A poet and his pen

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I’m no longer on Facebook. Does life go on?

In his teenage years the Dalai Lama would take apart many things, including watches and automobiles, and then he’d put them back together in order to understand how they operated. Though I’m well past my teenage years, and am certainly no Dalai Lama, the concept of cause and effect is appealing. Don’t you think?

Isn’t it a gift, in any regard to ponder? Isn’t what one may experience, without any value attributed to the level of its triviality, in fact, grossly wonderful?

And while I make that assertion allow for me to unravel myself.

I uploaded my own videos there.

I shared poetry;  Lorca’s words, and a quote by Shelley.

I made allusions to Akmatova, Pushkin, and Jacques Derrida.

I become a fan of Michel Foucault, George Sand, and Marcel Proust.

I invited friends to enjoy the splendor of the group: Père Lachaise.

As I ponder, I remember joining a cause that originated out of Italy to bring attention to forced female circumcision in Africa.

I made references to James Dean.

And then there are the personal associations, which in turn, are invitations to essentially make sense of the absence:

“I don’t see you on FB these days? Did you delete it?”

“…you deleted and blocked me…”

What else did I do?

I got to know someone from Bangladesh; from Serbia; Bulgaria; Russia; Romania; Italy; I reconnected with my friend in England; my friend in Germany; my friends in Turkey; some from Los Angeles. I was able to connect my Taiwanese friend to our mutual friend in France. I made a friend from Canada. I reconnected with friends from one of my high-schools. There was my friend from Armenia. I was invited to travel to Miami by a designer I got to know who had impeccable taste. There was a friend I made in Texas who enjoyed my political satire; a Parisian woman who kept requesting I come to Paris; a poet in Maine who I was just beginning to know, as well as a lady in the middle east.  There was a young German model, who after friending, sent me a delightful message about the beauty of my photos. I even introduced Kalil Gibran to someone I got to know from France. I met a woman, in person, from the country of Georgia. I met a man, in person, who’s dedicated it to serving the homeless; the forgotten and the discarded. Did I mention the invitation to Greece?

If you were to pick yourself apart–would you put yourself back together?

How would you describe yourself in relation to the time?

“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.”
–Percey Bysshe Shelley
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