Love in the Time of Caller ID

Big Internet tells me love is dying everywhere, so it must be so, no? And lately social media seems to be a clearing house for hate, violence, unkindness, betrayal, murder, so it must be so, no? Your god knows we all have challenges, obstacles, villains to deal with that lead us to conclude that love is dying everywhere. Images and words that pull our triggers. I remember when Trigger was a horse. These impressions are at epidemic proportions, Big Internet tells me this, so it must be so, no? We say we want people to be kinder— red-people, blue-people, politician-people, lover-people, family-people, friend-people, neighbor-people, Twitter-people. I remember when Twitter was a horse. And in our complaints, we are unkind about the people who are being unkind. A paradox, a paradox, a most ironic paradox. I remember when Paradox was a horse…and a pair of shoes. I’m always afraid, not just lately, always. I go through my daily dose of fear which leads to panic, anger, self-pity, shame, regret, depression, anxiety, self-doubt, and finally, despair. Always despair. I had two paradox, I often waffled, ‘Should I wear despair, or datpair?’ Quandary. I remember when Quandary was a horse. Crying helps, meditation helps, exercise helps, writing helps. Booze never helps, it’s fun but it never helps. Big Internet tells me Ambien helps. And Oxycodone, and Xanax, and Celexa, and Zoloft, so it must be so, no? I remember when Zoloft was a horse. Art helps. Poetry helps. Theatre helps. Most of my life has been about reading: books; plays; lots of plays. Most of the great plays put love on trial during its worse days. The setting of a great play is often within the four walls some of the characters call home, wherever that may be, and those of us in the audience can discuss love on trial after we leave the theatre. Of course, many of us have lost our homes at one time or another, often to dying love. And that makes a great play, too. Your god knows I have lost my home more than once to dying love. Been homeless. My dog got to stay. I often wonder about that dog— do they miss me as much as I miss them? Do they ever try and call me on their little dog phone shaped like a bone? How long did it take before my scent was replaced by another smell of dying love? Pathetic. I remember when Pathetic was a horse. At the end of a great play the questions are only asked and never answered, the answers are up to you and you alone. Music helps. Voting helps. So, put on some Big Internet tunes and kiss the camera and be your own best lover-man, lover-woman, lover-child, lover-non-binary, lover-cat, lover-dog, lover-horse, lover-god, and vote. I remember when Voting was a horse.