Little Birdies

I have never been on Twitter.

Is this something I should say with my head hung low? Or, like the proud people who shun cable television, mainstream news networks and my mother, who no longer listens to talk radio, should I be stubbornly smug at my refusal to be herded with the rest of the flock?

I have no idea. Having only ever heard about the website, I can't make any real judgement. From what I know, though, the idea really doesn't appeal to me. Which is odd: shouldn't it be harder to send a letter to the world - which is how I see 'long-form' blogging- than to be texting out the the cyberpublic?

I don't think of myself as nearly important enough for someone to care that I had an amazing halibut burger after work or that my socks feel itchy at 3:47 PM.

But what makes me think that anyone reads this? Why would anyone have an interest in a stranger's angsty poetry or the fact that she really, really likes Joel Plaskett? I know for a fact that my mum reads this. When I tell her there's something new on here.

If you think about it, the whole idea of personal publishing is, well, something else. In what other period of history has it been possible for Joe Whosit to tell everybody about his cat, Marbles? Maybe it isn't the fact that someone will read it, but that someone MIGHT. You can write with the freedom that you're pretty much in obscurity, but who knows?

And maybe the 140-character limit is something that I see as silly because I am verbose. I love using too many words. But, there is something to be said about using them economically.

All in all, I don't think Twitter will change the way we live, or make anyone more important than anyone else. Like anything on the Internet, everyone is doing it. That's when it becomes a contest of who has more people stalking-er, following them as they micro-blog through the entire day. It's also become the new corporate playground. Big companies, like your dad awkwardly flailing in the bouncy castle, are trying to play it small-time. And it's embarrassing.

So, to Tweet or not to Tweet? Well, I'll probably never actually use Twitter, but I may go check it out. I hear Oprah's on there now.

Driftwood

To be in the softness of it,
this is something I do not look for.
Losing myself in the falling grace
is not something I plan for.
I don't even hope for it.

Lost, gone, far away,
breaking on the brink of brine
Being better, alone
Leaving it to be simple
Learning the luxury of solitude,
and then breaking the fast
by seeing the soft gaze of another,
only for you?
No, I do not seek to quiet that desire
to be caressed in their thoughts.

The water will not always
be warm, or still.
The salt hurts as much as it heals, sometimes.
The water forgets if you are who you are
or driftwood, flotsam.
It doesn't toss you any differently.

But soon, after your bath,
your sharp edges smooth,
you will be mistaken at a glance for a stone,
and surprise! Your discoverer will see how light you are.
Rounded, perfect, belonging to no one.
Only retaining a ghost of the place you came from.
that forgotten tree.

You, beautiful piece,
little and perfect
have never known what it is to truly navigate
You are pulled by magic. A force
and, dearest, we both know
you don't understand it.

You are shaped in the form of your own
loveliness,
I watch you, and wonder where you've been
And if we would have met,
no matter what.

Perfect piece.
A saviour of the earth and sky
and born again of the sea,
I marvel at your grace.

August 18th, Sombrio
Morning: an ode of beauty, I am surrounded

Sand

He is asleep, and so,
I will let him lie
alone, and unafraid of the shadow
unaware of the sun and the rocks
Not seeing a glow or hearing a heartbeat
and another

I will practice silence.
I will hold my form up and out.

We understand little of now.
It is not etchings on walls
(like yesterday claims to be).
It is not our hard-earned speculation
of what may come

My now is warm.

It is understated and it is soft.
And it is mine.
I steep in it