Distracted

Over recent months I've been noticing that I find it harder to maintain my concentration. Yes, I'm getting older and, yes, I have a job where there are dozens of things going on at any one time,  but this is something different...

For example: I'm sitting in the lounge and watching a film, and an actor I recognise comes onto the screen. 'What else have I seen him in?' I ask myself, and in a matter of moments I have a tablet computer in my hand and I'm googling to find the actor's career history. Once I discover that, I'm then onto Amazon to see how much some of his other films cost to own on DVD.

This leads me to the 'Customers who bought this also bought...' section, and before I've realised it, twenty minutes have passed. And all the while, the film I was watching has carried on playing. I turn my attention back to the film, but this time the tablet stays on my lap, just in case.

I'm increasingly distracted, disconnected; I can't seem to do just one thing any more. And this leaves me feeling dissatisfied and empty. Lots of information, very little engagement.

In her wonderful article 'On time, technology, and a celebration of slowness', Terri Windling writes:

Nearly everyone I know feels that some quality of concentration they once possessed has been destroyed. Reading books has become hard; the mind keeps wanting to shift from whatever it is paying attention to to pay attention to something else. A restlessness has seized hold of many of us, a sense that we should be doing something else, no matter what we are doing, or doing at least two things at once, or going to check some other medium. 

It’s an anxiety about keeping up, about not being left out or getting behind. 

This is very much akin to how I feel: as Terri Windling says, I fear being left behind, not getting enough done. Why simply watch a movie when I could half-watch it, and browse the web at the same time? Why merely call a colleague on the phone, when I could simultaneously read and reply to my emails? Why give all my attention to a conversation with my wife after dinner, when I could also have one eye on my Facebook feed?

At least I am aware of this, but something has to give. Multi-tasking is an empty promise which yields half-hearted, shallow results. As Terri Windling goes on to say: 

The cult of productivity has its place, but worshipping at its altar daily robs us of the very capacity for joy and wonder that makes life worth living.

Joy and wonder. That, I know, is what I'm seeking. May I learn to walk slowly enough, that I may find it. 

Ready for my close-up

If you don't mind my asking, when did you last take a photograph of yourself? In other words, when was your latest selfie? I asked myself that question earlier this week and struggled to come up with an answer. After a few minutes' thought I reckoned that the last time I took a photograph of myself was last August, i.e. August 2015, i.e. (if a further 'i.e.' is allowed) 15 months ago.

That realization produced two near-simultaneous responses in me:

1. I couldn't believe it.
2. I could believe it.

Of course, I realise that we take selfies all the time: it's now second nature to point the camera at oneself and capture a pose. I realise also that I am of the generation that has come to mobile technology 'second-hand', as it were, having lived my teenage and early adult years at a time when mobile phones and even digital cameras did not exist. But now that smartphones are available to all and that 66% (and rising) of UK adults own one, my 15-month selfie no-show feels somehow odd. I can't quite believe that I don't do what so many people readily do. What don't I get about this everyday ritual? 

But, then, perhaps I do believe it, after all. I am, by preference, a strong introvert and so tend not to feel drawn to putting myself 'out there' online or in group chats. Also, I spent the formative years of my life in the era when taking photos happened at 18th birthday parties or weddings or, perhaps, on Christmas Day. When I was a teenager, if someone came along to a party with a camera, it became something of a talking-point. Now, if someone comes along without one, it's weird. As a result, I never developed (pre-digital-photography joke, there!) the mindset that taking a photo on the spur of the moment is something that I would do.

And I do worry that I'm missing out, I really do. I don't have a smartphone full of snaps of my family and friends. And I worry that I'm the only one of my peers that doesn't. Will I regret this in five years' time? What about in ten years' time? Twenty years? And what about when it's all too late?

To end, I should own up to the fact that I don't actually have a smartphone. I did, once, for about eight months, but I found it overwhelming. I spent ridiculous amounts of time downloading apps which didn't quite live up to the hype, or occasionally taking photos which never saw the light of day. It all just felt like too much hard work. And so one day, when the battery ran out, I just didn't plug it into the charger. And I replaced it with a phone which cost me £9.99 and had no camera.

And that selfie I took 15 months ago? Well, I actually took it on an old Polaroid camera, and it was a picture of only my feet, as I walked through an ancient forest in Devon. Why I felt drawn to capture that moment, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it was to prove, as perhaps all our selfies are, that on a particular day and at a particular time, I was here.

Getting to the point

Like many writers, I am deeply interested in not only what people write, but how they write. And by that I mean literally what they write with: the medium they use to get words onto paper.

Up to the early 1990s, most writers would have used a pen or, perhaps, a typewriter to express their thoughts or to craft their story. But from that point onwards, the use of a computer became a possibility for more and more people. And in the last 30 years or so, we have gone from desk-bound systems to hand-held devices via voice-recognition and stylus input. In recent years, writers have pondered (and shelled out money on!) devices as diverse as the Palm Pilot and the Psion Series 5 in search of the perfect way to write.

The creators of such technology promised us the future, gave us yet another operating system to learn and left us with one more collaboration of metal and plastic to file away in the kitchen drawer. The paperless utopia that so many spoke of never arrived. But the writer's search for the perfect method continued.

As part of my own search, I came across this article a few months ago which reappraises the role of the humble pencil. Unlike the many smart technologies which are available to the writer, the pencil is pretty much foolproof. As the writer of that article says:

The world's most-used writing implement happens to be the least expensive. 

It never crashes or dries out. It works in outer space, underwater and everywhere in between. Technical support consists of a sharpener.

Since then, I've been slightly obsessed the pencil. I've been reading numerous articles about those who regularly use them for their own writing, and have been investigating - and investing in - some of my own, including the Mitsubishi Hi-Uni and my favourite, the Tombow Mono100.

As I've spent time using them, I've found that the pencil has made a huge impact on my writing. Firstly, there is the advantage of writing by hand rather than using a keyboard and screen. There is a lot of research to show that we think more freely when we write by hand, and that the act of writing by hand forges useful links between thought and movement. 

Secondly, I find that I write more efficiently by hand. When I use a keyboard to write an article on the screen, as I'm doing now, I'm thinking as I type. I spend a lot of time deleting and rewriting sentences and even whole paragraphs. But when I write by hand, I find that I tend to form the next sentence fully in my mind before committing it to paper and, as a result, I rewrite only a handful of words. This picture of one of my recent sermons suggests that writing by pencil is still a viable option in the 21st century. I also love the way that it has a sense of personality and character.

Sermon for the 21st Sunday after Trinity, with a Mitsubishi Hi-Uni pencil, grade B

But is this just a phase in my writing? After all, I once owned a Psion Series 5 and considered it to be the solution to all my needs. (Needless to say, I no longer have it.) I guess it's possible, but when you're already using the simplest, cheapest form of writing tools, why make it any more complicated?

Under the hood

I spent my teenage years in the 1980s, a modern era which had no mobile phones and no internet. Thus our media focus was pop music and TV. The music is still with us, thanks to YouTube and Spotify, but the TV programmes have faded rather more into the background. And the one which sticks in my mind the most is a show I never actually watched whilst I was growing up...

In 1984, a show came onto our screens which felt very much out of sync with the styles and aspirations of 1980s Britain. This was no flashy magazine-style production promoting the trends and fashions of the decade. Rather, it was a thoughtful reinterpretation of a centuries-old figure of English folklore, Robin Hood, in an adaptation called Robin of Sherwood.

Of course, Robin Hood had made many previous screen appearances but this adaptation seemed to indicate a move to a more realistic, 'grittier' son of Sherwood. The production is authentic, with practically all of the scenes shot in outdoor locations and in genuine historical buildings. Outdoors, the natural light fills the frame; indoors, interior shadows heighten the drama.

Whereas a modern director would shoot digitally, Robin of Sherwood was shot on film. However, there is nothing pedestrian about the camerawork in Robin of Sherwood: the director, Ian Sharp, makes very creative use of camera filters and of angles which would not look out of place in any modern film.

I have discovered this telling of the story of Robin Hood only in the last couple of months. I cannot now remember why I never watched any of it the first time around, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it now, thanks to the purchase of DVDs of the show.

At the moment, I'm halfway through the first series. I'm struck by how quiet the show is compared to modern fantasy films: the dialogue is wonderfully written, but sparing; in the woodland scenes, birdsong fills the air; the actors use facial expression and movement to convey much of what they need to say; and, often, as the drama builds, there is silence. It is almost another world.

The show, though now over 30 years old, still has a devoted fan-base. Much more about the show and its creation can be found online. A good place to start is the Spirit of Sherwood site, and there are many others.

There is much more to say about this wonderful production and the themes which it draws together. For now, though, I will simply recommend you seek out an episode or two. And if you're ever up in my neck of the woods, as it were, we can wander into Sherwood together.

(Radio) Silence

I was listening to the Today programme on R4 this morning. Just before it ended, there were a few seconds of silence which were, in fact, part of the link to a brief article about silence.

The bulk of the article was an interview with Dr Helen Lees who spoke about the importance of silence in our lives. In her responses, Dr Lees mentioned a forthcoming film about this topic, called In Pursuit of Silence, in which she features. The trailer for the film (below) is astonishing...



Just watching the couple of minutes of the film trailer started me on a train of thought in which I realised how little silence - real silence - there is in my life. There is, I suspect, a strong link between that fact and the lack of stillness, peace and 'belonging' which I often feel.

The film is due to show in only one place in the UK, and I think that a trip to the US to see it is probably beyond my means. I wait for the film to be released on DVD in due course and, in the meantime, seek out some of the silence which it celebrates.

Walking backwards to the future

I love technology. I love to keep up-to-date with which companies are bringing out new devices, or updating their operating systems. I check out new releases of Linux distributions and have tried out literally hundreds of them on my own computer over the last few years. I also use a computer and a tablet every single day, and sometimes for four or five hours at a stretch. And as I work from home, I'm rarely out of reach of WiFi.

But more than technology, I love old technology. I adore any scene in a film where, about an hour into the movie, the main character searches out the only person in the city who can help to avert the alien threat. ('He doesn't do this sort of thing any more,' says his ex-boss at the underground government facility. 'He gave up on computers when he saw where they were leading civilization. You'll never persuade him to do it.')

When they eventually track down the guy who is their only hope, they find him keeping bees or tenderly trimming a bonsai tree. Of course, they persuade him to help, and then he begins to assemble a makeshift control centre from a Commodore 64, an Acorn A410 (which in the movie is incorrectly badged as an Apple Macintosh II) and one of those telex things where you put a telephone handset into a cradle (as seen in the film Wargames). 'I still know a trick or two,' he says, as he fires up the Commodore and begins to type, 'And these machines were built to last...'

Old technology: as I write this I am burning a couple of albums onto CD so that I can play them while I practice yoga. And to listen to them I will be using a small speaker linked to a Philips personal CD player which my sister gave me as a gift 12 years ago. Why will I be doing that? Because the CD player still works, and because my iPod can no longer hold a charge for more than about an hour and is, therefore, next to useless. And the smartphones? None of them is mine. I do have a new phone, a Sony Ericsson K501i, which was released in 2008 and which I bought last week from a local second-hand exchange store for £18. That, too, still works, and the battery life looks set to be about 7 days between charges.

I'm not sure where this mixed and contradictory approach to technology comes from, but I think there is sense of romanticism there. I simply love the idea that something built years, even decades, ago can still work and be useful today. And I cling to the idea that just because something was created in the last three months and is being sold today in a new wrapper, it doesn't mean that it does a better job than the old one, or the one before that.

Of course, I know that my personal CD player won't work for ever, though I can probably search on Ebay for a replacement. And I know that, one day, there will be no CDs available for me to burn music onto. Perhaps then I will open the windows, or take my yoga mat outside. All the music and technology in the world cannot improve on the song of the blackbird, which is here for a moment and then gone for ever.