The Flocks of October

The sun is bright and the air is cold and outside my window a flock of birds flies in endless coils as if it is made of smoke.

The flock is not going anywhere. They stay in the same area. The flock is sinuous, as if it is one thing and not many. It boils upward, spiraling and flowing and rising until some invisible signal sends it downward. It turns around itself, coiling like a half-substantial snake, feathers and flashes of air as ephemeral as smoke, as mist, as the cold October fogs in the early mornings. The birds do not follow each other, as there is no time for following, only time for being. The flock is itself, but it’s not going anywhere.

I wonder if there is something wrong with the birds. Perhaps they should be flying south as the cold air smuggles itself in from the north. Birds have a sense of the world, of the magnetic poles. They are pulled. Except this flock of smoke is not going anywhere; it is stuck in an endless loop.

Perhaps the flock’s compass is broken. The glass is cracked and the needle is dancing and the flock twists and turns in emulation of a needle pointing nowhere.

I see the flock and I wonder if it is not so different than most of us. We think we’re following an arrow forward, but we’re really flying in circles, doubling back again and again until we’re tied in invisible knots. Our compasses are broken, and we do not take the time to think, to stop and consult a map (a map that may not exist), and instead we just move, a flock of feathers and hungry beaks searching for a horizon that we’ve forgotten we were looking for.

The frost at the bottom of the window melts as the flock of smoke wings about, and I wonder if I’m wrong; I wonder if the flock knows itself—knows itself so well that it will take this time to rejoice and dance and twirl because it feels the cold air and knows the journey is upon it, a journey that is long and hard, a journey that not all the flock will survive. Members of the flock, little bits of itself, will fall from the sky and not rise again. But the flock will live and journey and continue onward and a destination will be reached. And there will be another journey and another destination after that. And there will be small deaths and cold air and a new spring and flight, flight—always that.

Four Short Walls #84 - Good Writing

Four Short Walls #83 - Brothers

Simply for the Love - The Crooked Brothers

Facebook vs. Blogger

So, as some of you may have noticed, I have not been too active on Ye Olde Blog over the last couple months. But! I have been somewhat active on Facebook, which I had recently joined. And the experience has led me to think about a few things.

The two forms, to me, seem decidedly different, which makes a comparison of the experience interesting. And the differences between the two have something to do with my activity levels on each.

Facebook is basically the online version of joking around with your friends. Yes, sometimes Facebook can be more. Sometimes important things transpire on Facebook and filter through to social consciousness (of groups either large or small). But, basically, it's sitting about and having fun with a few of your friends. The serious bits are like the occasional intrusion of depth into a conversation that mostly revolved around making fun of Miley Cyrus. Facebook is about everyday stuff (Hey, how's it going? Have you been to Tru's lately? They have a great new sandwich on the menu) and one-liners.

Blogs are more about content. Now, obviously, there are a few jokes and bits of stupidity and silliness on blogs, too. But, overall, the focus is still on creating some sort of content. It is about a writer making a conscious attempt to write about something, to speak their mind, and to share something of themselves. This, I think, is what I still love about blogs: the focused attempt to say something. There is conscious meaning in blogs.

But this focused attempt to speak and share is also more demanding. It demands more in terms of time and thought. The emotional expenditure is steeper. This makes blogging, in a sense, more difficult.

Over the last few months, things have been busy. Four growing kids, busyness at work, and (yes!) some actual writing, rewriting, and revising of fiction. Throw in health concerns and there was little time or energy left for crafting blog posts.

Facebook, on the other hand, is sort of easy. You check in, glance at what people are doing, and then write a few quick comments in a natural way, whether making a joke, offering condolences, or shouting out some encouragement. Facebook is sort of fun (and a bunch of other things, too, some of which are not so nice). It's easy, it's quick, and you can enjoy some good times with friends. Videos of velociraptor pranks are also acceptable.

But I miss blogs. As a writer and reader, it's nice to step up and say something. And it's nice to sit down and read something.

Conversation is wonderful. I love conversation. Facebook is a sort of conversation. You joke, you laugh, you get annoyed, you occasionally want people to shut up. Reading blogs, though, is a bit like stepping into a book day after day. It, too, is a communication, but one that has been shaped by the writer's will and passion and values. It's often the stuff that wells up from underneath, the stuff that you have to talk about even though it's hard to fit in a conversation.

Four Short Walls #82 - An Unintended Hiatus Ends

Four Short Walls #81 - Defensiveness