Somewhere Between The Interactive And The Text

Yesterday, while out having coffee, a friend brought up the subject of Michael Crichton and his sudden death from a long and private battle with cancer.

I left this conversation feeling mostly saddened, partially removed and very thoughtful.

People die every day, it’s something we’ve numbed ourselves to, as beings. I say this knowing that each and every individual handles the idea of mortality, and of death, differently. This process, our grieving, is based on our connections with those that pass in it; our involvement with them, they with us, the impact they’ve had on our growth as people, as individuals, and sometimes not so much.

I think about this idea. About mortality and aging, and of passing, more so now than I ever did because of my parents. They are older now, which isn’t to say that they aren’t any less lively than they were 15 or 20 years ago, but there are noticeable differences now; it takes longer for them to recover from an illness, the little illnesses [common ones] happen more often, their bodies don’t do all that they are used to them doing, there isn’t the strength or the stamina there used to be. Some times it’s hard for them to follow conversation, they tire mentally, or at least from my observations, allow the confusion they have to settle in and stay.

I know that this is a part of life, that these things will be a part of my life too; that others will watch me with concern and thought the way I watch my own parents. I hope, at least, that this will be true.

While thinking about my parents, and their lives, and that of Michael Crichton, I was struggling with why his death for me, is so sad. I came up with several things, mostly relevant to how I see interactions, people, and this [place] world. I mentioned that people die everyday, that this is a part of life we either acknowledge or don’t, I find that this is something I should and must acknowledge for personal reasons.

There was a rough spot in my life many years ago, one in which I reached out for things of comfort in order to fill the spaces I felt so small, dark and lacking in myself. Reading books was, and has been since then, something I turn to as a source of comfort; an outlet, a place to empower myself, a way to connect to others. I sit here, thinking of Michael Crichton, and of the first novel I read of his; “The Andromeda Strain.” Soon after I went seeking more, and stumbled upon “The Terminal Man” and “A Case Of Need” during a local library book sale. Since then the physical act of reading, more than casual reading, has been a major part of life. It is its own facet. I dedicate time, space, and energy to books. To collecting them, to organizing them, to reading, re-reading, swapping, lending, and talking about; books.

There are several kinds of readers; those that read for fun, those that read to -read-, people who’d never touch a physical book, but dedicate hours to reading e-books, or listening to audio books. There are also people who don’t read. Period. I’ve met people like this in real life. I’m shocked sometimes, mostly because my house has always been, is still, and is ever accumulating, with books/tombs/texts. I can’t imagine a life, a mind, without this facet, one without this outlet.

This brings me to another thought; how different my interactions are with those that read verses those that don’t, and how over the years finding people like myself has been harder. Finding the consistent, constant, reader. The internet, certain aspects of technology, have replaced many simple things; things like reading. Items like books have been replaced with social networking, blogging, microblogging, photo-blogging, vlogging, and IM’s. I find this part of the world, this part of the interactive world, intimidating. I’d much prefer a book, and a person in real life with which to discuss the book. I know that not all interactions can function this way, as time and space affords us no luxuries.

I can’t help but feel, maybe know in some small way, that my handing you a book I’ve enjoyed countless times, in order to share a part of myself, just isn’t the same and really can’t be the same, as winking you on AIM and giving you an e-hug.

Michael Crichton, I will miss your words, your ideas, your writings. I hope to one day be able to hand someone my old copies of your works, start a conversation, maybe initiate some form of lost real life interactive contact through a thing as simple, and as physical, as your novels.

- Melinda