On Facebook, On Today, and On the Past

I’m in this weird “in between” stage with my writing. I’ve finished writing a novel, I’ve outlined several new ones, and I’ve re-read several old ones. I’ve also recently pulled out a book of poetry I had written over a decade ago, a few poems of which I’ve shared this week. Overall though I’m talking about hundreds of poems written during a couple of youthful and chaotic years. It brought back so many odd memories.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to talk and hang with a younger version of yourself? I’d love to meet that 20 something version of me and tell him that everything is going to be ok. All of your dreams will come true. I’d love to meet the teen version of me and tell him to be stronger.

And so of course I have to wonder what my 50 year old self would tell my current 35 year old self. What am I doing now that he would think is crazy?

I have no regrets though. I have plenty of crazy stories that I have thankfully documented. Maybe I’ll share them someday. So many are embarrassing but so many are fun. It was a carefree time in my life.

Although I’ve finished a novel, I haven’t written poetry in a long time. The only recent poem I can remember was something I wrote after my dad died. I thought about sharing that, but after re-reading it tonight and bursting into tears, it’s just too much to share right now. No one needs to be that sad.

I’m happy now. I’ve left those crazy 20s behind, and to keep from boredom I’ve created new goals. But for old time’s sake, I thought I’d try to write something spontaneous. Perhaps not exactly poetic. Just something thoughtful. I don’t know what I’m going to write about as I write this sentence. As Stephen King wrote, “Amateurs wait for inspiration. The rest of us just get up and go to work.” So here’s my 35 year old self attempting to be genuinely spontaneous in writing.

Facebook vs. Blogging 

Browsing my Facebook history,

I’m amused at my online identity.

I’ll share my favorite books and movies,

And I’ll even post an occasional selfie.

I’ll tell you what I love about education,

And I’ll try to motivate and inspire.

But I don’t get too personal.

Facebook is a pond, and blogging is a river.
I get deeper, I let the current take me away.
I am lost in my own thoughts,
Not a dozen random no one needs to know posts.

Our Facebook lives are such bullshit.

Who cares what TV show we love?
(But damn, I heart Game of Thrones!)

Who cares what we made for dinner?
(But damn, this homemade pizza rocks!)
We all try and show off a bit.

My life is great because I’m doing ____.

If all I know about you is what you post online,

That’s a shame.

We’re not real friends.

I used to think Facebook made me closer

To those I never got a chance to see.

Now I think it’s created an excuse

So I can avoid you.

Facebook is the Cliff’s Notes of friendship,

A lousy excuse to stay connected.

And blogging may not be much better,

But it is a bit deeper.

Instead of the superficial,
I see a bit of your soul.
Instead of my weekend adventures,
You see a bit of my mind.
But blogging takes time.
Time to read, and time to write.
It's so much easier to scroll and "like."
But do I write for me or do I write for you?
Do we post for ourselves or for others?
And does any of this matter at all?

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Power

               The person who invades your dreams has extreme power.

                In sleep, we are most vulnerable.

                You came to me last night in my dreams.

                (How many times is it now?)
                Arms open.

                Crawling in my bed.

                I rolled, to make it easier for you.

                And then you kissed me.

                Divine.

                You stroked my body.

                Hand gliding down my chest.

                Making my back curl like a gymnast.

                You grabbed me.

                Put me inside you.

                I was in nothing less than heaven.

                But as we all must do,

                I woke up.

                And I lost you.

                Again.

                (How many times is it now?)

                I roll over to an empty bed,

                And I long for one person.

                The one I will never have.

                The one who controls my dreams.

                The one with the power.

                The one who controls me.

- Written summer of 2004

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