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Posts Tagged ‘social media’


                  with thanks to the makers of Your Attention, Please


I go to the hillside at the end of the valley
and sit beside the gray stone with his name on it.
I am in need of deep grounding.
My beloved friend comes alongside. We sit
on the ground beside the grave, frothy white 
seeds of dandelions clinging to our clothes.
We sit until the sun moves away from the valley, 
climbing toward the peaks. I do not mind being sad. 
Sad makes sense when I think of how any child 
can no longer imagine this is a world in which
they belong. This world of green aspen leaves
and alpine snow fields and delicate dandelion fluff. 
This world in which any human is made to feel 
as if they are not enough. How many? And how 
many more? I run my fingers through the tall 
cemetery grass. How green it is. My friend
and I listen to the chaos of birdsong riffling 
across the canyon. I am near destroyed
by the damn beauty of it. The tiniest drift
of cloud goes by. No, not destroyed. 
Opened. 

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

*Hey, friends, I have been going to see films at MountainFilm in Telluride this weekend, and tonight I saw such a profoundly moving, disturbing, insightful, intelligent film about the effects of social media on young people (and all of us). If you get a chance to see Your Attention, Please, it offers compelling reasons for why we might want to rethink our relationship with social media. 

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To each clip of two teenage boys who dance
together in public places, joy
in their serious faces, joy
in each articulated twist of neck,
each synchronized pop of wrist and knee.
To the librarian, his dark hair a wild and
curly halo surrounding his angelic face
as he narrates of kids helping each other.
To each second spent listening
to the mischievous bass player
in his small kitchen with friends
as they saute noodles
and belt out Fly Me to the Moon.
To my daughter who sends me
cats crawling into impossibly small spaces
and finding happiness there,
the way I, even now, I climb into
this small rectangle in my hand
and curl into the surprising happiness
of a red-headed boy with a lilting voice
in a bright yellow raincoat
walking me through a forest
and showing me hen of the woods
and a clutch of orange mushrooms,
life thriving in a world so damp somehow
my own cheeks are now wet.
 

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