My mom sent a holiday update letter along with her Christmas card this year. Her’s is the generation that truly lost touch with one another. There was that period after high school when they all got married, started having kids, buying houses, raising rug rats, and getting old that they just didn’t speak. Perhaps they talked once in a blue moon and maybe had lunch, that is, if you could track them down. It meant calling siblings, other friends, cousins, parents – and then you had to talk to that person for an hour. It was a pain. Facebook simplified the process. In my Mom’s eloquent letter, she explained that she wanted to do what she’s been promising for years – keep in real touch. Not just say it, not just update it on Facebook, but really honestly keep in touch. She said she would and asked that the recipients of her letter reciprocate. I think it’s a nice sentiment and I loved the letter – it’s a testament to my Mom’s generation where they really have lost touch with a lot of people. Problem is, I think people have good intentions, they just can’t follow through. It’s not for lack of desire, but rather, you get swept up in your life, time goes on, and all of a sudden it’s been 2 years since you’ve talked with someone. It just happens.

Are byte sized chunks of someone’s life better than nothing? Every once and a while a rebel appears and demands we all keep in real touch, but they end up alone in their quest. Keeping friends is hard work. Making them is harder. The older you get, the less contact you have with other people besides your mate and kids. Suddenly you become incapable of making new friends and you wonder why no one calls you.

As for Facebook, it’s simply a means to an end and it does serve a purpose. However, it’s too much babbling and not enough real connection. It’s too much Farmville and not enough lunch dates. The other minor infraction users commit is making Facebook their personal intelligence scale. The quality of the person is directly related to the level of obscurity of a post. If someone posts about the Ukrainian Poet’s Society founder who died, it means they’re pretty smart because who the fuck is the founder of the Ukrainian Poet’s Society? People aggregate obscure news items, perch them on their wall, and await the accolades.

The other thing that drives me crazy is overly vague posts. Nothing more than a sad face emoticon and you’re bound to garner at least a dozen what’s wrongs, feel betters, and virtual hugs. How about some clue as to what’s wrong with you? Or the posts that simply say “Something bad happened today“. Care to elaborate? No. No they don’t. They’re just looking for feedback on nothing. When pressed for an answer, the response is usually just as vague “Oh, something went down at work today. I don’t feel like talking about it” – So why did you bring it up? If this happened in real life as much as it happens on Facebook, we’d all punch our friends in the face on a regular basis. *Virtual punch in the face!* **HUGS**

As much as I like real connection, I’m just as guilty of not being “BFF of the Year” as everyone else. I’m just as bad a friend as anyone. Truth is, I’m a terrible friend. I’m not good at making them and equally bad at keeping them. Always have been. I spent a lot of time wishing my friends were better friends when I should have just jumped into the driver’s seat and set the lunch date myself. Perhaps it’s not too late.

The main issue is that Facebook has taken away one very important aspect of my life: My blog. This blog. Used to be I’d write about what was going on in my life. Not for the world really, but for myself. I wanted a place I could go back to once in a while and reflect on the days gone by. Ever since Facebook took over the world, I’ve neglected this blog so much that I didn’t even write about my wedding or honeymoon. I’ve hardly written about 2010 being the year from hell and I have to trust I’ll remember it all for the year end sum up. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, missing out on minor details is just what happens. Our brains are wired to store information, but accessing it when you need it is another thing. Over the years this blog has helped me remember where I was and how far I’ve come. Without it I’m sure I’d think everything sucks. It serves as a reminder of my life and the fine details interwoven between big events.

I’m taking a break from Facebook for a while. Maybe until the end of year. I just can’t take the posturing, the disconnect, and yes, the spelling and grammar police. You know who you are. I don’t care if you spell better than me. What is this? The 3rd grade spelling bee? While you’re at, why don’t you stay late and help the teacher bang erasers? I get it, you’re smarter than me. I figure, for someone who grew up in the ghetto, was taught in a barbed-wire public school, and doesn’t have a formal higher education, I do alright. Besides, who died and made you Lord King Spelling Cop? No one, I tell you. No one! It’s a stupid job and you’re the equivalent of a hall monitor. Hall monitors suck. Douche bag narcs. I can’t stand that Facebook has become a platform for overcompensating. And it while it’s been building for a while, I just hit the breaking point. This year has been a maelstrom of nuttiness and I realized I didn’t need to fill my life with any more than I already have.

What’s sad is that leaving Facebook is about as effective as a tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it. I’m not doing it to prove any point. I just need a break from the bullshit. /end_rant

Just about every morning I wake up with a song in my head. It sets the tone for my day and I’ve been trying to figure out a way I can post them somewhere. If only I had a place to post the songs.

This is the song I woke up with in my head this morning:
DOWNLOAD MP3: The Dandy Warhols – You Were The Last High

In other news, demolition on the new house begins today. Workers are taking down closets, the murder shed, and various others things that need to go. I’m going over there today. Who knows, maybe I’ll post pictures like a good little blogger.

…I didn’t care what people thought. I didn’t think anyone was reading this blog and I felt free to write whatever the hell I pleased. Mostly, I talked about the days, the things that filled them, and the people who swerved in an out of my life. And then it happened, I wrote about work and my boss read it, tipped off by my “superior” – I use that term loosely. I was frustrated and heartbroken at being passed up for a job I’d earned. I didn’t name names and I was very vague about the incidents that occurred. At work, it became a HUGE issue and I had a serious talk with human resources about it. I was forced to apologize, made up a story about something or other, and eventually got off the hook after being threatened with termination. Truth is, they overreacted and were building a case to fire me by knit-picking and picking on me. I wasn’t easy to work with, you see. I didn’t kowtow to them and I didn’t let them to get away with bullshit. It cost me my job. In the end, however, it wasn’t the job for me and I’m happier now as a freelancer. I also don’t ever regret standing up to assholes, not matter what the outcome.

Since then, I’ve bit my tongue. Now that my blog is connected to a bigger world through Twitter and Facebook, the people I know can now easily find this blog. If I didn’t want anyone to read it, I wouldn’t link the hell out of it, would I? This also means that people I want to read the blog can find it, but so can people I don’t.

I suppose I can’t really blame Mary Fisher and Jonathan Meiners for my own self inflicted censorship. At least they got me thinking about what I write and who it affects. I was no longer able to let it all hang out and became concerned with pissing people off. Who had I let myself become? Someone who cared what people think? That’s not me.

As kids came into my life, I censored myself a bit more, thinking they might stumble onto my blog and learn a few curse words; not that they didn’t already know curse words. I also didn’t want my now-husband’s family to think I was uncouth. Except, I am a bit uncouth. I curse like a sailor and I read Charles Bukowski. I write what’s on my mind as it comes into my mind. I don’t plan, I just write. I log in and whatever comes out, comes out. Or…that’s how it used to be, anyway.

I contradict myself. I am uncouth, but I am also gentile and fancy. I used to like the way I wrote. I took my lessons from Bukowski and Salinger; the two Ryes – “Ham on…” and “Catcher in the…”. I wanted to be eloquent, sweet, charming and a bit of artistic foul.

Jerky bosses and the clean minds of small children.

I used to date a guy who made me cry all the time. One night he said, “I’m not making you cry, you’re making yourself cry” I argued that no, indeed, he was making me cry. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what he meant. What he meant was that I controlled how things affected me. If someone called me an asshole, it was my choice to get upset. I could also call them an asshole right back. It was me choosing to react a certain way; not one person (besides me) controls how I feel. Now, not to say that mean boyfriends don’t have some effect on our emotions, but how we react is what matters. Let’s face it, I was probably crying to make him feel bad about the way he treated me.

On occasion, people say things that make me cry, but it’s always my choice to cry or not. I realized that life isn’t about what other people do to me, it’s how I react. If some fuckhead boss makes my life hell, I have options. Those options aren’t always clear, but in the end, what I do in relation to those heinous acts is my doing.

I chose to censor myself. Who I am and what I write is in direct correlation to who I decide to be and what I choose to write. It’s all on me. So, do I worry about pissing people off? Sure I do. Do I worry about hurting people’s feelings? You bet. Should I let that stop me from doing what I want to do? Well…let me get back to you on that one. This does not mean I give myself free license to say whatever I want despite who it hurts. I’m not that kind of person anyway. I don’t enjoy hurting people’s feelings.

This gets confusing when I stop to think about it. To be free and speak my mind, I must also censor myself to some extent. If my husband is acting like a jerk, it’s probably not a good idea to tear him a new one in front of the whole world. Those conversations are best left to private discussions – the way they’ve always been. I suppose it becomes an issue of respect. I respect my husband and his feelings. I care about him and saying he’s a jerk online probably wouldn’t make him feel good. Also, he’s not a jerk. If he was, I suppose I wouldn’t care either way. He is, in fact, a pretty sweet guy and I love him a lot.

So there…choices but on a case by case basis. Censorship and free will, with respect for my friends and loved ones. I guess it’s always been like that, but I can’t be afraid to cuss or complain about a hard day. Oh, and I also can’t complain about my clients. That would be bad.

With so many people to consider, whats the point, you may ask? Do the really bold writers worry about what their wives will say or do they just say it and take the consequences? It’s obvious that Bukowski didn’t give a shit what anyone said and he died a drunk. He was also a poet. There are always repercussions, I guess. Any writer must face the fact that not everyone will agree with them. My objective isn’t to alienate myself, but to get things off my chest…in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone? I can’t promise anything. Let’s just say I’ll try.

I’ve been a photographer and writer as long as I can remember. I did most of my writing in high school and came up with a bunch of lame stories I’d never let anyone read. I then did a good deal of writing when I was running Dark Culture. However, since I’ve left Dark Culture to wallow in solitude, the only real writing I’ve done has been for this blog. I’ve been concentrating on my photography career steadfast and true over the last year and writing has taken a back seat. Fact is, photography is easier than writing. While there are far more technical aspects to photography that one must master, writing is hard because you start with a blank page. Photography, on the other hand, you start with the world.

Looking around my own house, I could find any number of things to take pictures of. Doing the same with a pen and paper, I draw a blank. I realize that coming up with ideas to write about is much more difficult than looking for things to shoot. Does this mean writing requires a truer talent than I actually possess? I don’t know. I’ve been told that I’m a pretty decent writer and when pressed, I’ve come up with some fine text. I suppose it’s because I look at photography like a puzzle to be figured out. Pieces all jumbled that need to be placed in their corresponding order. Light, shadow, glare, bounce, reflection, hues, softness, hardness, and all these other elements that make any one picture come alive. Furthermore, take into consideration camera settings, angle, shutter speeds, ISOs, and F-stops. It’s more akin to a murder mystery. Who dunnit and at what F-stop? There’s also motive and emotive.

When I really think about it, writing has all these elements as well. I guess what it comes down to is me. Truth is, I never felt like a good writer, but photography validates me as an artist. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I am not Annie Leibovitz. I am me and I’m good at what I do. When it comes to writing, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I am not Ray Bradbury. I am me and I’ll never be that good. So what it comes down to is self esteem. Is that what you’re saying? I suppose it is. I feel that I can be witty and flowery in my words, but when it comes to describing, at length, the color of someone’s eyes…I think “blue”? Give this topic to any number of gifted writers and they will tell you why the eyes are blue, what they remind him/her of, or how they spark memories or songs. Ok, so maybe I could do that…maybe I really could, but I get the feeling that should I try, I’d only be saying what a million other people have already said.

I can see this internal dilemma in my fiancee’s son, who, like his father, is a writer; and comes from a long line of gifted writers. How do you write about things that no one else has written about? My fiancee once told his son that what makes his writing unique is his ability to write about the things that only he knows. Which leads us back to the time honored rule of writing: Write what you know.

What do I know? I know that I’ve written passed 500 words and it’s time to stop.