Photo A.M. Moscoso
Balance.
We need balance
in what we eat
what we wear
what we read
and how we conduct ourselves
in a Universe that demands
for our survival.
Balance.
Why is it then
that the ground under my feet
and the thoughts in my head
careen from one place to another
and never make sense.
Where
are
you
Balance?
Why do you hate me so, avoid me at every turn, never answer my call
will we ever be friends?
Will I ever know you
Balance?
RDP Tuesday: balance
When I was little
my Dad’s mother
insisted that my cousin, a tiny fair-skinned naturally blond child with blue eyes
looked like Shirley Temple.
She insisted my cousin was talented and special in all things requiring God given gifts like singing and dancing and being charming.
I was not tiny or fair-skinned or blond.
I did not have blue eyes.
I was told my hair looked like a rat’s nest because it was dark and long and usually messy and that my skin was ‘muddy’ and that I had a ‘grating voice’.
But my Dad’s mother did offer me a bit of constructive advice.
She advised me to develop some kind of talent and to work on my personality because I concluded by the unkind smirk on her face, that was my only hope at not being a total piece of human wreckage.
I can’t tell you how successful I was, but I’m an okay writer and I’m great with dogs and I’m not afraid to take a punch and my best talent is that I can roll my eyes up into my head and I have no feeling in part of my face so I can stick pins in there and not feel a thing.
Combined with the eye rolling thing, it’s pretty spectacular.
As to my talented Shirley Temple look a like cousin, I have no idea how far her natural God-given talents took her.
She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with my Grandmother or the rest of her immediate family after her Mother died. Trust me she had her reasons and I don’t begrudge her that. She moved away in her twenties and never looked back.
I, on the other hand was there just before Grandmother died.
Me and my rat’s nest hair and ‘muddy yellow skin’.
I wonder if she was disappointed that my face being one of the last she saw and not one that belonged on a Christmas card.
It’s not one of the questions that I wonder about and it certainly doesn’t torture me because
without a doubt
I know the answer.
Daily Addictions Prompt: Develop
I am struggling with this-
Does posting quips on a comment thread or a few lines about an article that someone else wrote on Facebook make you a writer or a journalist?
I know that when writers and poets or musicians dedicate themselves to their craft they name themselves a Writer, Musician, Artist, Poet.
But a certain amount of passion and dedication brings them to that point. If you do it on Facebook all you have to do is whip your phone out and you are now in the same league as-( fill in the blank) .
I’ve noticed something else interesting and a bit disturbing on Facebook.
People aren’t just having conversations- they correct each other’s grammar, they fact check each other, they leave letters ( or comments maybe a better term ) of complaint to each other for saying the wrong thing- or saying someone is missing the point or for being on the wrong side of their issue. It’s not much different then how they react to news stories from the media outlet of their choice.
I like my friends- the real ones are pretty unique and interesting and the Facebook ones are amusing but I don’t look to them to tell me which way the wind is blowing and I also don’t use those newsfeeds as a way to gain some insight into what they’re thinking.
As a writer- granted I write fiction for the most part- if you want to get an idea about how my head works then my writing is the way to catch a glimpse of that process.
That picture I posted of the cat and dog praying over a piece of pizza they’re going to steal, well all you’ll learn from that is I like cats and dogs. But the WHY won’t be there. I won’t be there because not only did I not take the picture, I didn’t put the funny line to it.
I’m wondering as you can see, does Facebook truly inspire creativity or healthy conversations? We can share an idea or a picture and then the trolls come along and who is talking to each other anymore? Nobody because the trolls or someone who just feels like setting the world straight will make it all about them.
It happens ever single time.
Does Facebook really have the power make us who we want to be in real life -witty commentators, journalists or writers. Do we really believe that we ‘have the floor’ ( at last ) and that platform provided on a site designed as a marketing tool is on the only one that matters.
To me, the biggest question of all is, if you don’t participate on Facebook do you cease to be relevant, will you disappear, will what you say matter, will anyone know YOU ARE THERE?
RDP Monday: NOTE
When I know I’m being hard on myself or the people around me I have found a great way to approach and change this less then attractive and mean spirited aspect of my personality.
I pretend like I’m dealing with my dog.
I have infinite patience with my dog, I never say mean things to my dog, I approach my daily relationship with my dog and all it entails ( ha, ha, entails, get it? ) with positive energy instead of dark and fierce negative Jupiter force windstorm speed ( they clock them at 384 miles per hour) type energy.
When I’m with my dog, my phone is never with arms reach and when we are out I never answer it or use it unless he does something super cute and I need a picture of it to share with my Facebook friends who like Hamish more then me.
I’m actually okay with that because he IS pretty darn awesome.
When I envision what the best Anita Marie is like, I go full circle and at each point in that circle see a different Anita Marie with all her various talents and entertaining sideshow type quirks, I always want to land on and be the person who has learned to be a better human from her dog.
That person is actually a good person. I’m proud to know her.
So if it can be said about me that I treat my friends and family like a dog- I will know with absolute certainty, I’ve done good.
amm
Daily Addictions Prompt: Circle