How Did All These People Get In Here?

Slowly, as if out of a dream, which I will not judge bad nor good, my entire elementary class emerges, first one by Facebook's invitation to be friends ("If you know" first name, last name . . . ) and then through the gap others.

One need not mind.

We're all adults now.

Whatever may have been left behind, whatever the small crimes of children we thought we had forgotten, we have left all that behind as a cohort but not quite as each face, each proper noun contains a memorable incident two.

Then further along the time flattening uber-magnetic surface of the web arrive the sort of people we always wanted to meet, but in this unfolding dream, no airfare seems necessary: our far flung heroes and peers are around and approachable if not cut off and isolated by their own overbooked social stratosphere.

And so we converse.

I have for better than two or three years been having a Great Conversation with the world from Dallas to Dubai.

Hard to believe, however, that as much as I may want from others in the way of intellectual comradery, others--and there are so many others!--want a few things from me too.

Chat time.

Typing time.

A startling insight or a novel and entertaining phrase here and there, frequently direction and encouragement, sometimes adulation and praise, also validation.

When all I had wanted to do was play guitar and sing and wax the Mustang now and then . . . or travel and write about and photograph gardens and restaurants--always a fine combination, that one--or read through my library while expanding it . . . there have arrived en masse, some old, some new, a virtual host for the host.

Thank God for English, says I, but the party is getting large.

Having developed fully a life online (well, everything but income, which, unfortunately, seems in character), I find myself fighting for another offline and altogether more focused.

For one thing, and I've mentioned it here, Electronic Attention Deficit Disorder (EADD) seems to have muscled out the pleasures to be gotten from a good book.  The expansion in the common repertoire of accessible electronic distractions has been immense, so much so that dedication of a life to mastering the Adobe suite (graphic arts and publishing) or to Twittering up fame has come into the realm of the possible.

One has to struggle to win back and consolidate invaluable and informative reading time.

For another, so I've learned, I may be able to become aware of much via the Internet, but I cannot master or become expert in much so long as the web dominates my experience of information. 

Truly, we need books and books perform best when they deliver whole worlds. 

So in memory of George, a charismatic law student and musician, Mr. Khoury did something that shocked many in his community. He paid for the translation into Arabic of the autobiography of Israel’s most prominent author and dove, Amos Oz.

The Arabic version of the book, “A Tale of Love and Darkness,” went on sale late last month in Beirut, Lebanon, where it has received positive commentary — notably by Abdo Wazen, cultural editor of the pan-Arab newspaper Al Hayat — as well as some angry reaction. The book is due to be distributed more widely in the region in the coming weeks. [1]

As Mr. Khoury may hope, web chat may be swell but it's in the power of a book, a whole universe presented, to change, little by little, the way a mind looks out on the world and with broadened participation the ways in which many minds may agree on the general look of things.

All in all, it's good to have extra time on one's hands, not much different than a factory with a little more labor capacity than it needs. 

In fact, with the heavy-half of writers and readers, labor allocations should be measured in long mornings and afternoons, even whole days or series of them.  Let the calendar state, "Reading: Tolstoy: Monday through Wednesday."

Nothing else.

Need a break from turning pages?

Forget about e-mail, and go for a walk instead, preferably one that lasts two or three hours and winds up at a pub for refreshment.

I know that answers to fancy--aristocratic fancy at that--more than to practical consideration or possibility; nonetheless, we may have to rediscover certain basics: something for the mind; something for the body; something for the stomach: a book, a walk, and a decent supper may yet work for me.

And much, much less talk, thank you please.

While it's always good catching up with others, the day has come to narrow my own "communications window" so that whatever I may do (usually appended: "with music, photography, or writing"), I may do more deeply and at length with the intent of taking and sharing that much more pleasure in the work.

Anyone got a problem with that?

E- me.

Reference

1. Bronner, Ethan.  "Palestinian Sees Lesson Translating an Israeli's Work."  The American Task Force on Palestine, March 8, 2010: http://www.americantaskforce.org/daily_news_article/2010/03/08/1268024400_0

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