Self // Questioning
Wait - Did this poem prompt just tell me to stop masking?
The algorithm knows me. It knows that when I allow myself to go on the socials I up looking for a quick (literally 45 second) dopamine bump. Its job? To trap me there as long as possible. So it notices what I notice, what I like with that ever-present thumbs up button or what I spend longer than my self-allotted time limit scrolling through.
The algorithm knows I appreciate short poetry and stories of sweet old people and one day, months ago, it gave me a beautiful package which wrapped up both together:
***Pauses as I wipe the tears out of my eyes as I type this.***
Wow, right?
I immediately found his book on the ‘Zon but was hesitant to commit.
“Who are you to buy a $17 book on poetry, Paige?
You’re not a poet. You’re a hack with near constant access to a tiny computer.”1
Anyway, literal months went by before randomly, I decided to switch out items in my cart. A $60 item I didn’t need (I honestly have no memory of what it was) for a $17 item that I didn’t need. Totally valid way to save money, non?
Questionable accounting practices aside, when I received the book, I hesitated.2 It wasn’t until after pressing publish on a couple different poetry posts in this space that I had the gumption to even open the book. Cynical Paige (the person in charge of the inner dialogue meanness) scoffed:
“This is literally ad libs for poetry. What a scam.”
However, one morning shortly thereafter, I felt super uninspired to write my daily “dirt” so I flipped open the first “ad lib poem” and set to work.
Note: I went at this like a kid does. I didn’t read ahead. I didn’t try to see what was coming so I could magic my way out of or into something sexy or profound. I just went one noun, verb, adjective, or adverb at a time.
I was tired. I was single parenting. It was late February and everything was cold and grey.
This is what happened.
Self // Questioning
(in the style of Joseph Fasano)
My name is "Mom!"
Today I feel like a tired bag dejected in the dark.
Sometimes I am the Queen of my Nile.
Sometimes I am the CEO of my Future.
And I am always sharp.
I ask the world,
"What can I do to be different?
What can I do to be better?
And the answer is,
"Show people a tired bag dejected in the dark."
I cried ya’ll.
Those tiny hot angry tears of frustration that tell you that the thing in front of you is the truth you don’t want to acknowledge.
This felt like a big ol’ gift from the (much less cynical than myself) universe saying, “It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to feel the feels and not want to be ‘on’ all the time.”
I’m not a great sharer of the dark. I didn’t immediately rush to the socials and “show people a tired bag dejected in the dark” complete with a poorly lit selfie emphasizing my worst physical features.
No. It was enough to be seen.
But by who? Or what?
Myself, I suppose. In that moment it was enough to acknowledge the truth that I had been so reluctant to do anything but side-eye.
“I see you. You and your cynical darkness are welcome here.”
Get Joseph Fasano’s book “The Magic Words” here.
My inner monologue is not very nice. I am aware and working through this.
Seriously. The inner meanie was cool with my opening the package but I didn’t even flip through it. I simply put it aside and said, “Maybe.”
"the 'Zon" 😂 I love your poem and this essay. Cracking stacking.