Give Thanks

I don’t participate in popular social media events -unless I do so my way. When others share 10 Things I Hate, I share 10 Things I Love; if they tag a friend for One Photo Each Day No Description, I tag myself and post the most humorous artistic-looking picture in my feed.

November is no different. Sure, I’m grateful for stuff. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, after all. The reason I love it, however, is because it’s untainted and wholesome. It’s mine and my family’s. If I start telling everybody what I’m #blessed with, that’s bringing the public to a very private thing.

But, since November 20th, my Twofacebook feed has been different. People I hadn’t seen in ages, people who were only sharing political agendas, and people who only brag have all been giving thanks. It’s fantastic.

I have, too. For, I’ve loved the very different feeling I’m experiencing. I love the new stories about relatives shared by a cousin, the baby and grandbaby pictures from my neighbors, and all the photographs of nature and sunshine and happiness…

So, give thanks. It’s beautiful. Happy Thanksgiving.

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

…and, yes, I still share things my way -but I am participating. ūüėČ

©2020 Chel Owens

Depravity, an Answer

Man is no longer subject to an original sin.

No, he’s sinned quite enough on his own to go far beyond what an Adam may or may not have done.

He walks the streets full of money and glances this way or that but not down to where his money might be spent.

-To fill the empty void in another’s life with drink and drug and possibly the warm blanket:¬†proving the beggar no greater than the man walking, for the man walking is fueled by substance as well.

He and his family (if he has one) all walk while empty inside, trying to fill themselves with pulsing, flashing, instantaneous media. They hide behind their screen, almost-tickled by dopamine, while Mom and Dad take a cold one after a day run by warm ones and a few breaks filled with smoky ones.

And the world is filled with varying levels of success, yet all are depraved of what will really fill their soul and leave them sated with light.

Written in response to The Literati Mafia‘s essay prompt.

Blogging, Blogging, LOOK AT ME! Problems

The irony is not lost on me that I’m posting this¬†directly after observations of phone narcissism. Problem is, I’m sort-of, kind-of, often saying that I’m writing a book. -All right! I’m at least¬†writing, okay?!

I got on WordPress because the wonderful crowd of social-junky peeps on Facebook were giving my ramblings over there a lukewarm response. I had a few loyal, wonderful, intelligent, devoted, absolutely fantastic fans -and I love that handful more than I love myself. But the real-time responses of my ‘friends’ were killing my self-esteem.

I’ve told this story before. My wiser, better-looking, very talented¬†actual friend said I need to move over to a blog. And she was right. I *sniff* love you guys who read my blog posts.

You’re just not thousands of adoring fans pouring over here from everywhere. Okay -I’m kidding.

Over a year of blogging has taught me how things work, and I’m cool with that. I have a very long reader’s feed of wonderful material to get through every day and can stop anytime I want but right now I just need a poem or two¬†then I’ll get to my WIP…

As such, I started another blog¬†specifically to promote The Book That May Come to Be Sometime Before My Death. I joined *shudder* Twitter. I’ve searched, followed, commented, and created another Reader’s feed of amazing articles I love reading and can quit reading anytime…

But it’s discouraging. Everyone wants to be read and hardly anyone wants to do the reading.

Twitter is the worst indicator of this: tweet after tweet after re-tweet after ad. Noise, noise, noise, noise, NOISE! I know that I need to join the cacophony. I need to keep trying, shout louder or funnier, or woo the poor just-starting-out blogger because s/he actually pays attention to comments.

*Sigh*

I suppose I’m still attached to my writing. I put a lot into stories like¬†What’s the Point? then send my babies off all teary-eyed, knowing no one will read them because they’re not at the top of the pile when I start getting people to investigate¬†who is following them.

That, and I’m a bit frustrated at finding like-minded, like-themed sites. My WIP is about motherhood, and¬†so many parenting blogs are clickbait. And if anyone knows about that sort of site, it’s someone like me who worked 8 months¬†creating that kind of crap.

Makes sense, I suppose. I’m barely finding time to write because¬†I’m too busy with actual life so others in the same sort of boat are only going to send up a flare or two if there’s a chance money will come raining down in the ashes.

I know, I know: get off my (extremely) sore coccyx and stop whining. Thanks for listening, anyway. Sometimes it’s just good to get things off my mind and out where millions of people can read my complaining.

I love you guys.

Once There Was Soul

I had an opinion once

-I think-

But thinking is another thing I’m not certain I ever did.

Whether I did or not,

I try not to do so anymore.

-Let’s not think about it.

So what should we do

Without thought?

Tap a screen

Or, swipe it.

*Ping*

Whatever you do, don’t look around

The device before your face.

All the World’s a Staged Place

Audience

For a long time, I sat and watched.

People eagerly rushed to the well-lit stage and spoke their bit. Many just shared what someone else had -and again, and again.

From the spectator’s rows I heard and felt bodies rise and seats flop-flop closed. Soon, I realized the audience was few; the performers were most.

Envy set in. I want attention. I want fame. I want love, respect, and acceptance. I finally rose and joined the stage-bound queue. I stood quietly behind a grandmother, a pre-teen, and a retiree.

Then, it was my turn. Shy, though, I peeked around the curtain. “Come out,” a friend encouraged. “Share what you have made.”

I scampered quickly to the fore; I held up my opinions and waited.

My circle of fellow stage-friends complimented, and encouraged. Smatterings of applause came from family still seated beyond the stage lights.

I smiled and grew more confident. Recognition felt good. I returned to the audience, sated.

My seat creaked as I frequently leaned forward to applaud other performers. What brave souls to simply speak, I thought. And surely, they will return the approval.

Encouraged and emboldened, I performed again. In the warming spotlights and comments, I spoke freely and assumed affection. I chanced the stage many times, basking in attention.

Today, I stepped confidently forward, then hesitated. My step echoed. My speech resounded hollowly. I squinted out to an empty, dark room.

Where is everyone?