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Tuesday, 3 July 2018

Post Modern


photo of rural mailboxes taken at Tinkertown, Northern Southland, New Zealand.

Mailboxes are becoming a thing of the past. Soon all mail will be delivered to the door by courier. You don't know what you have until it's gone. However, watch this space as they may well come back. There are places in New Zealand that are bringing back glass milk bottles.

Sci fi . futuristic novels and movies don't quite get it. Humans are basically nostalgic creatures, reluctant to completely let go of the past. Hence despite their predictions that by now we would all be living in plastic homes furnished in pure white modular units and eating dried food, here we are buying antique furniture and eating real food from our own gardens, or at least, locally produced.

I think the key to predicting the future is simply waiting and seeing.


4 comments:

Avus said...

I agree, Kay. Humans mostly seem to want what they know or understand and this penchant for "old things" is, I think, a desire to have what they had in youth. As to plastics - the modern scourge which is befouling our seas, worldwide. The sooner we stop using them, the better. However, it is reckoned it will take a generation of non use for the seas to ecover.

How do we know said...

I think that humans are like the self correcting steering wheel of a car. The minute we fly too far from reality, we sort of come back - sometimes with a thud, sometimes gradually, but we do. There is so much old stuff coming back... and I am very optimistic about the future of people

kj said...

very wise observations, kay. I love my mailbox and my town has an old fashioned post office with rentable brass key mail slots.

we do long for our best memories. I think that's part of our dna.

I'm so glad you're well.

love
kj

Roderick Robinson said...

To me nostalgia is an illness, a weakening of the backbone, a clinging on to what's known, a fear of the future.

When I was about five or six (ie, during WW2) I went down with a fearful headache. Mercifully the memory of the pain is long gone, and that, straight away, is one reason for suppressing a yearning for times gone by. I remember only lying in bed and my parents looking solemn, as well they might. Meningitis had been diagnosed and the prognosis in those days was terrible. Yet I survived.

Later my mother told me. Our GP had said there was this drug - M and B - only recently devised, it may even have been still in development. It did the job.

Seventy-five years later - having long resisted my mother's influence as a published poet - I finally took up verse. Far, far too late to write anything satisfactory but I had started to think in poetic terms. Relevant or not I see that illness as a moment when my life was stretched out between the past and the future, with the issue very much in the balance. Not surprisingly I favour the latter rather than the former. The past lacks optimism, it must, optimism lies in the future.

More trivially I distrust people who wax nostalgic about cars they have owned. My best car is the current one - better equipped, more reliable, safer, more economical. An artefact to be used rather than adored. The rest is cream teas with scones.

Harbour

Harbour
'how this all harbours light'