For Once

Summer. The season for killing this blog. Fall. A time of resurrection. There’s a rhythm to it – maybe it’s a sort of free-verse poetry. No rhyme or reason. Short lines, long lines, dramatic pauses – then the volta between summer lassitude and fall’s invigorating chill. Years ago, I wrote a post about this – and if you’ve landed here looking for something like “how do I answer a call on my Samsung Galaxy blah blah blah” keep reading, because I have good news for you if you’re patient.

But first, the old post

It’s a little dysfunctional, this business of killing off my blog once or twice a year, just so I can revive it.

I love a challenge.

But I loathe dishonesty. The fact is, it has taken me nearly two decades to grudgingly agree with a blog post I read in the late 1990s, likening blogging to self-indulgent, introspective navel-gazing. The thought that skipped right past that conclusion and onto the bullet train to blogging burnout was, “Who the hell wants to read the lint-pickings from my bellybutton?” They were so deadly dull, so repetitive, I didn’t even want to expend the energy to type them up, anymore. Commentary on the newsworthy events of the day? Not really in the mood to sprinkle outrage like salt, chew memes, and regurgitate logic, today.  I blew 20,000,000 invisible BTUs into my imaginary hot air balloon and drifted away, leaving the sky to the professional commentators.

Depression is an insidious, creeping thing with tendrils that take hold in a brain like ivy on crumbling, stucco walls. In my case, it’s more like root rot than drama. There’s nothing “wrong.” Honestly. It’s not a deep, dark howling abyss. Just a rusted give-a-damn missing a crank shaft, or something. It growls, but refuses to roar back to life. I’m bored of myself. I’m bored of people. Not you, Dear Reader – I could never tire of you. But I am oh-so-weary of that amorphous, amoeba-like entity known as “people.” And I cannot escape its gel-like pull; I, too, am “people.” A bit of goo, just helping to hold the whole intact, no more or less interesting than the rest of the goo.  But to write, a writer needs to see the individuals drops in all their iridescent glory – to be able to pull the sweet and brittle threads from the thick-headed mass like a candy  maker.

But I don’t want to turn up the flame, either.

And oddly, I can be a very happy depressed person. I’ve been having a fun year, so far. A really good year! Maybe it’s just my “Muse” who’s depressed. Or pouting. Feeling neglected and ignored. “Don’t feel like writing? Fine. See if I care. No words for you.” She sulks in the corner, plucking cobwebs from her scowl.

“Whatever.” I revel in the silence. I listen to other people’s music.

“You could make shit up with the best of them,” she whispers, sucking a spider’s toes.

“If I were evil…”

“No, no, no.” She stands, her red hair flaming. “It’s only fiction that lets us tell the real truths.” Green eyes flashing, she extends a hand and offers me a spider.

“Shhhh,” I hiss, stepping back. “I just want to lie a while.”

“Suit yourself. If you can.” She pops the spider into her mouth, and I hear the unmistakable crunch of words.

Be patient…

For Once

I was looking at the blog stats, this morning, and realized that poetry had at last topped “how do I answer my phone” in searches leading readers here. But just barely. And while I’m grateful for any readers, most days, it makes me a little sad. I mean, that post about answering calls on Samsung Galaxy phones has been around since 2019 and people still can’t answer their phone. To be fair, they can’t answer it the way they want to, which is to tap the button on the lock screen once, not slide it towards the hang-up icon or use one of the side buttons. Such a seeminly small annoyance, and yet… This got me to thinking about other “seemingly small annoyances” and how much we take for granted. Which led to a poem. And more thoughts.

For once, I hate poetry
has overtaken how do Ianswer a call? I only wish
to tap the screen
not sliiiiiiide a button
(like those iPhone users do)
not skate my fingertip
across ice-smooth Gorilla glass - 
just tap. And yet, "accessibility"
gets in my way, at every turn.
That floating menace menu
dancing, mocking me as if 
to say we can 
inconvenience you 
and those who need us most.
And I am acutely aware, now
how grudging the accommodations -
how resentful they are. How
they are designed to make us 
all resentful 
of the little things. Like
sliding a finger
or feeling the cold stall
wall against a hip
where they removed inches
to make one - just one -
wide enough for a wheelchair
when they could have removed 
a sink. It hasn't worked
of course. It's only served 
to make me grateful 
for those stolen moments I 
would cheerfully give
that there, but by the grace
of fate, go I.

OK, fine…here’s your update

Galaxy users, if you’ve read this far: With the Galaxy 25+ (and maybe models before it) and Android 16, it’s easy – it’s no longer hidden behind the Accessibility menu. Just open Settings and search for “gesture to answer calls” and select “Tap” (or “Swipe” – ain’t choice grand?).

More for the “I hate poetry” folks

A couple of book recommendations:

First, just about anything by Billy Collins, to get you enjoying the reading of poetry. Forget your high school assignments and your teachers’ insistence on you picking apart meaning from T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” or some dusty Shakespeare sonnet (though I do recommend you grown-ups take a closer look at #130).

Second, if you’re ready to try writing a few lines of your own, a delightful book I’ve just started reading: The Ode Less Traveled: Unlocking the Poet Within, by Stephen Fry.

All of you, go forth and have a marvelous day!
H.