others, why gatekeep electronics that are getting recycled anyway? if hazardous waste and leaked personal data are an issue, hire people to dispose of and securely wipe electronics, and then let people take what they want.

the policy of locking down access to old electronics feels counterintuitive and slimy to me, especially given how much perfectly usable tech ends up getting destroyed. my dad was upset the other day because while dropping off a broken tv, he noticed a huge bag of vintage rock n roll cassettes, an iMac no more than a few years old, and a huge bin full of smartphones. and the guard was watching him like a hawk.

the idea of reducing waste by repurposing or salvaging materials obviously makes sense, but overly strict rules can prevent people from doing just that. instead of blanket bans, there should be systems in place that balance safety and functionality with the opportunity for people to reclaim items that would otherwise go to waste. it feels like yet another example of a system failing to prioritize sustainability and practicality.

as my dad was telling me about the bin of phones and the iMac, i was reminded of forced obsolescence. he said, "everything is made to fail now."

it's maddening to think about how some electronics from 30 or 40 years ago still hum with life today. you find an old turntable or a cassette player at a thrift store, and it works as if it's still proud of its purpose. back then (although obviously still with flaws) products were crafted with care and a kind of respect for the future - a belief that you might still want this same machine decades from now. (And don't even get me started on the just because you buy media doesn't mean you actually own it thing nowadays.)

things feel hollower now. plastic shells that crack, chargers that fray, batteries glued instead of soldered, phones that feel ancient after only two years. companies insist it's innovation, that they're moving forward so quickly that the old simply cant keep up. but it's hard not to feel like it's a grift. they could make these things last longer if they wanted to. but why would they? when they can make you come back, again and again, to buy something newer, thinner, flashier, - something destined not to last more than a handful of years (even cars!! like wtf!?) 

it's not just the nauseating amount of waste that hurts, though that's definitely part of it. it's the deeper sense that we've lost something - an understanding that what we create should matter (and not involve child labor and slavery and poor working conditions and mass consumption and all that shit that is tied in with one another). that the tools we use should be companions, not just fleeting conveniences. when an old appliance still works, it feels almost human, like it has a soul. it's dependable in a world that often feels like it isn't. my dryer is almost 30 years old and runs fine. my boss's dryer is 10 years old and has already had to be fixed twice, and she arguably takes better care of hers than i do mine.

it makes you wonder: if everything around us is disposable, does that start to make us feel disposable too?

there is a quiet longing for things built to endure. for objects that carry history, not just planned obsolescence. and it's not just nostalgia - it's a craving for something we're missing now. stability. intention. a world where things we make don't just serve us for a while but walk alongside us, standing the test of time.

and oh to be a zillennial in times like these. it feels like living in the liminal space between two worlds - one where things were made to last and one where things fall apart. we grew up in the twilight of reliability, when products still seemed like they had weight and intention. we watched tech enter a new age in real time. does functionality and convenience really have to sacrifice quality and reliability?

and now, as adults, we're seeing the end of an era. the transition wasn't sudden, but it's undeniable. the devices in our hands today feel light - too light. not just physically, but emotionally. a brand-new phone feels thrilling for a moment, and of course it can do amazing things. but there is a deep hollowness to it, at least for me, because deep down i know it's not built to stay (or be fixed ig, looking at you apple!!) the battery will decay, the software updates will slow it down, and in a few years, the only solution will be to toss it and start over.

as cuspers, we feel the dissonance more keenly than most. we lived through the crossover. we are old enough to know what it was like to have things built with care, but we're still young enough to exist in a world of disposability.

it's a strange kind of loss, watching quality give way to convenience, and permanence dissolve into profit margins.

and it's not just about the products - it's about what they represent. growing up, the things we owned felt like they mattered. they were tools, yes, but also pieces of our lives. a cd plater wasn't just a gadget; it was a memory keeper. a childhood tv wasn't just a screen; it was a portal to moments shared with friends and family. those things were designed (for the most part) to stick around and grow old with us, and they did. but now? everything is designed to move on before we're ready.

being a zillennial means remembering what it felt like to trust the things we owned. it means feeling the disconnect between the past and this present, where we're encouraged to accept disposability as the norm. it's hard not to feel cheated by it. we're caught between nostalgia and frustration, between the desire to move forward and the longing to hold onto something real. maybe that's why so many of us are drawn to vintage objects, to secondhand stores, to things that still carry the echoes of permanence. it's not just about the aesthetic; it's about reclaiming a sense of durability in a world that seems determined to let everything slip through our fingers.