incremental air strikes

On the way there, her daughter stumbled and split her knee. The blood was streaming into her shoes. She did not cry. She is made of sterner stuff. Her five-year-old was immensely affable. Dispensing observations on the nature of the duckbill platypus. And snakes. The hooded cobra, to be precise. His sister imprisoned Milo in a chalk circle. Fitted dancing shoes on his little sockless feet. We made our way home in the middle of the afternoon. Stopped off at the supermarket for groceries. The leaves on the trees have not begun to redden quite yet, but it is coming all the same. We turned the corner and caught up with our three older children, in time to redistribute the weight. The key had scarcely turned in the lock when my stepdaughter stepped on the mail. Airmail, at that. Incremental Decrepitude. #1.

All the way from Connecticut. Well. It\’s author, Dave Brushback, claims to have borrowed the title from one of my posts. I don\’t know. I\’m immensely flattered, of course. I\’m astounded that he managed to turn it around. It has been a while since I\’ve fallen back from the monitor into hard copy. The issue of obsession. Photographs; copy; the works.

\”This issue was made entirely by hand. Which is why you probably didn\’t get one.\”

The digital revolution has been something of a godsend to all manner of peons, the world around, on and off the bleachers. One base on an overthrow. The elimination of the need for camera ready artwork. Paste-up. The prerequisite to get to grips with paper; to wrestle with pagination. A staple through one\’s index finger. Newspaper is all but finished. News International, PLC. It strikes me, though, that should it all come down – incrementally, all at once – the digital paragraph will be the first to fail. SMS; ADSL.

Just goes to show. Don\’t throw your hat in the air next time those NATO jets scroll by. Or raise a clenched copper fist. How does one know if the postman knocks a third time, if nobody\’s home to hear it ?



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