Monday, January 9, 2012

Seriously Silly

Here I am, around age 11,
taking myself waaaaaay too seriously.

The other day a friend asked me if I wrote my blog because I was looking to portray myself in a certain way.  I was a little shocked.  I had never thought about portraying myself one way or another, I have simply spoken from my heart.  While I do edit certain things, such as other people's personal information, what I write is just the bare-faced truth about myself.  Sometimes this stuff comes out as silly, sometimes it's serious.  Maybe sometimes it's boring, maybe sometimes it's shocking, and maybe sometimes it's a little bit country (oh, that was terrible!).  In all earnestness though, this process has been therapeutic for me, cathartic, life-changing -- you know, like how you feel when you go to Loehmann's and find an Alexander McQueen dress on sale for $75.  That's right, it's been big. 

I read a poem awhile back that described facebook as "an altar of loneliness."  This quote has stayed with me, I think because it seems so true.  With facebook, we really do only portray what we want the world to think, we share only what we think will reflect postively on us (although I have one friend who actually posted a picture of a chair.  The title beneath the photo was, "My new chair!"  Um, really?  This perplexing post actually didn't reflect anything at all.).  What if all of a sudden people started to post real stuff?  (i.e.)  "This bladder infection really stinks!" or "Does anyone have a good cure for silent gas?" or, perhaps, "My children are being annoying as shit."  Wow.  That would change things up!  Who's in?  My very first "real" post is going to be, "Ouch.  I think I just burped and sneezed simultaneously."

With facebook, we're not actually connecting with our "friends," we're simply cyber pseudo-connecting.  We're entertaining each other, but we're certainly not really "sharing."  Regardless, it's enjoyable for those of us who partake.  Some of us take the facebook thing very, very seriously and put big, heavy political posts on our walls, and then some of us, myself included, put really stupid and ridiculous stuff out there.  I think my all-time worst post was something like, "I just found a really long white hair growing out of my arm."  What?  Not only was that not remotely interesting in the slightest, but it was just plain moronic, and kind of freakish (oooh, I cringe when I think about it).  I've also put stuff out there about my kids (lots of it, too.  Sorry.  I think I'm just proud.), and occasionally I'll throw in a You Tube video if it's especially funny (in my opinion, I guess).  My girlfriends and I post pictures of ourselves when we're feeling super-fly TNT, and I'll post "happy birthdays" ad nauseum because, well, why not?  (plus, I feel a little guilty when I don't do it)  Then, of course there's my blog, just to get it out there, because I have no idea how else to do it, and because I have this strange notion that my words actually mean something.  Either that, or I just need a LOT of attention and praise, in which case, keep it coming.

Back to facecrack, um, facebook.  There are the facebookers who simply stalk and don't put anything out there at all, they just kind of nose around and stuff, and then there are the facebookers who post every five minutes or so.  (Yeah, that's right, you types know who you are.)  There are the people who ask questions and advice:  "Does anyone know the name of a good homeless shelter/tattoo joint?"  And, lately, there have been the inspirational posts that I think people get from a website or something.  "Cats are special, because, well, they're cats and they're kind of wise and scary, so remember to never look back when you're on the staircase of life, but always look sideways at your right thumbnail." -- Anonymous.  I read them all, and I kind of like them all.  Weird, huh?  This social media thing is really a strange phenomenon, and I think I'm still getting used to it.  I don't myspace, I don't tweet, and I don't twat.  'K?

Where am I going with all this?  I have no idea, but what I do know is that with my blogs and with facebook, I like to divulge and be serious, but I also like to laugh at and make fun of myself.  Is this because I'm confident and don't really give a turd what people think of me?  (Well, I like to say that, but I think I do care -- a little.)  Is it because I think that life is meant to be enjoyed, and God wants us to have fun with it when we can?  Is it because I'm really, really good at checkers?  Wait, no, that's not related.  And that's my point:  I'm a total spaz, I like to have fun and I like to recognize my quirks and flaws and laugh at them, as well as learn from them.  Life can be so challenging, and without being able to make light of it and ourselves sometimes, we can get bogged down by its seriousness.

And on that note, I must run.  I have a picture of a coffee table that's just BEGGING to be posted!

Poems XIII


We were illusion,
television phantasms
and courtesy memos;
mirages on coeval screens.
Show me your Wii
and I'll show you mine too,
glassy, saccharin tweets.

White static's burst
burst us in two
like Limpet, Incredible once.
Licked split us aloud,
sad walkabout's shroud,
a disappeared,
ventured-near show.

Why did that flick in-upon
take me so long
to read you what delved into
Titanic, but better and wetter?
And references never get old,
or so I am told.

Past greets the future,
formidable bliss,
DVR's whirred in and thus,
I'll continue my sojourn
(you press record),
'till the program's become

heartbreakingly strummed
and charred and jejune;
a telethon made for screens' waxy seal --
and made-up illusion,
our made-up illusion,
fantastics the wondering real.

How to Get Your Heart Broken

You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.
You'll hear a gular voice and startle up.
You'll think you're in love.  Wait, are you in love?
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.
You'll go to sleep dreaming of rough hands.
You'll wake up dreaming of rough hands.
You'll feel feverish, hot.
You'll feel angry, pissed.
You'll wait for calls and for calls and for calls.
You'll sob.
You'll feel like someone sliced you in half, and then half, and then half again.
You'll feel exposed, vulnerable, rejected.
You'll hate yourself.
You'll forgive yourself, but not really.
You'll know there is nothing more you can do.
You'll realize the bare naked truth.
You'll accept, begrudgingly.
You'll never be the same.
You'll see a dusky orange sunset from a splattered window.