Have you heard the one about the business man who went to Europe for three weeks and returned home to a $1,700 phone bill? It happened, and he's in good company.

Why am I writing about this? Let me start by giving you some background information. I'm going to be spending next month abroad, and I have been experiencing serious anxiety. I want to have some form of cellular connection, but, after reading horror stories like the ones above, I'm loathe to take my phone with me and face the wrath of $2/minute international roaming.

Only...I've so integrated my cell phone into my day-to-day routines that the thought of maneuvering without it--especially while in a foreign land--is giving me anxiety. I know...first world problems...

But bear with me for a moment.

This situation has got me thinking. Why is it that, when I purchase a phone I can't take it abroad? Why am I stuck with my carrier and their exorbitant roaming fees when traveling abroad--especially if my phone is designed to be readily useable on numerous networks? Don't I own my phone? Shouldn't I be more in control of where and how I use it?

I began researching this, and it appears that...I both own and don't own my phone. When I purchased it from my carrier, I purchased it at a discount. That discount locked me into a two year contract with this carrier in which I agreed to pay them a certain amount both as my service provider and to pay off the remainder of my discounted phone. This contract also locked my phone to the carrier's network.

I'm well past my two-year contract with this carrier, but my phone remains locked to their network.

Again, I both own and don't own my phone. I own the physical entity. I can turn it on; I can throw it away; I can crack its screen with a rock. But...I don't own it outright as a tool of communication. I can't take my iPhone with me abroad, swap in a pay-as-you-go SIM card with a month-long contract, and use it to map my routes to and fro.

Researching into this situation caused me to think back to another conversation I had a while back with friends. We were discussing computer software and applications, and someone mentioned how odd it was to no longer physically own things. Want the new version of your favorite program? I suspect you can download it. It'll even update for you. But...if Adobe or Microsoft or Apple decides to fully embrace planned obsolescence, then you no longer own it when they send the death-blow update. Or, as has happened to phone users, even if your system works post-update, it could be crippled to the brink of unusability. They call this "systemic obsolescence." 

If this happens, what can you do? For the majority of people, the choice is to purchase more--a newer computer; a newer program, or a newer phone. If one isn't somewhat savvy, how does one go back to basics that worked well enough? If an update ruins my downloaded software's usability, how do I go back to basics without physical DVDs or CDs that have the baseline product?

These issues and thoughts are all circling one core idea: ownership. I can destroy my physical phone, but I can't use it outside of my carrier's network. I can download a program and use it, but where do I go to get the zero-degree program should I encounter some glitch?

Ownership shifts a great deal when one does not own a physical thing or when the physical thing one owns is imbricated in digital networks of surveillance and control.

This is, in some regards, exactly what is currently affecting university libraries. It used to be that a university paid for a book or journal and then housed the physical thing. Students and scholars could access the book or newspaper or journal within the physical confines of the library. Now, however, things are different. And we must ask: how has ownership shifted in this new space?

Recent news indicates it has not been to the benefit of academic institutions. Publishers often package content--especially digitally accessed content--in huge bundles. This lets them sell less desirable content with the good stuff, and it allows them to raise their prices. But, unlike owning a physical thing, in our digital era libraries own something immaterial. We are literally purchasing access, and that access must be renewed annually.

Think about it. How does that article get from the internet to you? That path is paid for, but the content's ownership is dodgy at best. This is proven again and again. Remember Aaron Swartz? He demonstrated just this problematic last year when he downloaded files from Jstor with the intention of uploading them to peer-to-peer sharing networks. 

This isn't all to sound apocalyptic, but it is to say that we must seriously reconsider property law in our digital era. What is the property when the owned item is, fundamentally, immaterial? And, furthermore, how can we rethink this (and, of course, copyright) for digitally downloadable and shareable files?

Since libraries now stock less and less hard copies of academic materials, these concerns are quite pressing. I don't want to beat a dead horse, but it does seem the solution is to be found in increased investment in open access and the planned obsolescence of our current form of academic publishing.