Saturday, March 31, 2012
What Was I Thinking?
I dropped Facebook. Never liked it. When I climbed on the train I told a friend that it felt like dressing in front of an open window. Never lost that feeling. So, I decided to get real with myself and close my account. With the exception of a few reunions with people I hold dear and lost contact with, I've never had any actual use for it. I Iet myself be seduced. Reasons? Oh, better know it in case you're interviewing!. My face is creased. My hair is 99.9% white. I am one day older than Methuselah. Who the hell was I fooling? I got more problems getting a job than whether I'm com-fort-ab-le with The Social Media.
Or, more insidious, opening an account Because I Should. When did I become such a herd animal? I ignored some cold, hard facts about myself and violated my self by becoming part of a slipstream of breadth instead of depth. I'm an introvert. I think in paragraphs. I barely stay in touch with friends and family who matter; where do I get the time to pay attention to anyone else? I eschew conversation much of the time, and question the wisdom of talking back to someone in a forum that encourages sloganeering with pictures. Where but on Facebook can you make friends with dead people and not be considered effed up in the haid? And Farmville? WTF!?!?!? And how it skews social relations to those who are computer and social media literate, which leaves out a whole bunch of elders, or lovable technophobes.
So. I wrote a few messages to others, waited a few days, and then told Facebook to PERMANENTLY and IRREVOCABLY bury me. If all the advertisers/marketeers who benefit from harvesting my interest "organs" want to find me, they will. Why leave the windows open? Why would I give Zuckerberg et fils the opportunity to profit even more handsomely off my laziness. (See, I'm not a selfish, aloof personf!! I'm in touch with Everyone Goddamn Body in the Whole Wide World!!!!!)
I need to return to letter-writing even if it amounts to 3 per year. Letter-writing is how I learned to write prose. And, those letters were the first draft of working through my, ehem, issues, which like toenails continue to grow.
By taking shortcuts such as Facebook, I dis-served myself and those who matter to me.
Or, more insidious, opening an account Because I Should. When did I become such a herd animal? I ignored some cold, hard facts about myself and violated my self by becoming part of a slipstream of breadth instead of depth. I'm an introvert. I think in paragraphs. I barely stay in touch with friends and family who matter; where do I get the time to pay attention to anyone else? I eschew conversation much of the time, and question the wisdom of talking back to someone in a forum that encourages sloganeering with pictures. Where but on Facebook can you make friends with dead people and not be considered effed up in the haid? And Farmville? WTF!?!?!? And how it skews social relations to those who are computer and social media literate, which leaves out a whole bunch of elders, or lovable technophobes.
So. I wrote a few messages to others, waited a few days, and then told Facebook to PERMANENTLY and IRREVOCABLY bury me. If all the advertisers/marketeers who benefit from harvesting my interest "organs" want to find me, they will. Why leave the windows open? Why would I give Zuckerberg et fils the opportunity to profit even more handsomely off my laziness. (See, I'm not a selfish, aloof personf!! I'm in touch with Everyone Goddamn Body in the Whole Wide World!!!!!)
I need to return to letter-writing even if it amounts to 3 per year. Letter-writing is how I learned to write prose. And, those letters were the first draft of working through my, ehem, issues, which like toenails continue to grow.
By taking shortcuts such as Facebook, I dis-served myself and those who matter to me.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saturday Poetry: In This House
I am here being quiet.
Pretending to write.
And the woman
the woman who works for my husband
the woman below
thinks I am working, too.
She asks for little:
No time for lunch.
No time to pee.
Not even the coffee I make
that she loves.
She’s turning pages.
She hears me
shuffling back and forth across my floor.
Is this, she wonders, what writers do?
There are dishes to wash,
tulips to plant,
shirts to iron,
sheets to fold.
Onions to chop,
dogs to walk
pencils to sharpen
pennies to roll.
Those are real life,
not this:
placing irrelevant words on a page,
surrounded by white space
calling it work.
It’s the plunder of other's private parts.
A harvest of the things that hurt.
Back Again
Were Calculus a foreign country (maybe it is) I could argue that I've been traveling without benefit of the internet. But, I haven't. I've been right here, more often than not in front of this monitor watching YouTube videos on how to derive the 4th derivative and then what to do with it when you do; laughing at the Republicans presidential candidates and sobering myself up with three words: George W. Bush, and generally doing everything else except this. Writing for writing's sake.
When my life's a soap opera, I assume radio silence.
Back again. Like spring is back again. Older, fatter and none the wiser. (I'm going to have that translated into Latin one of these days and have a crest made.) I saw a crocus in the front yard. I feel the need to write fiction. I checked out Faulkner's Light in August which I really don't know if that's such a good idea. Either I'll despair of getting a word on the page or drink more. He can do that to you.
I have a break from school. Time to write. I'll start with a Saturday poem which speaks to my internal contest.
When my life's a soap opera, I assume radio silence.
Back again. Like spring is back again. Older, fatter and none the wiser. (I'm going to have that translated into Latin one of these days and have a crest made.) I saw a crocus in the front yard. I feel the need to write fiction. I checked out Faulkner's Light in August which I really don't know if that's such a good idea. Either I'll despair of getting a word on the page or drink more. He can do that to you.
I have a break from school. Time to write. I'll start with a Saturday poem which speaks to my internal contest.
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