Tuesday’s Tell-All (I’m Just Not that Good at Being Smart)

I tend to lag in technology, often years behind the rest of the civilized world. I never claimed to be tech-savvy or even civilized, okay?

Truth is I only got a “smart phone” this year for lack of choices. I went kicking and screaming into the “smart” realm with no intention of using it for more than basics.

After a few months [eight really] I installed the Facebook app. Apparently you need a second app for Messenger so I hit the okay/install that too button.

Alright. Welcome to the year 2017.

So there I was creeping Facebook on my desktop, minding my own business while the app did its thing and suddenly I am bombarded with alarms. The phone started chiming erratically,  messages were rolling in with GIFs and crazy stickers and emoji’s. At the same time my cousin is texting me, asking if I just sent her something.

No! Oh hell, this demon possessed phone has a mind of its own!

To make a long [list of deleting apps] story short… My daughter explained the particularly bothersome app; how Messenger notifies your Facebook contacts with a suggestion to wave/interact.


Well I waved bye to most of the apps and went back to using the phone as a paperweight.


I understand now why people are glued to their devices. Bless their hearts, I’m just not that good at being smart.



Write Your Own II (A Poem & A Picture)

Write Your Own A Poem & A Picture

This post was intended as part of Wordless Wednesday but I have to say this. I do not/did not expect a public response but in last weeks Write Your Own (A Poem & A Picture) Sarah replied with a beautiful piece blending the poem and the picture. I must say it was a very pleasant surprise. I understand many of us are timid about publicizing our words/thoughts; potentially exposing ourselves to ridicule but if any of you would like to make your take of the photo in the reply section I would love to read it.

A Poem & A Picture (Last Sleep Best Sleep)

Last Sleep Best Sleep

by Brenda Shaughnessy

Dead Sleep (1024x644)

Life, this charade of not-death.

Amnesiac of our nights together,

overheard talking in some other voice.

The great fruits of my failure:

silk milk pills with little bitter pits.

Who talks like that?  Says we are

ever-locked, leaving everything

petalled and veined the way nature

pretended.  Synthesized within

an inch of its life. O the many faces

of facelessness, breathing in the dark –

as if we could shape softness itself,

mold it around us like yams mashed

against a trough by a snuffling snout.

Our own. There’s no way out. Born

to such extra, we are born to lose.

No hairy fingers tapering to threads,

grasping for some lost last use.

Once we were hungry on earth,

soon buried like root vegetables—

to starve the soil as beets do,

growing in our graves.

But now we must remember

our way back to face-to-face,

to eye to eye and hand in hand,

and lock and step and key in hole.

Remembering how not to fall asleep,

we become so desperately drowsy,

and all cells strain to slow to a stop.

All desire to choose otherwise quiets.

No, no one can say we didn’t suffer,

that we weren’t swallowed whole.