Here is yet another stage of the flowers on the mystery tree, all stages present at the same time. Click to enlarge photos. Go HERE to see a later stage of the blooms.
See Cee’s gorgeous hydrangeas HERE.
A Youthful Calling
Oh that I had been born later
in an age more prone to cater
to the new technology
that simply doesn’t gel with me.
I must ask. Is it me alone
who can no longer use the phone?
What every eight year old has mastered
makes me feel completely plastered.
Those buttons simply don’t make sense.
They leave me rattled, shaken, tense––
uttering words you’d find uncouth.
I do not glorify my youth,
but bygone memories do linger
of dials that fit a human finger––
phones simply used to call a friend
instead of apps that never end.
iPhone? I fear I’m not a fan.
I want a phone I’m smarter than.
The Prompt today was “Youth.” In the weeks since my internet has increasingly become nonexistent, I’ve been relying on my iPhone to furnish a hotspot to post from. Unfortunately, for the past few days, as my phone registered its full limit, I’ve been waiting for my usage to flip back to 0 MB, but alas it hasn’t. Finally I went to Telcel where I was assigned to a young man whose knowledge of a little English rendered him understanding of my faulty Spanish and, like a gift from the gods, he informed me that the 1 GB was what I’d used in the past year, not in the past month, and he downloaded an app that will keep me informed of my month’s usage and flip over each month. (In addition, I learned that the price of extra MB’s is 25 cents Mexican per MB which is less than 2 U.S. cents! So, I’m back to 1 MB usage and a bit less tense about the fact that I’m beginning my second week of no wifi. Telmex (the phone company as opposed to Telcel, the cellphone company––both owned by the near-richest man in the world, Carlos Slim) was closed today so I’ll try again Monday. Perhaps I’ll just cancel my internet and landline and opt for more MGs on my phone. It, at least, seems to be consistent in its service.
Before I left Telcel, I quipped to my young “savior” that along with their better understanding of Smart phones and iPhones, I have a feeling that future generations are going to be born with one little pointed finger more adapted to those tiny buttons on the cellphone. He laughed and assured me that I’d become accustomed to them, but I have my doubts. So, that is the backstory to this poem, as after leaving the Telcel center in the mall, I went to the food court which has free wifi and wrote the above poem.
If I’m not commenting on blogs or posting as much as before, this has been why. May wifi at home be in my near future. So far my complaints have not brought action.
I fear the future will not stand
for communication writ by hand.
E-mail, Instragram and text
is current and what’s coming next
could well be texting brain-to-brain.
Practice your penmanship in vain,
for in most schools, it’s been junked.
Writing by hand has gone defunct!!
The fresh bookstore smell of them,
bending the pages to crack the spine,
notes scribbled in the margins,
hearts with initials on the flyleaf,
something to loan or to wrap for a gift,
something propped up on the bathtub edge,
it’s paper sprinkled with drops–
pages wrinkled into a Braille memory–
that rainstorm run through,
how he put it in his back pocket.
Poetry touched by fingers.
Single words met by lips.
Words pored over by candlelight or flashlight
in a sleeping bag or in a hut with no electricity.
Books pushed into backpacks
and under table legs for leveling.
Paper that soaked up
the oil from fingers
of the reader
or chocolate chip cookies
in lieu of the romance on the pages–
finger food served with brain food.
Passions wrapped in paper and ink–
the allure of a book and the tactile comfort.
The soul of a book you could touch, fold, bend.
Books are the gravestones of trees
but also the journals of our hearts.
Cities of words,
boards and bricks of letters,
insulated by hard covers or the curling skins
Something solid to transfer the dreams
of one person to another in a concrete telepathy
of fingers and eyes.
Books are the roads we build between us,
solid and substantial–
their paper the roadbed,
the words the center lines directing us.
What will fill the bookcases of a modern world?
Google replacing dictionaries,
Wikipedia already an invisible bank of Encyclopaedia Britannicas.
What will we use our boards and bricks for,
if not to hold up whole tenements of books?
How will we furnish our walls?
What will boys carry to school for girls?
What will we balance on heads
to practice walking with perfect posture?
What will we throw in the direction of the horrible pun?
Will there be graveyards for books, or cities built of them?
Quaint materials for easy chairs or headboards for beds?
Will we hollow them out for cigar boxes
or grind them up for packing material?
Where do books belong in the era of Kindle and Audible?
These dinosaurs that soon will not produce more eggs.
Perhaps they’ll grow as precious as antiques.
Perhaps the grandchildren of our grandchildren
will ponder how to open them. Will wonder at their quaintness,
collecting them like mustache cups or carnival glass,
wondering about the use of them–as unfathomable as hieroglyphics.
That last book closing its pages–one more obsolete mystery
fueling the curiosity of a bygone era that has vanished
into a wireless universe.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Going Obsolete.” Of all the technologies that have gone extinct in your lifetime, which one do you miss the most?