Dearest Bleaders,
I've been stricken by an anonymous germ and have coughed my way back from the trench of despair to the light of no longer feeling terrible but still feeling beat up and blue.
Also, thanks to the below post by DL (not in this case the down low), I keep thinking about Marlene Dietrich going down on Tallulah Bankhead at a party.
So I won't even try to focus. Which brings me to the subject of twitter. Twitter statements are limited to 140 characters, which is fewer than your average sentence. (fewer is a funny word to type, like a musical scale going up and then, like Marlene…)
Poetry is also a craft of arbitrary rules and syllabic limitations, and some tweets are indeed poetic. Most however are uncondensed yammer or overcondensed blither, the latter the worser for having been hoisted on its own petard. I'm not a kid anymore, but I still know it's better to get hoisted on someone else's petard.
Yet like so many others, I have recently joined the tweeters. At first I tried using it to promote my books, but that made me feel like a twit, so I quit it. Basho don't sell soap. Tweeters brag about odd things, the cleverness of their meal or a celebrity in their afternoon. To tweet is to crow. Others do in fact sell soap, so to tweet is to hawk. Not the worst idea, but as the parrot said, why tweet when you can talk?
Then again, I received a direct message tweet sending me to this link, and I thought it was about the greatest thing ever. I thought twitter was supposed to be good for getting answers to questions, but I asked it if anyone knew if Howard Hughes germ phobia worked, that is, did he successfully avoid colds and the flu? Doesn't seem anyone knows.
On tweeting, the verdict is still out I suppose. I posted in two consecutive tweets Emily's tell all the truth but tell it slant and that was fun for me. Did others also feel her glow? Despite the trade's tricks, I got no feedback, I was not fed tweetback, so I can not know.
I was just thinking that someone who "doesn't know their own strength" in fact doesn't know how delicate the world is, and how much everyone does, in fact, care.
I'm drinking coffee for the first time after a full week of tea and honey. There are bees in NYC, does that mean there is honey here somewhere? Where? I just taped an interview for Air America to air this Saturday. I think I was lucid. Lucider than I am being here. I love letting down my lucid for you, dear bleaders, bogs and leaders, blobs of eaters, bloggy readers. I was so sick I missed the poetry brothel last week — major drag. Do the kids still say drag these days?
I grew up with no sports watching and always envied people whose moods tacked to the scores of distant heroes. Thusly I follow my amazon numbers, as if the fortunes of single volumes on certain days could tell me to a digit that everything was going to be OK.
Everything is going to be OK. I say this not from conviction but because my concern lifts when I'm stumping for optimism. Get up. I'm talking to my inner Lana Turner. That goes double for you Dietrich. And Tallulah, sweetheart, you are a guest, not a snack.
yers most devotedly,
Jennifer