time poor

Shrinking Attention Spans

It is so frustrating. We need long articles (or books) and lengthy documentaries to properly and thoroughly develop our point. But if I drew a graph, with the numbers of words in my article on one axis, and the number of “visits” or “hits” and “comments” on the other, every 50 words above 700 would see a drop in the number of visits, hits or comments. Beyond a thousand words, the drop-off would be steep. No wonder a lot of editors won’t accept submissions beyond that. It is not just that other stories compete for column inches, but that reader interest “ain’t what it used to be”. Our growth-oriented society has cultivated an extreme impatience with anything that does not titillate or excite us for more than 20 seconds.

Fordism Writ Large: Restless People Speaking at 45 RPM

People are even speaking in MSN text language, as if they are on a walkie-talkie. Quick, glib and terse. If the digital generation is not aloof, sullen and withdrawn in their ipod solitude, they typically fire out their words in machine gun bursts like DJs and computer store salesmen. No wonder they can’t suffer the relatively plodding discourse of the grandparents they never visit in care homes. Our speech mimics the “speed up” inherent in Fordism. Like so many Charlie Chaplins on an assembly line who sound like chipmunks on amphetamines. Not only is the workplace more frenzied and drained of creativity, but our leisure hours are structured to keep up the pace. Even our children cannot be left to their own devices, but must be force-fed through a pressure-cooker schedule of dance lessons, martial arts, scout meets or hockey practices all while engaging in school activities, strangers who too often take their meals in microwaved tupperware after siblings and parents have eaten and scattered in pursuit of solitary goals. It is as if we are channel-surfing through conversations, relationships, marriages, and jobs. We feel compelled to keep on movin’ and keep on consumin’ because our appetities have been conditioned for the quick fix of immediate gratification. Why should I be bothered to work through my marital difficulties when I am told that I am in a supermarket of alternative mates? Why should I hang in there at work when as soon as I feel dissatisfied I can jump ship to another employer? And employers cycle through employees as if they are pushing in and out of a revolving door? It used to be that Type A behaviour was conspicuous, but now it is the norm, and it is celebrated. Having too much on your plate is thought to be an attribute, a mark of ambition, and we all must be ambitious—to be otherwise would be sinful. The puritan ethic has been harnessed for consumerism and the perpetual restlessness and cultivated discontent that drives it.

The Broken Promise of Hyper-Industrialism

This is the culture that we must contend with. It is not only that people don’t want to know about the bad news— they don’t want to take time to know. Of all the deadly sins, in my judgment, greed is the worst. And greed is not confined to the desire for more toys, but to the desire for more. More activities, more commitments, more irons in the fire. We must keep busy to avoid thinking and avoid our friends and families. More than for the ruin to nature’s life-support systems, I resent this growth-mad society for its destruction of personal relationships. When is the last time someone sat down and poured out their feelings in a long handwritten letter to you? That once was common-place. How often are people taking time to really listen to their friends? To think that hunter-gatherers worked just two hours a day. What happened to this leisure society that was promised by our industrial civilization a half century ago?

No Time To Listen

The man who taught me how to use a computer four years ago, so that I could begin to write and converse with interesting people across the world, suffered a private turmoil that few in the community bothered to notice. We used his services but never took the time to find out how his life was going. He was a good man, who lived at the base of the cliff my house is perched on. Just a 3 minute walk from here. One morning I found him slumped over the wheel of his truck, beside a spilled glass of wine that his hand once held, as the carbon monoxide from his exhaust was filling the cabin. He had attached an “O” tube to the end of the exhaust pipe, with the other end entering a small gap near the door, taped to trap the fumes inside. He had turned on the ignition and left it on. He was stone dead when I saw him. If only we had taken the time, we might have helped him out of his hell. But even in a tiny rural community like mine, people don’t have time anymore. That to me, is what growth-madness is. The thief who stole time.

Tim Murray