This piece of news as reported in the 'print' version of the NY Times today is most disturbing for me:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/25/busin ... ck.html?hp
It would appear there is no going back as I presume more and more newspapers will take to this model including my favorite- the NYT. Cannot be affirming for those I know who work in this world and it definitely is disturbing for my youngest daughter as she finishes her college education and plans for a career in this field. I am not willing to label myself a luddite but I strongly resist the various electronic social media. I simply find a 'soulless' joy in reading my texts on devices. I will take daily print and ink stained fingers any day. I know I am in the minority. What is the cliche?-'swim or drown'.
A Tipping Point?
- Jack of All Parades
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A Tipping Point?
"....there's a merry song that starts in 'I' and ends in 'You', as many famous pop songs do....'
- verbal gymnastics
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Re: A Tipping Point?
Personally I prefer a newspaper but the internet and social media has changed everything. Everybody wants - and can get - things in an instant.
The trains are full of people on Kindles or iPads or smartphones. I use my iPhone to post onto this site for example although I'm no expert with it.
Unfortunately the time's they are a changin'.
The trains are full of people on Kindles or iPads or smartphones. I use my iPhone to post onto this site for example although I'm no expert with it.
Unfortunately the time's they are a changin'.
Who’s this kid with his mumbo jumbo?
- Jack of All Parades
- Posts: 5716
- Joined: Sun Apr 12, 2009 11:31 am
- Location: Where I wish to be
Re: A Tipping Point?
Indeed I know- yet I still manage with my printed text and a simple cell phone that just allows me to make a phone call, as necessary. Though I am contemplating the step up to a lap top once my ancient Dell ceases to 'operate'. The view of the mass of people I observe on my daily walks in my community with their faces and fingers glued to some portable device is disheartening- I want to invoke this sentiment:
Expostulation and Reply
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"
William Wordsworth
Expostulation and Reply
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"
William Wordsworth
"....there's a merry song that starts in 'I' and ends in 'You', as many famous pop songs do....'