Facebook, friends, and fragility

A blast from the past: a post on finally hearing from Tom AC5TM, to whom “Stepping Out of the Car, After Not Recognizing an Old Friend’s House” is dedicated, in the days following Katrina and the levee break.

I’m keeping mostly to myself as comps arrive and as the nastiness of K+5 stuffed emotions occasionally bubble up. Poetry and planning are the two best ways to cope.

I’ve also been pretty well kicked in the gut over Facebook recently, so am thinking long and hard about who I really want to spend time dealing with (as I have no time whatsoever). All my real friends who read this: Come find me here. Come find me via real e-mail. Come find me via snail-mail–now THERE’S something new and different. If you want my real e-mail or my real mailing address, just ask. Maybe I’ll come back to FB, o crack pipe, o conflict, but I’m going to quit using it as Twitter, probably to the delight of hundreds. Perhaps I will no longer attract freaks and annoy acquaintances.

One of the great disadvantages of grad school is that, given our overheated schedules, there’s never any time to develop real friendships or a genuine sense of community. FB has filled that void, to a certain extent, because I could at least banter with old friends far away. I miss quality time in the real world with a few good friends. I’ve been reminded what the word “friend” constitutes. And because 20 years blows by in a second, I’d rather be alone most of the time, or with my partner and my family, than spread myself as thin as I have been in recent years. Life’s too short for time-wasting foolishness. I am no longer opening the door to my precious time unless I have a damn good reason for doing so.

Is your life materially better because of your electronic gadgets? Seriously? Of course I get the irony that I’m typing this on a computer and flinging it into the digiverse. As Katrina bore down on New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, I tried to use social media as if I were still at CNN. I wanted to disseminate information through backchannels. I wanted to know how and where other poets and writers, many of whom are friends, were at the time. I wanted to do something useful, not just sit there and not report on the biggest news story ever in the place I know the best on Earth. So I made do, both in Atlanta online and in Mississippi via amateur radio.

Five years later, the city was fighting back like mad and making progress, and then BP turned the entire Gulf Coast into its own personal chemistry lab. Scratch all the plans we’d made for moving here or there. Scratch everything I know and love. At least on Facebook I’ve been able to communicate with my fellow New Orleanians, now living all over the country/world. At least it was something I could hold onto.

Now I am nobody, living noplace.

My closest friends from high school live in Australia, Spain, and Massachusetts.

My country has done little to nothing for my city, my state, my region over the past five years.

What else is there for me here? Seriously?

All I want to do is write my dispatches, whether poems, articles, or novels, from a quiet and relatively human-scale coastal village lacking DSL. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to teach those who want to learn about language and literature. My standard of living is modest. I don’t need (nor do I want) a ton of money. I want to pace my life according to the tides, the fish running, the dolphins and ospreys making their daily round trips, the sun sizzling into the ocean on the horizon. I want to live somewhere where I can shore dive every day and watch gobies in their natural habitat. I want a good tropical thunderstorm again. I want to dash under the patio roof, the water pounding the tin, rivulets roping from the eaves, to sit on the steps and drink beer and play the guitar and talk all afternoon. I want the kind of friends who know how that feels.

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