The return of the owl
The First Time | I’m still on Twitter [and Insta]. My cultivated feed of fourteen years still feeds me.
The first gift I ever bought her, an owl pendant from the museum shop.
I’m still on Twitter [and Insta]. My cultivated feed of fourteen years still feeds me. Actual people, mostly artists, seek to be met in kind, those I genuinely care enough to follow, touch base with, retweet, encourage, love. Never mistake it for ‘community,’ [the oft-fabled poetry community? BA HA HA!] but pockets of seekers and finders, ‘likes,’ amidst a growing lot of the worse godawful branding.
Drama! Sure, it’s a primary colour and there’s plenty here determined to stir the pot. [“Yes, there is bad poetry. Lots.”] But, I rarely succumb to the tug, get on anyone’s one way raft to the falls. As I said in Poetry Is Queer, “It takes no breath to react, at least two breaths to respond.” There’s a whole lot in reactive mode. I’m not a sneaky breather.
Like my sweet dad, Wally, I’ve never understood the cavalier shenanigans of the televised/streaming public square, colosseum—go for the jugular—mudslinging.
The constant complaint complaint complaint… JFC. I mean, “what did so and so do [again]? They said something? Oh, they blocked you, I’m sorry unfollowed…”
She’s gay. She can gossip, be bitchy-cunty all she wants. I wish it were all that playful. Playful at all ffs.
As legendary gay journalist and prostitute Gerald Hannon was fond of saying, “I already know your truths, it’s your lies that interest me.”
Here’s a [serious] cash cow, start-up, a 7/24 Upset Channel. Call it TILT, with room to grow a second channel, FULL TILT. (I think this used to be called “Speaker’s Corner” on Toronto’s City TV but recall that being at least watchable, mildly entertaining, informative.)
As a humourist, I lean towards humorous posts. My only rabbit hole is hot guys smiling in underwear. Bathroom selfies. A definite step up from the remnants of my younger Sears Catalog days.
There are those who have tried to shame me for even this pedestrian pleasure.
Guilty. Guilty as Barbra posing with Barry on the day Babs and I simply had to part ways in that K-Mart. I simply could not.
Anyone who enjoys their body that much to willingly generously display it for their own pleasure [and mine]. I’m going to pause, take in the view. And thank them.
Actually, it’s exactly that. It warms my heart to see people enjoying themselves, enjoying themselves so much they actually share their joy. Be it cooking [the BEST food porn], or needlepoint, their living room, or something they read, or seen, pretty things, or vintage gay stuff.
And music posts. Band posts. What you’re listening to posts. The Soft Pink Truth. Low. Dust-to-Digital. Harmony Holiday.
I relish the “jackass” shit, the “can you fucking believe this?!” [Yes.], the dance routines, Liza, clothes changes, bitch’n, everybody got one [but me]!, the incredulous, the “wtf, go back go back,” the
Everybody still wants their “Look [Mom]! see what I can do!” moment in the spotlight. And why not?
I recently told Gurdeep [Pandher of the Yukon] I loved him and asked where he got his cool pants, did they sew?
Lately, I’ve taken a charm to “animals helping each other.” Does this happen to all seniors?
A friend of mine recently posted young owls living in a nearby tree. “Look, an owl! In a tree!”
The first owl I’ve ever seen close up was in a fenced area at a local metropark. I'd keep waiting/wanting for it to spin its head around to look at me.
Owls used to be really big in the 70s, my mother Suzanne collected them, owl tchotchkes in every room, the first gift I ever bought her, an owl pendant from the museum shop.
She had purchased a rather large painting of an owl to hang on our sun porch where we sat and played board games. All of a sudden, Suzanne’s arms flung wide, “Everyone stay still for just one minute, don’t move!,” as she left the room and returned with a jar she placed over the owl’s belly collecting the largest roach we had ever seen. The very next day she went to return the painting to the department store, but the manager said no, because it was on clearance, a final sale. On her way out she opened the jar returning the bug she hadn’t purchased to the store.
Seeing these owls [IRL] brings an oddly strange comfort to me these days. Thanks for posting.
Kirby’s Poetry Is Queer is out now from Palimpsest Press.
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