More on Feline Aesthetics

I'd like to be able to give artistic credit to our kitten----to feel he was creating something beautiful (in his eyes) by shredding our Japanese paper lamp. . . But, as my neighbor once told me in regard to some of the people she felt she may have unfairly criticized for their behavior, "I'm not that evolved yet." Me, either; I want the old design back, Cat!

Why does Facebook bother me so?

I haven't been afraid of technology, only pessimistic about it. It's always felt like another gadget that comes between life that is more real, more direct, more personal. Computers are so expensive and quickly obsolete that they seem too much a part of our sad throw-away society, with corporations making bundles as people become more and more isolated, sitting and staring at these glowing screens as time blurs away.

When e-mail became prevalent, I readily accepted it for work-related purposes because it made my work life easier, but I hated it for personal correspondence and clung to my black pens and various papers and my playful handwriting, remembering how good it feels to find a letter with a friend's handwriting among the stack of faceless bills and advertisements. In spite of this pleasure, I've long since given up my reluctance and now primarily use e-mail with only occasional cards and letters mailed the old-fashioned way, though I continue to feel I've allowed an important part of me to slip away.

When my dear friend began a blog, I swallowed my criticism and wondered what on earth would make one want to put oneself so vulnerably before strangers. Yet here I am. (Though I have connected with some real friends through this means of communication.)

And when Facebook splashed across computers, I ignored it completely, until I realized that my daughter primarily communicates this way, that she'd given up answering my e-mails (though she sometimes responds to text messages), and all the promised photographs never arrived because they are accessible from her Facebook page.

So what bothers me still about Facebook?

I do not like its tiny bits and pieces of information scrolling down the page like so much advertising for individuals. These little pieces remind me of the short attention spans that are being cultivated (the better to keep folks from thinking seriously about anything). They also remind me of the scrolling newslines at the bottom of a TV screen, the little intense bursts of inflammatory "news" that isn't news, sort of like the color-coded alarm system for airport security (the better to keep one's adrenalin levels up while at the same time causing us all to wonder what the heck we're supposed to DO----and, of course, the answer is "nothing". . . Just do nothing and let Big Brother worry about it. . . ).

I do not like the perversion of the word "friend" that includes total strangers and mere acquaintances who can dip into your life at will. Such mindless "democracy" makes me feel that my friends don't really think of me as a true friend, only another number in a stack of Facebook Friends, all with equal access to what has become my only access to some of my true friends.

And, I absolutely abhor only being able to see this surface facet of my only child----and very little else.

But as I think about it here, perhaps Facebook allows me to see too much of my only child (who's a young woman), and this is what disturbs me. I am part of an audience that includes her best friends and they know so much more about her than I.

Facebook is just that: very little. . . a tiny taste of a friend's or relative's life, experienced by scrolling down a computer screen, distant, words with feelings attached on one end without having the real connection at the other.

How to Be Alone: Lovely Video

I enjoy Stephanie Voigt's posts in Space Clear Reflections, and appreciate her references to various creative YouTube videos, including this one:

Wishful Thinking

Being with loved ones who live far away fills me to overflowing with gratitude and joy.

I am also confronted by my ways of thinking that can be problematic. I love giving gifts, yet I am not always so astute in my choices. For example, I bought my granddaughter a fanciful skirt and shirt when I was in Paris last month, thinking how fun it'd be to see her in it----and forgetting that she might not find it so fun at all.

And she didn't. In fact, during her recent visit with me, it took all my persuasive powers to get her to simply try on the outfit. Then, when I realized what a ruckus she was making over wearing it (and when the tears rose to my eyes), I understood that it was merely my own wishful thinking that she'd want to wear that outfit, and that the very idea apparently made her feel absolutely horrible. Nothing I said made a difference. . . and I began to feel that I was merely trying to manipulate her.

So, I went in another room, cried about my idealistic nature that sets me up for disappointment too often, and made yet another vow to myself to accept people for who they are, rather than crying that they're not what I want them to be.

Sitting with Discomfort

At a ritual celebration of Lammas, we considered aspects of our lives that have come to fruition or that have been metaphorically harvested. Of course, along with a celebration of the harvest is the juxtaposed sadness of completion and inevitable death of the old. . . . And the turning of the wheel continues.

Our culture encourages a (rather mindless) seeking after constant comfort, so when we feel discomfort, we are led to believe that something is "wrong" and that the answer is to seek comfort and stability again.

Or---if you're like me---you roll it over and over in your mind and attempt to put words to what it is you feel. I'll fish around in recent events in my life, wondering whether they're the cause. Or, I'll troll through my recent readings or think about what friends and family have said to me. Perhaps it was that dream, the one where I was pushing through, birth-like, a series of tightly woven cardboard boxes, all the while wondering who'd thought up such a predicament.

That's my ego trying to "fix" things.

Perhaps instead I should simply allow the discomfort to dwell in me for a while, and see what happens.