The art of solitude

"People are crazy and times are strange
I'm locked in tight, I'm out of range
I used to care, but things have changed"

- Bob Dylan, Things Have Changed

I spent a good part of the afternoon meeting with my old boss, John. We still work together after I transferred to another department about 5 years ago. We still manage to have a rap session now and then, too. He and I share a lot of the same taste in music, which usually comes up as we connive to conquer the online media world in between lunches at the local Vietnamese restaurant. Unpack that irony, if you can.

John's an old hippie. My favorite story, among many, from him is the time he was working in Colorado in his younger days. He heard some music from his outdoor job site, so he wandered over to a concert. They had to break through a fence to get in. On stage was Jimi Hendrix. Now that is far out, and I've got nothing that cool in my repertoire to impress young co-workers someday.

But, truth is, I'm not so young anymore, and John and I don't often have time to chat on all things digital and aural. He's well read -- I don't have anywhere near the patience he does -- and he explained an article from the New York Magazine about how Internet services are packing us in a bubble by making choices for us. Pandora spits out variations streams of music to people as they tweak their stations. Google delivers search results based on our history or our Gmail contacts. Amazon recommends products. And on and on.

The machines are making choices for us, and it's supposed to make things easier and more relevant. The trade-off is a shrinking, not expanding, avenue of information. It may make things easier, but is it more interesting? I think that's a fair summation of John's point.

It reminded me of something I'd been chewing on for a while. We don't share music like we used to. It's another of those trade-offs. My best pal and music comrade Hastie and I used to hang out just listening to albums and music. It wasn't as deliberate as the vinyl days, which John waxed nostalgic about today. Now, people shuffle around, in more ways than one, with white cords growing out of their ears. Digital music shattered the experience of albums, which I've always lamented (but not enough to avoid an iPod and those white ear buds). Music is often a solitary experience, or background noise. It's become more passive.

And, hey, it's not all bad. Trade-offs, like I said. But, I'm with the old hippie in thinking it's kind of a shame. Worse, I think it's also true of other art we enjoy. A fragmented, uprooted modern life means a lot of solitary consumption and interpretation of things we enjoy.

So, isn't crazy that when we actually get to know someone in our life well enough to find out they enjoy art we enjoy, that it's a thrill? How bizarre that people would have to get excited that someone out in the wide universe actually knows and enjoys a musician or a show or a book? I mean, of course there are people out there doing that. It shouldn't be much of a surprise, especially when it's good stuff -- great albums or books or films. Whatever.

The other day, I found out that Heather, the woman who sits across from my cube at work, loves Scrivener, which is some pretty specialized software for writers. Which means she does writing at home. I also later found out that her husband writes a beer blog and wants to taste every IPA in the world. It only took us, oh, eight or nine months to realize this wonderful stuff.

I don't blame her one bit, to be clear. She and I have a lot of work to do, not enough resources to get it done, and families to love and enjoy after the bell rings. Ok, there's not actually a bell. We mostly sit at our desks through lunch, eating alone, and still reeling every so slightly from the last round of "be happy we still have jobs."

I wonder what books she reads at night? Does she ever wonder what other people read, too?

What a world.