Long, long ago, I used to write poetry down in an actual journal. I'd have an idea, then I'd get out my trusty book and handwrite the poem that sprang into my head. I have tons of poetry journals from my youth, and I still enjoy leafing through them.
But as I've gotten older, I've started (gasp!) composing poems only on screens. It started with my computer screen. These days, instead of a pretty notebook with poems in it, I have a desktop icon. And now it's moved on to phone screen poems! I kid you not. I have probably four or five poems on my phone's "notepad" application as we speak.
I even leave the poems on the phone for a while, to the extent that I'll meet my friend on Thursday morning (we're both poets and we trade) and...hand her my phone. I watch her furrowed brow as she scrolls down the screen of my BlackBerry and I think to myself, This is wrong. A poem should have more organic origins.
But I can't help it. When a poem hits me now, I reach for the object that my hand is never far from--the phone. I type furiously into the notepad app, then I forget to remove it later. When I do remove it, I transfer it to the poetry desktop folder.
Sigh.
I'm thinking that it's time to start a REAL poetry journal again. There's just something about pen and paper that seems more inspiring.
Do the rest of you write things down on real paper anymore? I'd love to hear your thoughts on this matter!
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Intrusive Telephone Call.
I've made a startling discovery. Perhaps some of you have already noticed this.
A real phone call is now an intrusion.
Let me explain. In this world of "Facebook me! Text me! Email me!" and the like, it's now considered "intimate" to actually dial a number and call someone, as in voice-to-voice. It seems odd, especially considering all the phone calls I made as a teenager. I literally spent hours on the phone back then--with acquaintances, with strangers during crank calls, with my friends' mothers while begging them to have me over for dinner.
I pondered the issue this evening, when I was discussing an upcoming rock show on Facebook with a girl I went to high school with. She sent me her number in a Facebook message, and I typed it onto my phone, intending to save it. Then by accident I almost dialed it.
Egads! I thought to myself. I don't want to call her....
And I realized why. Because a real phone call these days is meant for a real issue, between real friends or family members. If you're simply trying to say "What's up," or you're planning to meet at the corner BBQ joint, or you're corresponding with someone you don't know so well, it's preferable just to type. Let's face it, we've all ignored a phone call from a friend, only to text them a minute later.
The good, old-fashioned phone call has become the 2011 equivalent of entering someone's bubble. And you only wanna do that every so often...and with some people, never.
A real phone call is now an intrusion.
Let me explain. In this world of "Facebook me! Text me! Email me!" and the like, it's now considered "intimate" to actually dial a number and call someone, as in voice-to-voice. It seems odd, especially considering all the phone calls I made as a teenager. I literally spent hours on the phone back then--with acquaintances, with strangers during crank calls, with my friends' mothers while begging them to have me over for dinner.
I pondered the issue this evening, when I was discussing an upcoming rock show on Facebook with a girl I went to high school with. She sent me her number in a Facebook message, and I typed it onto my phone, intending to save it. Then by accident I almost dialed it.
Egads! I thought to myself. I don't want to call her....
And I realized why. Because a real phone call these days is meant for a real issue, between real friends or family members. If you're simply trying to say "What's up," or you're planning to meet at the corner BBQ joint, or you're corresponding with someone you don't know so well, it's preferable just to type. Let's face it, we've all ignored a phone call from a friend, only to text them a minute later.
The good, old-fashioned phone call has become the 2011 equivalent of entering someone's bubble. And you only wanna do that every so often...and with some people, never.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
My Fair Saturday.
Happy November! The first weekend of the month is lovely thus far. It started off with a yummy breakfast, and then some shopping. Not only did I find some new additions for my wardrobe at rock-bottom prices (Yay!) but Stefan and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the fair. I'm glad I got the chance to go, even if it was slammed with people.
When it comes to the fair, eating junk food and seeing the animals are definitely my thing. I don't do rides anymore (I used to be more adventurous as a teen, but my nerves just can't take it these days) so I just enjoy walking around, seeing the sights and eating funnel cake.
At one point when I went to the restroom to wash my hands after feeding a goat, I saw a $10 bill. It didn't belong to the lady at the sink beside me either--I asked her.
Hmm, should I just keep it? I pondered to myself.
But in the end, i decided the right thing to do was to return the money to the restroom attendant.
"This is someone's lost cash, and I don't know whose," I told her.
"I'll see if anyone comes back for it," she said, a little surprised.
She probably pocketed it, and that's ok. She works hard in that nasty bathroom, and at least now the burden is off my shoulders.
After all, I'd rather hang out with the elephants with a clean conscience.
When it comes to the fair, eating junk food and seeing the animals are definitely my thing. I don't do rides anymore (I used to be more adventurous as a teen, but my nerves just can't take it these days) so I just enjoy walking around, seeing the sights and eating funnel cake.
At one point when I went to the restroom to wash my hands after feeding a goat, I saw a $10 bill. It didn't belong to the lady at the sink beside me either--I asked her.
Hmm, should I just keep it? I pondered to myself.
But in the end, i decided the right thing to do was to return the money to the restroom attendant.
"This is someone's lost cash, and I don't know whose," I told her.
"I'll see if anyone comes back for it," she said, a little surprised.
She probably pocketed it, and that's ok. She works hard in that nasty bathroom, and at least now the burden is off my shoulders.
After all, I'd rather hang out with the elephants with a clean conscience.
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