Privileged, We Are

Privileged, we are, we, readers and writers,

In the twenty-first century. Privileged?

Synonyms: advantaged, entitled, indulged,

We want our literature not only served.

But served and seasoned to our taste,

How did this happen, and what was the cause?

Shall we wait a moment; give pause?

Take a breath, make a cup of tea?

The writers of the twentieth century are to blame,

If “blame” be the verb; the villains are the scriptwriters,

For radio, television, and film. Minimalism is all!!

The greatest amount of meaning is in the minimum of words.

“Time is money,” they say. Like fools, we believe them,

Tailor our expectations accordingly. Not to say, I assure you,

That their craft is without skill; to the contrary, it is to be commended,

For that which we gain, there is something we lose; is my plaintive cry.

Thay which we lose, moments of silent rapture, be gained by primal capture,

Grabbed by our nerve endings we are taken on a ride, full of danger, excitement,

Adrenaline-pumping, to be deposited at the other end. What happened, we cry.

Where have we been? I do not complain about such rides, I have I enjoyed.

They are not the be-all and end-all of cinematic experience or literary experience.

This brings me back to my point. We are privileged, spoiled rotten.

I have great difficulty in reading nineteenth-century writers, and earlier,

They spend paragraphs, and pages on descriptions of the physical environment,

And the people in it. I, eager and impatient, champing at the bit,

Plead “the story, the action; what’s happening, to whom? See my point?

Technology facilitates vision; imagination grows old and weary,

Technology facilitates almost instantaneous international communication.

We're fixated on the “Now”; now, now, now. It’s a drug. I’m a junkie.