The Resurgence of Analog
Finding moments of stillness in a world that won't shut up.
I’ve spent an embarrassing percentage of my life looking at screens. It started innocently enough.
Fourth grade.
Computer lab.
An imposing beige Performa 5200 Apple computer that wheezed to life introducing me to classics like Oregon Trail and Number Munchers. Gateway games. Harmless on the surface. Educational, even. But the dopamine hit of getting that covered wagon from Missouri to Oregon did something. And it never really stopped.
From there, the screens got smaller and more insistent. 2007. My first iPhone. The hits became more frequent. The time spent, less obvious, harder to measure. You don’t realize it’s happening - at least not in a way that causes you to panic. You just wake up one day and realize you’re in a long-term, borderline abusive relationship with a glowing rectangle that follows you into the bathroom.
I’m the first to tell you I’m a hypocrite. Like any addict, I know it’s bad, but I struggle to quit. I used to (and frequently continue to) tell myself it is just a part of modern life. A necessary evil. That the phone is a tool, and I am the one in control. But somewhere in the untracked hours of checking email, scrolling Reddit, and watching six consecutive YouTube videos about the best mechanical keyboards of 2025, the line has gotten fuzzy. The tool has begun shaping the hand.
I’ve started to feel this aching draw toward things that do less.
Analog things.
Old things.
Objects that require a level of effort, a bit of care, and give nothing in return except the quiet satisfaction of existing.
My favorite: the Canon A-1 film camera. It’s heavy, ugly, inconvenient and has a 50/50 chance of eating the film roll if I load it incorrectly. The lens is scratched and the camera itself has scars and wounds. But, it slows me down. It’s purposeful and deliberate. It’s experienced things. It grew up outside in the dirt and not face-to-face with a television.
Under your breath you’re probably muttering, “What a hipster tool.”
And, sure.
Fair point. I do enjoy espresso while browsing the racks of Portland used book stores.
But, I’m 43 and stopped caring of other’s opinions years ago.
So, bear with me.
There’s the mechanical watch I wind each morning, despite the fact that my phone knows the time down to the microsecond and has already screamed it at me twice. Or the record player that demands I get up and flip the album halfway through. None of these things are efficient. That’s kind of the whole point. They are, however, grounding in a way I didn’t realize I needed. A roll of film makes you pause. Consider. You only get thirty-six frames. There are no do-overs. You can’t peek at the screen and re-shoot. The photo either happened or it didn’t. It either told the truth or it flinched. Same with records. The crackle at the beginning of the track isn’t a flaw. It’s proof of a physical presence. Something real is touching something else and producing sound.
There’s something merciful in how these things refuse to compete for your attention. An analog watch doesn’t vibrate when you get a new email. A turntable doesn’t push a notification when someone hearts your vacation photo. A film camera won’t buzz in your jacket pocket with the news that someone you haven’t seen in nine years just got engaged. They do what they do. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It’s not about nostalgia. Or, mostly not, at least. I’m not trying to live in the past or pretend I’m immune to the convenience of digital life. There are plenty of modern miracles I rely on daily, and some of them are literal lifesavers. But I am starting to believe that maybe the future we were promised is arriving at the cost of our ability to just be. To sit. To breathe. To focus.
So, I’m trying to resist in small, quiet ways. To make space for slowness. For imperfection. For tactile joy. I’m not trying to romanticize suffering or pretend analog is better just because it’s older. But, I do think it’s different. And in that difference, there’s a kind of sanity. A way to feel, however briefly, like you’re actually here instead of watching yourself live from inside of a glass box.
I still lose entire evenings to my phone. I still refresh my inbox like it owes me money. But there are moments now where I enjoy feeling that watch winding beneath my thumb. Hearing the soft clunk of the record arm dropping. Framing a photo and deciding, with intention, exactly when to press the shutter. And in those moments, the noise falls away. Just for a second. But long enough to matter.
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Thanks for reading and I’ll see you in the next one.
