When I was but a weanling, I worried a lot about trash. I worried about a lot of things, true; but the depth of my concern was usually inversely related to the generally acknowledged importance of any subject of my fears. So, of course, trash headed my list of concerns. Since that time, trash has taken on a lot of weight. Everyone is noticing, lately, how trash tends to pile up. Ever true to form, I'm here to tell you why trash has fallen lower on my list. We're really talking about relativity, here. How should a piece of paper take up so much of my time, either in sparing it or in handling it? So too goes the whole topic of trash.
How does this begin to concern Mensans? Well, there's a movement afoot to get all the local newsletters liberated into e-format. No more expensive postage, paper, toner; no more fold/staple/mutilate logistics; no more trash in our mailboxes.
Does that sound even a little bit enticing? Isn't your e-box full enough already? Do you even have enough time to read it all — in glaring e-bright, no less? Defining time is at issue here. Time as work, glued to the screen, with one's back turned squarely to family, friends, pets, etc. Time cooped up in the computer corner, or hunched over a slow-grinding laptop, feeling as if you're always grounded?
And how about double-checking the events calendar? Doesn't a thumbtack on the pantry wall beat logging on for a last-minute check on check-in times? You could print it out, but then we're back to square one on the matter of trash.
Given is our knowledge that the well-turned phrase is the tightest, cleanest, most succinct imaginable — and in that form is the hardest to produce: The tighter the verse, the longer the labor to produce it. So too goes the production of any good copy — visual or verbal. If the newsletter is honored as much as any recipient's time deserves, then it has to be a minor work of art. If the editor pours as much effort into it as that, then it's got to be fun.
If this is Mensa, then anyone willing should have a turn at editing — or at least imagine that they might. And absolutely every member deserves to receive the premium version of his or her group's newsletter. Not everyone is interested in changing their view of the printed page. Maybe they don't even have a computer. Forget the library; some of us live many freeway miles from the nearest one, and some others are shut-ins.
On the production side, a perfectly competent editor may not wish to
learn the latest way of composing image and thought for its best presentation
online. Let's use me as a handy example. I live within 30 miles of our
county seat, and just 60 miles from a near-metropolis. Sounds tolerable,
right? Well, it is. It's downright beautiful, which is why I'm willing
to put up with the storms, the ice, the bad roads and poor signals. We
even have our own private little 
phone
company here, 'cause the big dogs won't run with us. We're too sparsely
populated for them to maintain the lines, so those lines get more tattered
each year. Staying online is a real challenge — it can take several
tries to download a big file. Forget DSL, it's but a dream. Our little
phone company would have to build a huge tower, which wouldn't pay for
itself with so few users.
Now, I get online just fine, but I have to work at it. I just spent a bundle on rewiring the phone lines onto my property. But I really had a hard time for quite a while. And I still would rather get a nice newsletter in the mailbox. There's just one thing I've failed to mention so far; I am the editor/publisher, folder and stapler of our group's newsletter. It's a beast of a job, and distance dictates that I just roll up my sleeves and do it myself. That notwithstanding, I'd still rather do it the old-fashioned way. Even if high-speed connection were possible here, I'd still prefer hard copy. Why, you ask?
Because the newsletter is a constellation of forms. It's the shade and texture of the paper, as well as being the distribution of space and light. It's image and form, too — and they are as much a part of the content as is the lexical information shared. If that's all a little hairy-fairy for you, don't think it doesn't matter — even to a perfectly pragmatic person such as yourself. If it's really well done, you won't even notice the effort. We can't all be artists, but we can be artful. If we seek joy in any image we produce, we are truly honoring the eyes and time of those for whom we labor.
A Mensa editor labors for all Mensans. Ours is a club at once absolutely exclusive and absolutely egalitarian. It may be the only place for some of our members to find validation and belonging. They typify the archetypal Mensan; without their dilemma, there would be no Mensa. It is many things to many people, but above all, Mensa is a collective of specially gifted persons. Every gift has its price, and Mensa is the answer to that burden for many of our members.
But I digress. Returning to the not-small matter of trash, this controversy speaks volumes to me. For example: If something is not worthy of printing, mailing and keeping for a month, then why is it worth my time to download, read and then save or print? And if it's not worth the space in my mailbox and on my desk all month, and ultimately in my archive (if not the trash bin), then why bother producing it at all?
Why bother, then, with Mensa at all? Why bother with lunch bunches, movie groups, book clubs, tours, gatherings, lectures or games nights, either? Why take time away from all the fascinating things found on long nights crawling the Web — for which there is precious little enough time as it is?
Have we forgotten the subtle joy of curling up anywhere we choose with a paper, book, magazine or letter? The fusion of surroundings present and writer absent? I hope not!
Sandra Bekele is the editor of GNOMEN, the newsletter of Greater Northstate Mensa.