The Twittersphere Dispatch

Free writing, Uncategorized

I woke up with a sewing needle lying on my bedsheet, not three inches from my eye. I’m not sure how it wound up where I found it. Regardless, I’m struck more seriously by the Twitter feed I left agonizing over attacks in Tehran, Qatar losing touch, a vanished Burmese military jet and it’s over 100 vanished passengers, a new FBI director announced bright and early this morning.

Sleep finally came after that tidbit, around 6 a.m. my time. I woke up at 11, to a total of 777 updates in the feed. Last night was my first attempt at building a reliable and informative Twitter feed in hopes of one day joining the national conversation. I’ve been unusually hesitant to join this specific social platform for years. Facebook entered my conscious behavior, exerting influence at the onset of my high school years. Since then, I’ve stuck with it intermittingly, never one to post without due cause. I have also since become active on Instagram and Snapchat. MySpace was slightly before my time.

Twitter always appeared to me as the lowest form of mass communication. Perhaps it was the strict 140-character limit that led me to this bias. More likely, it was the quality of the earlier user accounts, touting ill-sourced and ludicrous conspiracies against President Obama. I witnessed a revolution on this medium with the Arab Spring, along with the rise and transformation of an underdog Democratic candidate into the first black President of the United States. Quick change served as the catalyst of this medium. Crowdsourced input broke the traditional news cycle. Anyone could make the news and all news was digested in blocks of the same size. A story from the Times takes up exactly as much space as one from a personal blog written by a dissatisfied constituent or a citizen under siege. We entered into a new informational age of conflation.

By the time I first attempted to utilize Twitter, I was still unconvinced of its efficacy. My earliest explorations had tainted the prospect of using the platform as a daily source of news. Twitter began patrolling spammy accounts and bots in efforts to bolster legitimacy. The result was a cleaner feed, not necessarily one with higher quality content. I just couldn’t stick to it, something seemed cheap about the whole place. Politics appeared as a game of insults and biased reporting. Baseless theories proliferated and actual journalism was tasked with keeping up and breaking through. The system did not allow for the cream to rise to the top. Important news pieces were left dispersed and suspended in a tall glass of muck.

My persistent political involvement had sharply dropped off in the year following Obama’s inauguration, an event I am lucky enough to remember attending in person. Before this milestone, I can recall a busy girl pouring over news bulletins and press releases. Breakfast was accompanied by no shortage of newsprint: The New York Times brought us the world and Newsday brought us the town. The evening news was a communal engagement in my family. We scoffed, we chastised, and most importantly, we discussed. When discussions reached a point of relief, we sought channels for action. My father began a charitable collection at our church for active military personnel in Iraq and Afganistan, called “Operation: Gift Box.” He was inspired by our Pastor’s husband Mike, recently reunited with us after a tour in Iraq and gearing up for another deployment. Mike brought back vital news from the front lines, less strategic and more emotional. It was the little things, he said; An insufficient amount of toothpaste, a dismal selection of snacks, nothing new to read.

My father sought to address these gaps in the military budget, with his focus always trained on empathy. “Love the soldier, hate the war.” It was a small effort, but significant enough to garner a marginal amount of local press coverage. On the side, I accompanied my father on night outings in which we plastered anti-war messages across town. My father taught me that even those without a platform can create their own. Before Twitter, he recognized that the world isn’t so large that your contributions go wholly unnoticed.

A good message is worth fighting for.

In January of 2008, my politically-minded liberal father succame to a particularly invasive form of Melanoma. The women in my family, my mother, aunt, and grandmother, were each lost in a sea of broken hopes. Instead of despair, we channeled our frustration with the world into our desire to see it change. Barack Obama represented so much to our family and still does. When a family loses a battle with cancer, it can seem like every fight is a useless expenditure of one’s time. Yet this is backward. Every funeral should eventually serve as a call to action. Reexamine your loved one’s life and route out any unfinished aspirations for the world they left behind: yours.

This does not, nor should not, take place in the funeral hall or place of worship surrounded by mourning friends and family. Each person in attendance should have the right to draw their own conclusions from such an event. Don’t force an understanding. Let it come to you when you least expect it. Let the world’s dispatches remind you of work left to be done. Imagine the world they would have created had they survived. If your beliefs align with theirs, imagine they are next to you while you watch and read the news. Keep an ear out for their voice in your head. What would strike a cord with them? What would pique their interest and spur their civic action? Let them lead the way and speak out.

The comfort of the Obama administration has left us all a bit nonplussed. The world is as scary a place as it was to me in 2008, without the compass of a living father to guide me. It’s been nearly a decade since he left us. Sometimes it seems like it is increasingly impossible to be an informed citizen. I find myself picking and choosing the most pressing headlines in an undying search for subtlety. The pace of breaking news is not conducive to critical analysis. It used to flurry outside every once and a while. Now the most trusted outlets begin each day bracing for another avalanche. I can no longer avoid Twitter. Serious writers cannot afford to miss the opportunities for engagement that it provides. I appreciate at least that the site encourages you not to “like” a person but to “follow” them. I will follow Donald Trump in the sense that one follows a local traffic report on the radio: reluctantly scanning the airwaves for colossal wrecks and slowdowns.

Roy Peter Clark Saves the Day (Again).

Free writing

A consequence of extreme inaction, I recently sought the guidance of a psychiatrist to recalibrate my mind. I left with a new label: Adult ADHD. The medication is of enormous help most days. A trained apathy toward reading had slowly evolved post-graduation. An uncertain future was neglected because it was too inexcusable to stomach. I sought the approval of men, one man in particular, who indulged too heavily in provocative arguments. I often lost my train of thought. Writing, a singular joy in dark times, became a task scheduled for another day. The basic mechanisms of reflection and critical analysis were rendered costly wastes of time. I took to drowning out the impenetrable walls of incoming information, news briefs, Senate hearings, etc. via YouTube videos, clippings of a whole story that’s too big to print. I forgot to reach inside myself for answers.

The time for action is upon us, heavy and persistent. Every wasted hour feels like a year of my intellectual life. It’s time to turn my powers toward the necessary work that must be done. Research is vital. Hip hop is helpful. Grateful citizens engage and their work is consecrated. Consciousness shouldn’t be an obligation. Heritage isn’t hermetically sealed. Your actions are no footnote. The chapters lie haphazardly before the splendor of my genetic fingerprint. Who plays the long-awaited grace note in amorous reprieve? She sits tensely unabated. Just who is this girl when she’s at home? An unlit fuse? No. Too simple. Perhaps a cantankerous headline will reveal it. Maybe the ceiling will give and nature will reclaim it all. Unlikely. The foundations resist all manner of flood and fire. Our institutions align everything in their wake as if by magnetism. What creation of man is enough to cause an upheaval?

I arrive late to the dock searching for suspicious curios and cases. Everything is already unpacked or at least rifled through. I strain my vision for a point of focus. What am I really trying to say? I am not taken by surprise. This here is a blessed treaty with myself. Unphased ducklings spread their candor over their moment when it comes. Seasoned sentimentalists question cartels over milk, honey, and heat rash. The district attorneys change the locks on their desk. Church attendance sharply decreases or increases, based on the quality of the communion wafers. What value is placed upon the verifiable in our nature? Which impulses, improperly stoked, eliminate the action potentials which unite us in shared understanding? America is not an impatient child, asking its mother to cut the line. It’s not easy for us to hear the word “no.” We learn to swallow our missteps and own up to those we have wronged. Our progress is not a footnote. It is our pulse.

March Forward

Poetry

18-Year-Old Model

Remains Found Under Bridge Possibly

Makes Remark

About How Women Get Attention

Abortion Rights, Feminism and Hillary

Clarifies Comment

 

That ‘Islam Hates Us’ at

Criticism of Her Appearance in

Massachusetts

 

3-Inch Hot Dogs

Caused by ‘Blunt Force Trauma’

Using iPhones

The Theoretical Physicist

Asks Spiritual Leader His Opinion

Shrinks or Eliminates Tumors Before

 

Discontinues Support

Following Patent Dispute for Gene-Editing

Framework That Reportedly Loads

Traffic and Retires

Early Due to Knee Surgery

 

Honor Teen Equestrian Rider Who Died

He Is Attempting to Play in NFL

 

Wrestler’s Trial With Gawker Over Sex

Linked to Cold Case, Police Say

Baseball is ‘a Tired Sport’

 

Amelia Cairns    3/11/16

PACIFIC, 1944

Poetry

 

It’s me, sitting there upon the alter
The cathedral at Palo, running faucet water
Flooding the grout, infantry waves thrash
Ceaselessly at every corner, I will find
The enemy does not hide in abandoned churches
Only the Flip kids lay still at the rails
On their backs their arms outstretched, holding
The wrought iron ornaments as they were
Bicycle handlebars absorbing white heat,
Flushing blood to my palms on the ride
Back to camp. See now, the temples of sheets
I shutter-trapped in fields of mud, deep enough
To sink you to the spot, is this
New Guinea is this
Australia, now Manila, the capital
We think, this is
Gate-closing panic

 

Pacified only
By the little things
Institutional errors
Refuse bins urging ungrounded
Soldiers, THRASH ONLY and leave
What you will refuse
Upon high barred cathedral windowsills

 

 

Amelia Cairns (Spring 2013)

(It’s Not Brain Surgery, It’s) The Gamma Knife

Poetry
There are several options but
 I find fragments of him in my desk drawers
You’ll want to take the 1 uptown
Down to the dead skin dust on his glasses
Leaving every six minutes.
Fight the body to save the mind?
“Now With Service Overnight!”
Fresh tissue flanked by rotting clumps
You take the 4 to Woodlawn
They drilled holes in his head to make the growing stop.
Assume the curve of the tunnel wall.
He watched yet could not feel them blast apart
On and off the tracks, we vibrate within our bounds.
Are there casualties? From summers in the Catskills
Peripheral blues and ambers spark
To the tune his father hummed.
Exit by the intersection.
The brain sees this in black and white.
Walk east, hit York, hang a left.
Fill color and shape from memory.
Amelia Cairns (Spring 2013)

ASTORIA DYSPHORIA

Poetry
Christopher let’s pretend
I did not see your rivers
Bend the Bronx kill up from its bed
Unbrick every last pathetic
Passing strung across these straits ever-
Narrowing as your living bones unlatch
Hell Gate, unlace the lofted trusses
Left suspended, I can smell
Your cables rusting red
Set afloat above storefronts, Long Island
City your warehouse sleeps
Underfoot of the nightjars flocked, see how
They flock to drown themselves
Dry in the caustic milk
Watered-down imported paints, yes
Chris, it is
This death of form-
Less electricity
That wakes me underneath
My bed, my blood, these sugary
Ghosts of Gravesend atrophy
Will oxidize
The skin of my teeth Sky Green.
Amelia Cairns (Spring 2013)
Star reportedly loses twin
After retouched
Adult-sized version
Synchronized to music.
Student dies after becoming
Dressed redressed
Self-lacing
Too depressed to feed her calf,
Poses for November.
Mississippi police warn
Drug may resemble woman
Arrested for threatening to eat
Russian parliament. Bees
In New York, report says

 

Candy whales at San Diego
Expected to be visible Wednesday.
At least 93 sick
Vincent Van Gogh will fly past earth, over
Disputes with FDA
Agent
Dies at Age
Questions daughters cast
Aside doctors
Former child
Not dating Bill Murray.
Her character won’t wear heels.
Amelia Cairns (Oct. 21, 2015)
Poetry