Cheapened Communication: The Lost Art of Writing Letters

If you’re over the age of 30, you surely remember the thrill that once accompanied receiving personally addressed correspondence—once known as letters. It might have been a letter from a friend that had moved away, a favorite aunt sending a check for your birthday, with a handwritten note, or some other form of entreaty that arrived via parcel post.

The advent of email was trumpeted with much fanfare, and the usual ballyhoo that attends each subsequent technological advance. Email was supposed to usher in a new dawn of communication, making it easier and simpler to communicate regularly—yet, another “democratization” in interpersonal relations and correspondence, as if letter writing was the communications equivalent of living behind the Iron Curtain. With this attendant ease of communication has also come an ease by which members of society now feel compelled to unload what’s on their chests, often without much thought and reflection. You can witness this regularly when you read online news articles that allow comments, or blog posts at blogs that have a good deal more traffic than mine. At least letters allowed some measure of time to cool off, reflect, rethink, and possibly tear up that angry note or letter before mailing it. Email allows us to hit “send” as soon as it is composed.


What has happened over the past five years is that people rarely even send an email anymore. First there was MySpace, where you could add friends by the mouse click. Then, it was Facebook, and recently, Twitter. Now, communication is more truncated than ever, although few people seem concerned about this.

One of my favorite books on our cultural downward descent was Morris Berman’s, The Twilight of American Culture. Berman clearly depicts the intellectual decline of the west with a prophetic urgency. While there are those cultural critics that think this downward spiral can be halted, and even reversed, Berman’s pronouncement is dire. There is no reversing the trend and little we can do to arrest the corporate clutch of our communication that has become ubiquitous.

There are those who consider Berman too dark and depressing and prefer to remain in denial. Books like TTOAC aren’t for those types. They remain ensconced in their cocoon, informed by reality television, video games and WIRED articles.

On the contrary, one of the most intriguing aspects of Berman’s book isn’t any hope of a cultural revival, but what he characterizes as some hope for anyone that desires to find meaning in a culture that’s rapidly disintegrating. It’s what Berman refers to as the “monastic option,” and he calls those who accept the charge as “new monastic individuals,” or NMIs. The monastic aspect is a nod to medieval monks who retreated from conventional society in an attempt to preserve its literary and historical treasures.

What Berman is talking about is creating “zones of intelligence” in both a private, as well as local ways. He maintains that it is important that these monastic activities be kept out of the public eye as much as possible. He specifically picks on simplistic efforts like “fifty ways to save the earth” and “voluntary simplicity,” to name two. Berman cites Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 and the “book people.” It is about adopting a “guerrilla” way of life. I found his ideas intriguing back in 2000 when the book first came out, and his prescriptions ring truer now, almost a decade later.

What could be done to adopt our own monastic option? What if a small band of monastic individuals made a pact to write letters periodically, possibly once per month to one another? I’ve heard of others who have done similar things. We could return to mailing articles to one another, cut from newspapers, or copied from a magazine, much the way these things happened before people began incessantly forwarding links.

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Technology has resulted in a truncated style of communication. The nature of technology lies in its ability to reduce all things to a binary function—the number one, or a zero. This makes communication, and in particular, correspondence, transactional vs. remaining relational.

Most human beings have a gregarious side. Our evolution has incorporated storytelling and narrative as part of our development. Anthropologists have discovered remnants of early communication involving elements of stories, even if these were just pictures on the wall of a cave.

Writing letters has been man’s preferred method of communication, at least since the invention of paper. Historians have been able to piece together the lives, and develop portraits of important men (and women) primarily by sorting through their letters and correspondence. David McCullough’s delightful book on the life of John Adams relied heavily on Adams’ letters, back and forth between Adams and his wife Abigail, with Thomas Jefferson, and other historical figures that are now revered, who happened to be contemporaries of Adams.

I don’t know what will happen to history and those men and women living during our current epoch, a period of emails, Facebook wall postings, and Twitter. Will it be possible to reconstruct a life 100 years out into the future, if nothing tangible remains? What kind of archiving of email correspondence is taking place? If an ISP has records of your communication today, what happens 25, 50, or 100 years out, given the possibility of mergers, acquisitions, or the disappearance of the ISP, displaced by some newer, more effective communications platform?

Will historians acquire an alternative means to capture people’s correspondence? What becomes of history at that point, and does anyone even give a damn about it?

I don’t want this post to devolve into a philosophical exercise. It does concern me on several different levels, however, including technology’s obvious orientation towards altering our ability to remain connected to our past. I see this as one of technology’s most serious negative implications, its ability to sever our tether to who we were.

I’ve been ruminating about what could be done to enhance Berman’s model of new monasticism, and letter writing might be an entry point to becoming a new monastic individual, or a NMI. Choosing to be a member of a small group of letter writers, sending off a letter, possibly once per month, handwritten (or not, depending on whether you still have some semblance of penmanship remaining), one or two pages in length, dispatched to a post office box, roadside mailbox, or apartment letter-box seems like an exercise worth considering. An added benefit might be the anticipation of receiving a delayed response in the form of a letter, which takes time to travel from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon.

One of the challenges to aging in our own time is the rapid acceleration of change. Change no longer brings improvements, like moving from ice box to refrigerator did for food storage, or the reductions in physical labor required to live, where bodies wore out by the age of 55, or 60 (hence the age of retirement being 65). Granted, even those kinds of improvements wrought by technology could bring contrary opinions about benefit. Unless you subscribe to the belief that all technology is suspect, we might agree that technology did bring improvements in quality of life. Of course, there are those like John Zerzan and others who present ideas positing contrarian views about technology and its impact on civilization. I’ve read Zerzan, Derrick Jensen, and others. Their points have some appeal, but that’s fodder for another day.

My point here is that the acceleration of change and technology’s reach, have far exceeded our capacity to regulate and set parameters for the benefit of all of us, not only the elite. I think of the reach of technology today and its impact on our ability to preserve basic privacy, if we choose. Governments around the world can track and monitor everything we do, or say, and our own vote whether to participate, or refuse, has been usurped by the onslaught of change.

Writing a letter won’t necessarily alter technology’s relentless march forward (or backward, depending on your orientation), but it might allow us a periodic reconnect with the human side.

I’d be happy to get the ball rolling by writing a letter to the first five people that send an email with your name and address. Once you receive my letter, I hope you’ll consider sending back a letter response of your own.

In my way of seeing things, this reestablishes a more human (and maybe, humane) way of interacting and communicating.

[A regular reader points out that I have no listed email, which might be a problem if you would like a personal letter. I'll use an innocuous email for obvious reasons (spam and all that other good stuff connected to "benign and altruistic" technology); here it is-- mediadrop04 (at) yahoo (dot) com, remember to replace the (at) with an @ and the (dot) with a .--Jim]

The true secret of weight loss

It occurred to me this week that the start of my journey towards a healthier weight and lifestyle began the week I also decided that I would read DFW’s Infinite Jest.

While Wallace was a great writer, and his post-modern nod to James Joyce certainly exhibits qualities uncommon in most of what passes as popular, or even literary today, I doubt that it qualifies as a weight loss product. The book sure causes some people to whine like a three-year-old that doesn't get its own way however, mostly because it forces them to use their brains in a way that TV and video games never will.

The weight loss is probably mere coincidence, although one of the common threads running through the book is addiction, and Wallace goes to great detail outlining the steps towards recovery that the book’s characters go through at the fictional Ennet House, a drug and alcohol recovery house that figures prominently in the book. It also is a place where we meet Don Gately, one of the main characters (and possibly my favorite), a former thief and Demerol addict, and current counselor in residence at the house.

[Poorly reproduced graph of my own weight loss progress, sans NutriSystem and colon detox products]

Speaking of weight loss products, I’ve taken a great interest in the NutriSystem ad, where Dan Marino touts his 22 pound weight loss (only one more than my current 21 pounds lost) eating expensive, pre-packaged foods that keep you enslaved to the UPS man showing up at your door with more expensive, pre-packaged food. I also am enjoying those bizarre ads shouting and spouting that “the real reason reason you can't lose weight has nothing to do with will-power, over-eating, or the right diet! The reason you are fat and unhealthy is because you have disgusting plaque and a horrible little ‘critter’ living in your guts!”

They then show you these disgusting photos that will make you sick to your stomach and unable to ever eat again, unless maybe you have some pre-packaged NutriSystem food set before you.

The real reason that companies like NutriSystem, Jenny Craig, and bizarre detox products sell is because American are just plain stupid!

Meanwhile, I’m saving money, looking and feeling better, not to mention taking control of elements of my own life, which is empowering, in and of itself.

The importance of hitting goals

Life is way more than merely showing up, as in, "90 percent of life is...," or however the quote that's attributed to Woody Allen ultimately goes. Far too many people just show up, although in 2009, showing up could be a starting point.

At the risk of Words Matter turning into a self-help blog, I think there is something important about setting an attainable goal, one that you know might stretch you a bit, but ultimately, you think you can reach.

Take my weight. I know that according to a variety of body weight charts and my height (6'3"), five weeks ago, I was more than 50 pounds overweight. I have some issues with these charts and one's healthy weight, but I will allow that I was probably at least 35-40 pounds heavier than I should be. Instead of setting myself up for failure, I decided for an interim goal of shedding 20 pounds by August 1. I hit my goal yesterday. I am down 20 pounds, and feeling pretty damn good about my progress.

The same week I decided not to be fat, I also committed to reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. I'm happy to report I'm on page 648, which on the reading schedule would allow me to slack off until about August 21 and still be on task.

It feels good to follow through on simple tasks, not to mention there are some health and psychic benefits to doing so. I'm biking regularly, eating foods that are better for me, and committing to a book like Infinite Jest forces me to read, instead of watching TV, or mindlessly surfing the web.

Some ancillary benefits of all of this; I feel re-energized on the writing front. Not only am I feeling more engaged with my blogging, but I've been working on some essays that ultimately will find their way to some sort of compilation/book type thingy.

Well, time to heat up my hot water for my instant oatmeal, and get ready for work.

Whither my queue?

I’ve been a Netflix customer for several years. Like many aging boomers (actually, I’m a Gen Jones, but that was the subject of another post), it’s so much easier to stay in, tune out, and watch a movie, rather than drive to the local indie movie house.

Like so many other things in my life, I’m questioning former patterns of activity, and truly embracing re-invention. Now, when I give my Re-invention 101 talk to people looking to move their lives forward, it is going to be filled with real-life, not a bunch of theoretical poppycock like so many others out there, sharing ideas and awareness, but lacking in action.

Netflix pissed me off. I should have known when the strange Sci-Fi flick arrived in my postal box that something was amiss.

While I’m known to plug a bunch of random movies into my queue on a whim, or a brief reference from God knows where, this movie wasn’t anything I’d ever want to rent. When I logged on to my Netflix account, I discovered that my queue had been wiped out. Fuck! Months of random additions and effort to track down other movies by directors of movies I had previously enjoyed. Working from other recommendations by writers, musicians, friends, and various other film buffs—gone!!!

I know what you’re thinking—it must have been some technological glitch. That’s just it—I’m sick of technology letting me down once again, just like it always does. Netflix overpromises, and continually under-delivers.

Well Netflix, you’ll have to find someone else to be your bitch, because you just lost this one. I’m sick of being pushed towards downloading movies and I wonder if you didn’t clear my queue on purpose, because I don’t download.

From now on, it’s Videoport, or the public library for my movie rentals. And places like Frontier, where Mary and I saw the amazing documentary, The Way We Get By, about three seasoned Mainers, who have been greeting troops coming and going through Bangor International Airport for the past six years. Directed by a Mainer, Aron Gaudet, it’s a film worth seeking out and seeing.

Beyond having my queue wiped out, I don’t how often I had to employ my own tricks to have a Netflix DVD play that stopped mid-scene in my player. They also tend to be lacking indie films that tend to lack national distribution, so many strong independent movies by cutting-edge directors are impossible to score.

Indie stores, like Videoport, tend to care about things like customer service. They cultivate relationships with their customers, like not charging late fees if you happen to get a movie back Monday afternoon, if you can’t hit the drop box first thing in the morning because Mary’s sales appointments take her someplace other than downtown Portland. They also make recommendations for films based upon other rentals, and more times than not, it’s a winner.

I’d be interested in the video rental horror stories of others, whether with Netflix, or corporate chains like Blockbuster.

Green Day grows up

When I opened my WSJ last week and saw the three members of Green Day staring back at me, I was incredulous. How does a former punk band, with a penchant for juvenilia end up gracing the pages of the pinnacle of establishment journalism? Maybe their journey from 924 Gilman Street to gracing the business bible of men in expensive suits is in fact a meditation on the reality that the American dream is still alive and well.

Reflecting on where Green Day’s beginnings are rooted (see Jello Biafra incident), the band’s ascension is dripping with irony. The easy route with the boys from Berkeley would be to lob the label “sellout,” as so many have already done. To do so would be walking the well-worn path of many who have turned on bands and artists that have progressed from humble beginnings and the rigors of paying their dues, to eventually taking the rock world by storm.

So, how does a band with punk roots transition from having a fixation with scatalogical references for album names (Dookie and Kerplunk) and masturbation (the song “Longview”), end up being a band that critics laud, and mainstream audiences line up to buy their music and attend their shows? Further, it begs the question, as it does with any band that ascend from obscurity and a niche market to respectability and mass consumption, did Green Day betray their beginnings to reach their current popularity?

Rather than taking the clichéd route and label the band sellouts, it might be more instructive to recognize the natural development of a talented songwriter, like Billie Joe Armstrong, and the ongoing evolution of a band, as it hones its chops and artistic vision. While there will always be those that insist on keeping any band as their own personal secret, the nature of playing music for a living demands that you sell records, draw people to your shows, and have the ability to push swag. This is probably even more the reality now, than ever before, despite the ongoing falsity that claims that the internet makes it easier for bands to break out than ever before. The internet actually makes it much more likely that a talented band or artist gets screwed, as their music can be downloaded, passed around, and the artist receives little, or nothing in return. Having talent helps, but getting breaks, and ultimately, selling out major venues is what allows a musician to finally receive something back for their own artistic contribution.

Back in 1994, Dookie was in heavy rotation in the Baumer household. At the time, 11-year-old Mark had discovered the seduction that bands like Green Day offered pre-adolescents. Mark, who owned Dookie on cassette, frequently cajoled me into popping the tape into the cassette deck of the Camry wagon I owned at the time, as I drove Mark to yet another baseball game. While Green Day was tame by my own indie rock standards of the time, I could appreciate the melodic nature of the music. They were still a band that I typecast as lacking the sophistication necessary to warrant much more than my passing interest, however.

Fast forward a decade and when “American Idiot” burst forth on modern rock stations like WCYY, I noted that Billie Joe, Mike, and Tré Cool had grown up. In fact, the anthemic tune could have been America’s soundtrack in 2004, capturing the angst and frustration many felt post 9-11, considering four more years of theocratic rule, from a pseudo despot with a challenged intellect. The transition from singing about autoeroticism to commentary on the culture, Green Day had clearly come through a maturation process as individuals and as a band.

While American Idiot showed the band’s ongoing evolution, particularly the rock opera elements and what’s become a signature track, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” it also showed the band teetering on the precipice of remaining relevant, or becoming just another reminder of how far punk had fallen from its late 70s/early 80s perch, taking the temperature of suburban America.

With the latest record, 21st Century Breakdown, the band seems to have decided the rock opera format suits them just fine. Musically, they seem to be stuck in limbo between three-chord sensibilities and the DIY ethic they originally wore on their sleeves, and bombastic classic-rock. The ballads, frankly, are a bit too over the top for my tastes. Still, the band is capable of raging with the best of them.

Given that originally, Green Day appeared to be one or two album flash in the pan punk panderers, the fact that they’re still cranking out meaningful music long after all of their peers have faded away is a testament to the trio’s artistic fortitude.