Ah, the old aunts and uncles. Not only were they wonderful conversationalists and storytellers, they were surrounded with eager and willing listeners — we who never tired of their tales, and who prized their humor, and held joint stock in their memories, experience, and observations. The fire crackling, the coffee perking, the ashtrays full — this was all a feast for the younger folk, and it claimed our full attention. If there was a television in the room, there was no thought of turning it on. It would have been bad manners; an impertinent distraction; an embarrassment; an insult to guests. Now, though, in the age of the internet, social media, and “mobile devices,” a sentence is scarcely finished before the subject is changed, if it can be said there’s a subject at all; distraction rules; people hear their own voices, but are incapable of listening to anyone, including themselves. An exaggeration? Perhaps, but a truthful one.
To paraphrase Walt Whitman, great storytellers need great listeners. We might ask, can one exist without the other? Whitman was great; is great. The question is, are we great enough to keep his work and memory alive, or will we let it become mere fodder for artificial intelligence? Or is it already too late?
How good can a poet or writer be — to choose a familiar endeavor — if most who encounter him or her on the printed or electronic page are so distracted that they have time only to click “like” and expect a “like” in return? Whereas, if readers come with their full attention, expecting and demanding high standards, won’t that make at least some writers demand more and better of themselves? I include myself in this. How good am I, really, how good can I be, under these insane circumstances?
All I’m really saying, though, is this: at my age, especially, like Whitman, I can only live in a way that doesn’t insult my soul. And I advise you to do the same, or to at least think about it.
~
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Categories: Everything and Nothing
Tags: Attention, Distraction, Listening, Reading, Social Media, Walt Whitman, Writing
William Michaelian 
My dear friend William, I would say that real life is elsewhere and is savored like a sweet pearl, a tasty nectar, for a long, long time, and words are fertilized by the generous work of the bee. We’re not fooled by anything, are we? Let’s cultivate our garden without illusions, but let’s cultivate it well. Thank you, my dear, thank you so much !
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And thank you, Béatrice, for such a lovely note. Of course I can’t claim to never be fooled; I know only that when I am, I would rather be so in the way you have described. Sometimes we’re like bees and birds bumping against their reflections in the windows overlooking the garden — fooled, but only for an instant — and then, off we go, back to the trees and the flowers.
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“Let it be”
As for your writing, it has never been better ~
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Well, it is what it is, at any rate, and one hopes that’s just what it needs to be, in whatever way and for whomever it might reach or serve, myself included. And obviously, that’s always been the case, though not always realized by yours truly ~
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