A Few Haikus for You

I am sore and yet,
what shall be my next challenge,
what race will I run?

Seven AM, my
cats run around the bedroom,
I am still sleeping.

Neighbor's house blocks my
view of the morning sky, but
I imagine sun.

I find few fall leaves
where I live now, so what I
remember won't die.

There Once Was a Girl from Venus

Ten Things

1.  Raw minerals and such.

 

 

2. Babes with bangs and / or bouffants. 

 

3. Missing deadlines. Not writing. Sad face. Nothing to show for that.

4. Past lives.



5. Training for a half marathon. Smoothies with spinach five days a week. Keeping count of how many 20 ounce cantines of water I finish. And, I feel like this.

6.  My "Visions" Pinterest board, which includes visions such as:

 

7. Turning 30. 

 

8. Coming home from wine country.

9. I love movies.

10. Michael. J. Fox. 

Little Bits of Truth

Yep, true story.

Creative Nonfiction asks for compelling Twitter-sized, too-good-to-be-fiction tales. If you have a good one, all you have to do is tweet it with the hashtag #cnftweet. Their favorites end up in their e-newsletters. Mine made it in September's! I'm pretty jazzed!

Quit Your Facebook

Less Facebook. More homemade muffins on the beach.

The little red dot indicating someone noticed me wasn't that exciting anymore. Less and less, I had something to say about a status update. Everyone's day seemed like a varying shade of neutral. Each ad I came across in my newsfeed, I marked as “SPAM” just because I could. I was still bothered by the fact that, if I had a child and really wanted to post a picture of me breast feeding him or her, it would probably be censored. I didn't feel like reading or being confused by the latest iteration of the privacy policy. Finally, Mark Zuckerberg's claim of ignorance on our government's probable Fourth Amendment breach was the status update that broke the camel's back. I quit Facebook.

This might sound familiar to you. Every time I'd sit down to write, I'd open another browser tab and check Facebook for anything new. Someone “Likes” that cat .gif I posted. My brother added yet another photo of a pug. That friend from middle school who has nothing in common with me anymore is up to a lot of stuff I have nothing to comment on. That nice girl who married an acquaintance of mine still has an annoying job. Someone's father passed away. George Takei posted another 'punny' picture. I sat down to write to create something, but in between sentences were spurts of I'm only giving away time to noting very important.

Most of my Facebook time occurred in spurts between sentences. As a longtime office-worker, I know perfectly well that it's healthier to take a walking break or a quick stretch respite when sitting hunched over a computer screen for hours. But, rather than taking a turn about the room, I took a scroll about Facebook. And, I kept doing it. I was on some internal alarm clocks that said “Ding, stop and look at Facebook.” In the haze of headache just a few weeks ago when Zuckerberg addressed his company's involvement, or apparent lack thereof, in PRISM, and the knowledge that my activity on Facebook is data for advertisers, I asked myself, “What am I getting out of it?”

Employers might decide to hire or not to hire an intelligent, qualified person based on her photos of a New Year's 2009 party emblazoned on Facebook. Would that photo of me looking sweaty and drunk while sitting on my husband's lap at karaoke keep me from my dream job even while I interviewed well? Even though my references could vouch for me as a responsible independent leader? Is Facebook some kind of member of HR no one has to pay in this case?

I think about the defendant on an episode of Divorce Court I just watched who had a secret Facebook account to carry on a relationship with another woman, and then another secret Facebook account to carry on another relationship with another other woman. I suppose what this guy gets out of Facebook is extra hanky panky. That's good for him, I guess, until he ends up on that show.

On the bright side, a cold case detective once created a false Facebook account in an attempt to solve a possible murder case, which in part lead to the conviction of a killer. Loved ones can get the word out on their missing person faster and easier than other means. But I'm thinking in the immediate, hopefully it doesn't come to that for me or anyone I know.

So what was I using Facebook for? Pinterest and blogs feed my hobbies. I discover why the Muni trains are running off schedule and what's happening in Gezi up-to-the-moment of the happenings via Twitter. I may even compose a brilliantly witty statement myself in 140 characters! (Pinterest and Twitter, by the way, are not websites in which the NSA was surveying at the time of the PRISM break.) For my writing career, I have a grand plan for my own blog and a small website as hub for that. How will people find it? I don't know, I guess I'll work really hard at getting work out there. Put some elbow grease into it. I couldn't figure out what I was personally gaining from the compulsive twitch to switch from my actual work to checking Facebook.

It started to feel like Facebook was that spot out back behind a building where you find an upside down milk crate with a well-worn dip in it and a coffee can filled with rain water and cigarette butts. I could go out back on Facebook and blow all that is currently miffing or delighting me out in smoke rings. I might even run into my best friend, my cousins, or that girl from middle school who will commiserate or celebrate with me. (If you really wanted to, you could breast feed out back behind a building. It might not be the best, but you could do it.) But, I'm not a smoker. Never really was.

So, I made an announcement letting my friends, near and far, know that if they wanted to keep in touch with me now was the time to exchange information. Many of those who asked for my email congratulated me on leaving, and lamented having a ball and chain with Facebook. I've heard similar encouragement when I started training for a 5K, and I can imagine it's not dissimilar to what I'd hear if I were a smoker trying to quit. "Good for you," in the same sentence as "I should really do that too but—." But what?

I was asked why I was leaving Facebook by these people. Over and over, I stated the same reasons mentioned—the general loss of interest coupled with the unappealing possibility that the company doesn't take privacy too seriously. But what it really came down to was one word. Control.

I was getting lunch at Subway once where it hit me. Four 20, 30-some year old men were in line in front of me. They were heads down, hands propping up their iPhones, thumb rowing through the endless status updates on the navy and white interface. None of them looked up from their glowing phones as their feet shuffled forward in line. I thought of Shawn of the Dead.

While I had a Facebook app on my phone for only a few days before I deleted it, I wasn't too unlike these dudes at Subway. As I described, I would stop frequently during what should be a solid writing work period to see what in the world was happening, only to find nothing was. I didn't have to keep doing that. I didn't have to stick around. I simply looked up “how to quit Facebook” and found a site that included a direct link to their Account Deactivation page and explained that I aught not to log into the site for two weeks after deleting my profile. It was actually pretty easy to take control there. You just up and leave if you want.

This is all easy for me to say. Perhaps I never had a real addition or a serious problem, and perhaps I never depended on it like others might.

Being absent from the most popular social media platform will allow me to miss out on things. If pictures of me go up that I never want anyone to ever see and fear will keep me from a job, then I have other issues. I will not see a some of my friends' beautiful wedding photos, but I could always ask to see them. I will miss pictures of that pug my brother likes so much. I will not know how people's jobs, cats, and neighbors are doing. I will not know what you ate for lunch. (Sorry, I quit Instagram a while back, too.)

So far, it's been a week and a half since I've removed myself from the smoker's crew. Friends have said to me “Oh, you're not on Facebook so you couldn't tell you about this thing I saw that you'd love but it's a moot point now,” about three times. I took the Facebook bookmark off of my browser toolbar, but I've definetely still stopped and opened a browser tab to check the big bad 'book without even realizing I was doing it. Instead, I collect knitting patterns and recipes on Pinterest, get the news scoop on Twitter, make a sandwich, look out the window, or even just sit and write. My writing productivity, by the way, up about 80% since the exodus. What's my status. Pretty dang good.

How are you feeling?

Pittsburgh's Knit the Bridge

Image via Knit the Bridge

I can see the Bay Bridge from my closest Muni stop, and it's a pretty sight. However, there's nothing like the collection of bridges in my hometown of Pittsburgh. I think my favorite of the 30 within the city is the Birmingham with its muted majesty. Oh, and there's the Hot Metal hanging low and heavy over the Mon just downstream. Oh, and the walks across the 10th Street Bridge and the Smithfield Street Bridge that bring back memories. The drastic arches of the 16th Street Bridge. And the terrifying height of the Westinghouse. The traffic of the Homestead Greys Bridge. The welcoming blue hue of the 31st Street Bridge. Oh, and the exhilerating stunts one must pull on the Fort Pitt, and then when you miss your chance to cross over to Crafton and end up on the West End Bridge...

I didn't mention the three golden sisters, the 6th, 7th, and 9th Street bridges, other wise known as the Clemente, the Warhol, and the Carson. Currently, a major community art project, the large yarn bombing in the country, is in development. The Andy Warhol Bridge, which leads commuters from downtown to the artist's home museum, will be covered in hand-knit squares! Knit the Bridge! 

It's part of Fiber Arts International, an annual exhibition going on right now. It's unclear from Knit the Bridge's site when this will launch, but the organization just got clearance from the city in order to even do it. 

If you love any or all of these things, community art, yarn, knitting, bridges, Pittsburgh, consider donating to Knit the Bridge here.

With the amount I donated, I will be receiving a hand-dyed skein of yarn in the official "bridge color." Being able to knit up a scarf with that and wear it here in San Francisco will mean a lot to me as a born-Burgher.

Can't wait to see the finished project, perhaps even in person.

Threats by Amelia Gray

Image via Untoward.

During my true crime kick, I picked up Threats by Amelia Gray, which is neither true nor really crime. I feel unable to write a traditional review about it. For her collection of flash fiction, AM/PM, which you can listen to some of here, I will write a reaction to the author herself in less than 300 words.

...

When you compare a character to a pay phone on an empty desert highway, I am conflicted. Pretty image. But, what the fuck? Many of your images are rich, sensual, and memorable. However, am I just too tied up in plot? At times, I felt like I was just being taken for a ride in someone else's self-indulgent dive into what they think is interesting and weird. I got bored. Sorry!

I'm apologizing because I've just listened to your interview on the novel, and you seem like a nice person. Regarding that interview, I totally understand the occasional inability to figure out your characters in a few short words, and the need to expand. I also understand the experience where you try to expand and it's just not working.

I wonder if you fell for strange characters like David with his dirty robe and layers of beauty creams and ants for housemates, like the odd little boy running the police office who knows where the sugar cereal is, and desperately desired a place for them but have no story to tell. You tell about "grief" with grotesque acts and happenings, but if there must be a novel, I feel like a plot needs to at least get plopped in there to give the reader a reason to spend her time on a novel.

By the way, I really wasn't feeling the psychologist in the garage with the wasps. Didn't hold the same sting (I don't care, I said it) that it could have in a flash piece.

Would not read again. Would definitely read AM/PM now that I've learned of it. Am definitely inspired to forge on with my own flash intentions. In that case, I would say you succeeded. Thanks!

...

What have you read recently that didn't hold up for you?