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World War Tweet.

I’m calling it. Historians will look back on the advent of social media as a key escalating factor in international crises.

It actually isn’t always a very good thing when heads of state can spontaneously interact in real-time, at any moment, without their staffs vetting or tempering their messages, even when those heads of state are tired or upset or under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

And there’s more here to consider. If you’re in your 40’s, as I am, you can remember that good friend from high school who you got along swimmingly with if you occasioned to speak with them twice a year — maybe on the phone, maybe when you visited the old neighborhood. You held diametrically opposed views on politics or religion, but those things seldom arose in conversation.

Then Facebook and Twitter brought all of those differences front and center. You could be reminded of them every day — in a platform of interaction that is manifestly habit-forming. The ease and availability of that interaction paradoxically drove you apart. (Recall, please, the old adage that “high fences make good neighbors.”) You woke up one day and realized that your good friend from high school wasn’t such a good friend any more.

What we are witnessing today is a case of technology having disastrous unintended consequences.

 

 

“Cassandra,” Evelyn De Morgan, 1898

Oil on canvas.

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(They are, presumably, Goodfriends.)

Goodreads keeps sending me notifications saying “You are now friends with” so-and-so.

Goodreads puts far more effort into me having a healthy social life than I do. They’re a bit heavy-handed about it, though.

“IN SOVIET RUSSIA, FRIENDS MAKE *YOU.*”

 

 

“Evolution,” Piet Mondrian, 1911

Oil on canvas.

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“Out of it steps our future, through this door …”

“The Door” (Part I. of “The Quest”), by W. H. Auden

Out of it steps our future, through this door
Enigmas, executioners and rules,
Her Majesty in a bad temper or
A red-nosed Fool who makes a fool of fools.

Great persons eye it in the twilight for
A past it might so carelessly let in,
A widow with a missionary grin,
The foaming inundation at a roar.

We pile our all against it when afraid,
And beat upon its panels when we die:
By happening to be open once, it made

Enormous Alice see a wonderland
That waited for her in the sunshine and,
Simply by being tiny, made her cry.

 

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Photo credit: William Murphy from Dublin, Ireland [CC BY-SA 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)%5D

“Innocentia,” Franz von Stuck, circa 1889

Etching.

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“Say hello to my little friend.”

This handemade leather-bound volume is about the length of my forefinger; it was an especially cool Christmas present from a writer friend of mine.  She picked it up for me at a Renaissance Faire.  She told me I could write all my “secret thoughts” here.  (I’ve got a lot of ’em.)

I personally like to think that it looks like something out of Stephen King’s “The Dark Tower” universe, like maybe the place where Roland inscribes clues about his quest.  (I know he doesn’t need to search for clues in any of the books, but still.)  Or maybe it’s a convenient pocket-tome for the vengeance-driven Arya Stark from “Game of Thrones” to keep her “list.”

I haven’t yet decided precisely what I will record here.  I quite love it, though.  It’s sitting on my desk as a reminder for me to write.  (You know what would fit perfectly on a single page?  All the progress I’ve made on my novel in the past six months.  Maybe I’ll start with that.)

 

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Cover to “Grendel: Behold the Devil” hardcover, Matt Wagner, 2010

Dark Horse Comics.

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“An Ode to the Paintings of a Newly Discovered Artist,” by Eric Robert Nolan

“An Ode to the Paintings of a Newly Discovered Artist”

In smoke-tones
as only oldest memories will slow their burns to smolder,
her visions sift
as softly as ash,
breeze-blown and balmy,
will filter forward noiselessly in palling ebon fingers:
the dim ellipses of faces, our silhouetted lost,
their bewitching figures now remembrances unlit, all
ordered under odor of the flare.

Silently out of the late-day hearth,
the spent fire’s sigil on the floor
angles out of chance into her portraitures of soot.

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Nurse Your Favorite Heresies in Whispers