Digital technology has wiped out traditional forms of communication and replaced them with fancy, new electronic devices. This isn’t sentiment talking or nostalgia, it’s harsh reality.
Take payphones, they’re history. Although you can, with persistence, still find a few relics languishing in weird, godforsaken places. Whether they work is another question. Cursive handwriting, that’s on the fast track to extinction. Ditto for the United States Postal Service. Morse code, cave painting, telegrams, long gone or en route. And it’s not over yet.
Eavesdropping is also falling by the wayside and that will be the biggest, most regrettable loss of all. It’s entertaining to overhear people talk, sort of like a radio show. We’d pretend not to listen in as we sat in silent judgment, feeling righteous and smug because, heh, we’re not as bad as those losers. Admit it, prying and snooping are guilty pleasures, second only to gossiping.
But listening in on actual conversations is next to impossible these days. No one chats anymore, we don’t even make eye contact. Why socialize when there’s a glowing screen on hand, a device we swipe and tap and are enthralled by?
It’s thanks to those smartphones that we’re restricted to only one side of the conversations going on around us. Unless the little chatterboxes put the call on speaker and, you know, that’s not out of the question. We’re in a frightening era of rampant TMI; personal intimacies are proudly presented in gory, graphic detail.
Clearly, people are having trouble interacting. There’s no witty repartee or snappy banter, no more quips or bon mots. Nuance and subtlety are undoubtedly outré.
Now, I like technology as much as the next person, but I enjoy a good chinwag, too. So, when I want sparkling conversation, I have to talk to myself. Not just muttering and dissociated ramblings, oh no. I must strike up lively, rollicking discussions and carry both sides of the conversation.
Except I pissed myself off and now I’m not speaking to me. Brings a whole new meaning to silent night. Ho, ho, oy.
copyright © 2015 the whirly girl