Just recently, I received the latest in a series of poems from some chap more persistent than Jessica Walter in Play Misty for Me. I should add this is not professional, paid business. I should add, too, that this man is not my friend. And we have never even met. No, he's my Facebook friend. With only the most tenuous of links with me. Don't judge me. Keep sharing. But wait until you've finished reading this.
Anyhow, along comes this poem. You're probably familiar with the type. A poem that seeks to make The Waste Land look like a lyrical bus stop epiphany or the sort of thing you trumpet after a Sunday roast. Everybody knows that the way one goes about this is by using densely packed abstractions over many, many lines. And then, what you do, you Facebook message this poem to everybody on your Facebook friends list. C'mon! Don't be shy. I mean EVERYBODY. And then, what you do, you email them Part II. Because what they don't know is – there is a PART II. The true spirit of 'I'll show you mine again and again, don't bother to show me yours – for I am not interested!' virtually animated.
I scrolled to the end of Part II (for he had followed the counsel above with Ice Man precision): 'What do you think?'
I paused. I realised this was not part of the poem. A gut feeling. So I thought about it. And I thought. 'Shit,' I thought.
But I didn't have the heart to tell him. Facebook implicates one in the strangest ways. For example, to do this would be to admit to myself that I had accepted his Friend Request in the first place out of some strange concoction of illogical pressure, idiocy and cowardice that some therapist would probably ascribe to object relations theory. And that I should feel duly soiled as a result. Mind you – cowardice can be useful. Yeah! I could report him. He'll never know! One click is all it takes! That'll learn him! But no. I didn't have the heart for that either. The world is out there, and we all call to it. Sirens are the tragedy – not the sailors. Even as I type.
Fortunately, there is always one who nails it: 'You stink you spam. Reported.'
1 comments:
Reminds me of Randy Pausch's 'Last Lecture': - "When you’re screwing up and nobody’s saying anything to you anymore, that means they gave up. Your critics are your ones telling you they still love you and care." ...even if that love is expressed through the spam button.
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