A moment ago, I took a break from worky stuff to write a card to someone. In order to read the address of the person I was sending it to, I had my email open. So there I sat, in front of my 22 inch wide screen LCD monitor, with is connected to my fast, silent desktop PC.
A friend called me on my cellular telephone (which is a camera, an MP3 player, a phone, a phone book, and a tiny video arcade all rolled into one), and we talked briefly. My hands were full of my writing implement and card. Suddenly I broke it the conversation off, saying “I gotta go. I think the cat’s about to jump on the ink well.”
I saved the ink, stopped the cat’s headlong rush, and was struck by the absurdity of the set of opposites that make up my life. This one tickles quite a bit; I am surrounded by state-of-the-art gadgetry, and yet I choose to write a note with a dip-it-in-the-ink-well quill pen.
How many years of communication technology d’you think are encompassed by that particular dichotomy?
Elaine plays calligraphically
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