At the supermarket last week, I spontaneously grabbed a magazine - an enactment of nostalgia. There before the billing counter were those on sports, cars, interiors, culture. Like candy at a two-foot height to entice the toddler, this candy for the bibliophile.
Flipping through the physical pages, I realized that magazines had exited my life for so long. I buy books, physical. But not magazines. It was refreshing to be pleasantly surprised by the miscellany I found therein. It’s not that I was not reading short pieces of fiction or non-fiction. In fact, most of my reading was short. Short-story anthologies to dip into at leisure, or unusual perspectives in creative non-fiction. The way I found these, however, had changed.
It could be that I’m listening to a podcast and a link in the show-notes subscribes me to a newsletter with weekly links to articles relatable, apart from clickable products. Algorithms have simplified life with personalized recommendations, anticipating (often pre-empting?) thought. A more relevant social media feed is taking the random out of the content popping up online.
It is convenient that I get lighting and wall-cladding recommendations because I looked at furniture for decorating my holiday home. I have even saved some colour suggestions for the next paint job. I now know that you can install corner profile lights to create ambient lighting without dropping the height of an already low ceiling to create coves (phew!). I know of HDMR panels, transparent concrete, cheaper alternatives to stone, and that your dishwasher should be placed up high next to the crockery shelf. Interior design seems so natural that I have started questioning my career choice.
Music streaming apps magically play that song I’m in the mood for. Throwing back that old favourite, or something completely new, setting me off on a serendipitous musical adventure, never out of beat. Alternatively, my soppy mood beginning with one whiny number could plummet with the mixtape of low-key songs ‘intelligently’ curated for me. It would take the kids to wake up from the back seat and yell for a change before everyone including the driver falls asleep with the sedate music playing on loop.
Placid Internet 2.0 pushes algorithm-driven content with neither startle nor wonder, not far from anything that I have been looking at. Come to think of it; algorithm has so stumbled over itself that it is showing me the same rather than similar content.
I get used-car recommendations daily because I left my phone with a reel playing on repeat while I answered the door; the one my new driver son sent me as motivation. Photography tips fill my feed because I dwelled on a photography reel three seconds longer than I normally would. Then there is that random search. Something you looked up for a friend and you are sent off on a different
thread ad nauseam. The spam of innovative wall treatments and flooring solutions have me screaming enough already, I’m not a full-time designer.
Browsing through trusty magazines, I came across the newfound popularity for designer socks - those with flowered fringes, standout socks with sandals; Margaret Cavendish, probably the first science fiction writer, poet and natural philosopher, who I meet for the first time despite my engagement with literature for over two decades; and contemporary storytellers who track the devil that dwells in electricity or is the scarecrow that runs across the field when everyone is asleep.
Reading through an assortment not dictated by my previous ‘viewing ’or ‘searching ’history was exhilarating. This is why it worries me when I hear of an impending print media apocalypse.
I spoke to my class (yet again) about how beneficial it would be to take a break from social media to actually browse through a magazine or anything curated, to cultivate taste. Exploring’God’s plenty’, layering character with nuance. I told them how I bought a magazine last week; how I cooked zucchini rolls and beetroot tzatziki from it rather than the saved reels that I never go back to; and how I almost wore socks with my sandals to college, not so much to keep with the trend than to soothe my cracked heels. My students laughed but I hope they take my exhortation seriously.
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