Gone are the days of brick and mortar photo albums. Concrete versions of transient memories have been eclipsed by ease of use and I wouldn’t expect it to be any other way. We don’t need to wait days, or even an hour, to see what just happened. We don’t wait for anything anymore.
We never looked through our photo albums after the fact like before, when we would flip through thick books, falling apart from the constant touching; the three-hole standard ripped and doctored with masking tape.
Usually I’m not this sentimental. I didn’t lament the onslaught of digital cameras. (Nor the end of Polaroid, but that wasn’t really about the end of photos, but the culture.) I wasn’t a Luddite about it like how I am about digital books.
When Elisabeth told me she was shopping– online, of course– for a digital book, I tried, futilely, to dissuade her. You can’t cuddle with a book in bed as it storms outside. You won’t be able to bring an electronic gadget in a bubble bath– you’ll electrocute and die. Won’t you miss admiring cover artwork? How would we swap books?
She didn’t care and I simmered in world music, with words I couldn’t understand but emotions that clearer than any song in English. Look, it’s like this– a blind person has heightened senses of hearing due to his lack of eyesight. For me, international music magnifies mood. I was sentimental, and now I’m maudlin– a silly, silly joke drunk from the sounds of unfamiliar instruments and syllables.