facebook made me write – later excerpt (b)

A day or so passes and no word. Kinda bummed, not sure what I’m thinking. I was lucky she even added me as a friend in the first place, let alone that she sent a sweet and sexy message. Yet, I still persist in some odd fantasy. She is 3,000 miles away, at the beginning of what is obviously a career about to skyrocket. She seems to be around 10 or 11 years younger, even though she talks and looks like she’s from another time altogether.

I have kids and a job and infrastructure that preclude any reality here. But I guess this isn’t about reality.

“All good, Chris,” I say to myself, “cool your jets and check your head.” This is a gift, even if you never hear from her again. Use it.

I’ve discovered that when someone that is in your “Friends List” posts something, it pops up on a “master wall” called “newsfeeds”. This keeps you updated on what your friends are doing, saying, posting, etc. Underneath the posts, there is a button you can click that says “like.”

I‘ve seen the two videos she just posted and I do like them, love them, in fact. But there isn’t a “love” button on Facebook. Not yet at least.

So I click “like”. Somewhere 3,000 miles away, my name and a link to my profile will pop-up on her screen. Maybe she will click on it and go to my profile and see my poem, “Marilyn’s Rainbow” and know it’s for her.

Yeah, right. Man, I think so damn much, I’m glad all my thoughts aren’t published or posted or read.

I go on a run and try to shake myself out of it; out of the dream world and desperate attempts at anesthetizing myself. I am becoming weird. To be expected, really. I am doing a weird thing, in a weird way, with weird people.

I say to myself, “That’s ok, Chris. But you don’t want to lose yourself completely.” The point of all this is to find myself, after all.

Thursday night I am in my office writing and catching up on emails. It is 2 or 3 days since I sent my last message to Ms. Rey. I notice an email alert from my Facebook inbox and click on it.


Great god’s of the digital spectrum, my plan worked! As insane as it is and I am, it worked. Her words instantly unravel me. Any adoration from anyone is enough to make me stiff, but from her it is almost too much to bear. Almost. Her few, simple, well-chosen words are arranged in a way that make the complex clear.

Wow. she really has struck me. Unintentionally, I’m sure.

“Quit now.” A voice inside me says.

“Screw that” I say back.


All right, this is you, and it almost seems cool. I immediately get up and go for a twenty minute walk to avoid saying anything else that might sabotage the modicum of cool that was bestowed in that simple and real response. When I get back there is another email alert.


My first thought is to check my pulse to make sure I am still inside the mortal coil. When I register a pulse and warmth, I perform a really awkward and totally soulless dance. Maybe even a jig. It is only tempered by the fact that she had responded a minute after my post. Had I not gone on my walk to remain cool, I might have started up a chat with her. Did I miss the boat?

“Wow, you really are friggin nuts, Chris. Just reply back.”


Without being quite conscious of it, I have started talking to myself out loud. Not just now, but in general, and a bit more than one would normally converse with oneself. Fortunately, I pose mostly rhetorical questions, so my actual back and forth dialogues are kept to a minimum.

But she hears the words I speak for what they are; for how I mean them. I understand and reach this girl, from a distance and from proximity. She makes me want to write things.I cannot ever stop is the feeling I get. Just then an uncontrolled air blows in from the open door. It feels sweet on the back of my neck. It makes every hair stand to attention, ready to die for a cause.



  1. I’ve never much cared for poetry – I’ve always felt there was more poetry in talking about bare-bones reality than phrasing it in poetic structure. In other words, understanding a situation behind a poetic statement imparts, in my opinion, more meaning (and for me, more enjoyment) than the poem presented without circumstance (or even the poem itself).

    To the point: I’ve never really “gotten” poetry, so the majority of your writing has been dismissed with a shrug. However, your non-fiction gets so cleanly and intimately to the point that I feel guilty for not getting your poetry.


  2. way dig. and way dig you digging it. funny this stuff seems so ancient and it almost makes me cringe. but thanks for letting me see that it is still relevant. ;)

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