Musings on a Monday morning
There was a time when Sunday afternoons were reserved for newspapers and naps.
Some of that survives. Take yesterday, for instance. I fell asleep somewhere around 3 o'clock and slumbered for about two hours, awaking hungry and happy.
But social media changed everything. My attention span, if not gone, is greatly reduced.
I'd often use rainy or cold Sunday afternoons as time to read, 20 books or more a year. I still aim toward that bull's-eye, but often find my mind wandering, back to Facebook feeds, tweets, all this silly stuff that has become the way we live now.
It isn't all bad. I can now read The Sunday (London) Times in addition to print editions of the Sunday News Sentinel and The New York Times. I can read The Paper of Record seven days a week if I want. I have access to stories I would have otherwise missed if not for social media. I keep up with friends I never see.
Still, something is awry, amiss, out of place, out of sync.
I wonder what will happen when a generation that knows nothing about three-channel TV and can't remember a time without Facebook or YouTube comes of age. My suspicion is everything and nothing will change.
I do lament the lost art of conversation. I am attracted to people who know the language, who revere it even, people who use it well, who think about words and ideas and who might have even read a story or two in The New Yorker.
Time marches on, as it must, some good, some bad, some in between to be had, more shades of gray than monochrome.
Musings on a Monday morning. Nothing more. Nothing less.