Don't Migrate to the Facile

Folks, I strongly encourage you to read this comment on my Wood Heat post. When you get to the end, keep reading; his comment is in two parts. It's a great read, eloquently describing why I enjoy vinyl so much (well, part of the reason) and also why I own a turntable from around 1960 (a Thorens TD-124; I'll tell its story later on this blog when I find the time), and why I spent part of this past weekend rebuilding the turntable's motor. Such activities -- and the vinyl rituals shared with friends -- help to forge a personal connection to the music (and the equipment it's reproduced on) that goes missing in MP3 downloads, and that's essential to maximum enjoyment. Here's a taste of the comment:

There is something to be said about W O R K. There is also something to be said about connecting with multiple senses. Not everyone will agree but so far, by my count, the numbers are in favour of those that want to connect over those that don't. I've already dragged a few friends over to this dark side of life. The harder working side, but in the end they seem more satisfied. I wouldn't say I try to struggle through everything I do but in the things I enjoy, I tend to. Wine, photography, computers (I roll my own linux, not distro-centric, I mean from the kernel up!) and audio. I feel closer to the creators, closer to my peers and closer to myself, connecting with me on levels that would otherwise be wasting away from disuse. Call it lethargy of the brain, but I tend to think that folks who migrate to the facile on a regular basis waste away.

I make my living as the editor of an online publication. I work remotely, from home. I communicate by IM, email, and occassionally telephone. I maintain a Twitter feed. Nearly every professional thing I do is on the Internet.

Yet I often fantasize about starting up a new publication, one that completely forgoes new technology, using the telephone, the train, and the car; visiting libraries to do research; doing on-site reporting whenever possible; printing on old-fashioned printing presses. So when "anonymous wrote the following," I cheered:

It's sad when I gather with my mates, early to mid thirty year olds, and they complain about feeling less than whole. Given my friends, my first and continual proclaimation is: "Disconnect yourselves!" Yank the plugs to everything and see the people around you. Get back to nature, go hiking, better yet go camping, real camping! Join a sports team, join a club that isn't a computer-centric one (for my friends anyhow). Do something with people! These guys are married, most have one child, and they feel lost and numb and lonely and are depressed. Some struggle to listen to music, something we all enjoyed as teens growing up. Why? Because the idea of flipping through 25 000 tracks is daunting. It's a chore now.

Let me add an insight I had years ago that, in a way, is along the same lines. There was a time when I used money as a sort of stimulant. It's not that I had a lot of it -- I didn't -- but I got a charge out of buying new stuff, even if it wasn't anything especially valuable or interesting. I'm not over it -- I still do this -- but I'm not as bad as I used to be.

In those days, I always hated it when the bills came due. My wife paid them. When she started, I left the room. I didn't like to watch.

Then one day, not long after I bought a house (and took out a mortgage) I understood that there's another way of looking at things. If you live according to your principles -- if you buy and spend time on things you value -- then the spending is something to celebrate. Making the mortgage payment on my house became a pleasant ritual, a way of celebrating that gave pleasure and meaning to my life (in stark contrast to the junk I sometimes bought to stimulate those short-term burst  of neurotransmitters).

At some level we all know this already, or most of us: Convenience is over-rated. To extract value from things, sometimes you have to invest in them, work at them. If you don't know this, try it out. You won't be sorry.