I'm reading Charles Stross' Accelerando right now, and that, combined with travel, is creating an odd sort of disorientation. It's funny, though, because the disorientation in the section of the book I just closed is mostly about the loss of network, the dissociation from virtual self, in my case it's much more about home. Real, physical home. I want to know the cats are okay. I want to know the house is still there, touch wood my my actual hands, smell the decaying leaves in the back yard, step out on the front steps to watch the sun set. And I want to plug back in to work, be able to read my boss's face and body language, know from the timbre of his voice if "no big hurry" means next week or next month.
It's funny. I'm a pretty plugged in guy, and I use the web a lot to catch up with friends and family, but, really, you can't beat the bandwidth of real life. Yeah, I can tell how Christie's feeling by the tenor of her IMs, and I can generally read a lot into an email from my brother, but there's more information in a stranger's smile than in every email Christie has ever sent me.
Real life has a pretty unbeatable interface.