Life is a continual struggle between the need for space, and the overwhelming need to be connected, the two going back and forth like the positive and negative charges on a magnet.

Nothing better illustrates this than the difference between solitude and the cell phone.

Here I am in the library, my favorite place of refuge (next to the bathroom). Here I can be alone with books, icons to me, the world's knowledge, the printed word, all there on a shelf. It's not cold like a computer screen, but warm pages to the touch.

When I get depressed, which is often, I come to the library, a reaffirming place of calm.

I'm in the middle of a long aisle looking at the top row of books. Here comes a gray-haired woman, walking down the aisle slowly and searching for a book. She comes closer, her eyes on the books. Closer. I know. I just know. She's going to stop right where I'm now standing. She's going to interrupt my peace, infringe on my space. I'll have to say excuse me, and either pugnaciously stand my ground---or give way.

I'm irritated by her, the closer she comes. There's a million books, but she's going to stop right where I am. I derogatorily imagine her name to be Maude (only ugly old women are named Maude. Did you ever see an ugly woman named Raquel? Never.)

I imagine opening a window and throwing her out. This is selfish and antisocial. I stand there for awhile until she says "excuse me." I glower at her and walk to the next aisle.

Here she comes again.

I'm a rock. An island. Like Greta Garbo, I "vant to be alone."

That's until my car starts making a funny noise. Suddenly, I need people. I had finally caved in, joined the modern world and bought a cell phone. I can now call for help. With my cell phone at my side, I have power. I can influence events. I'm not a lone voice in the woods.

Remember the old days? The phone was something that hung on the wall and rarely ever rang, unless it was Aunt Minne on the line. There were no telemarketers back then, no bill collectors.

The cell phone has become a psychological phallus, an extension of your manhood, or if you're a woman, something else. From the privacy of your car (or a mountaintop), you can chew somebody out, beg, cry, inflict yourself on others---or express love.

E-mail will never replace the sound of a voice.