A Mild Rant

So I've been thinking, lately, about social media. Particularly the idea of texting, or in my case, not texting.
My phone is a plastic brick, that could, quite possibly, double as a self defense weapon. The ring tones are ridiculous, obnoxious midi-files, and one has three choices of background photos: Flower, Soccer Ball and Beach. This doesn't matter to me at all really, (although answering to a blaringly annoying tone is rather embarrassing at times) because I don't talk on the phone a lot in the first place.
On the subject of texting however, things get a little tricky. Texting is so convenient. A couple finger-clicks and a conversation is started. It's probably less awkward and formal in comparison to a face-to-face conversation. When texting there are only words to pay attention to- the meaning is spelled out, quite literally. But it's different when having a face-to-face conversation- you read body language and have to respond to the environment around you. Lulls in conversation are more pronounced. It's a little more risky.
With texting, the relationships with acquaintances or distant friends are far more developed, I'm assuming. If you want to talk with a distant friend face-to-face, you have to devote a lot more time and energy to getting to where they are and taking time to speak to them; unlike just zipping off a text. And because the conversations are less awkward and without as much preamble, one can strike up a conversation with someone over text that they might not be able to in person. So even though you only know Jim from one crazy party and he lives in Kansas, you can still become pretty good friends.
Of course, there are some downsides to texting too. The capacity for misunderstandings is huge compared to face-to-face conversations. How many fights have started, how many broken hearts have there been because of a misread text? Plenty. And for me, the reliance that one develops to texting is something that would tie me down. It would compromise my freedom to a certain point, almost like a kind of social cigarette or pain medication . In the worst of scenarios, one's social skills would be inhibited by the fact that for a majority of the time, they speak through text instead of face-to-face interaction.
And I want the relationships I form with people to be real, true interactions. You can be someone else over text, if you want to be. I know I come out differently over email sometimes. I want honesty more than anything in all relationships, and I don't neccesarily think that texting really promotes that stuff.
But sometimes I wonder, if by not texting, I am missing out. Would the ability to be able to talk to Blu and others, without preamble, and without fright, on a whim, have made things turn out differently at all? Made me more accessible? (My goal isn't exactly to embody accessibilty, but it is something to think about...)
I think about the people who I sometimes go weeks without talking to. I feel bad about it. Guilt swells. Would I have to deal with that regret if I was able to talk them whenever?
In the end, for me and my own personal reasons, I know that I myself am better off without texting. I don't think any less of those who do- truly. It's really weird sometimes to be the only one in the room who isn't connected to some stream of conciousness that everyone else knows about.
I guess I've just been thinking about it. Texting. And so I'd write those thoughts down. That's what a blog is for, right?

The Silhouette

Just something I've been working on. Hope you like it..
The Silhouette
Petra eyed the steam issuing from the spout of the old copper kettle with a practiced eye. She hated burning her tongue. It made everything taste filmy and defeated the purpose of brewing tea in the first place. Better to have a cold cup than a scalding one. She crossed the room to the cupboard and grabbed out one of the two mugs she owned- the one with the heliotrope painted on it. She set it on the table and then, grasping it by the handle, gently lifted the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup. Leaving half an inch for milk and sugar, she placed the kettle back on the woodstove. She walked to the cupboard again, her bare feet making slapping sounds against the rough hewn, wooden planks of the floor. The sound of the crickets outside were loud and staccato and pervasive, so unexpectedly like what she heard in the movies. She had been surprised the first night out here. But by now she was used to it, of course. It would be three years in May.
She reached in the cupboard and searched with her fingers until they alighted upon the particular mason jar she was looking for among the rectangular boxes and bottles and packets. She pulled the jar out into the light and opened the top, sniffing the tea leaves and the slight scent of raspberries. She brought the mason jar back to the table and reached into the jar, withdrawing one of the cheesecloth bundles, which she had painstakingly tied up a few months prior. She dropped it into the water, and watched as the reddish-brown stain of the tea seeped into the water.
She glanced up, and noticed the silhouette.
And it was so familiar. The slightness of the shoulders, the hair going in a thousand different directions, the curved shape of his posture. So instinctually familiar, that the only sign of surprise from Petra was a small, low intake of breath.
“Hello Petra.”
She couldn’t see his features. He had placed himself carefully so that she wouldn’t be able to.
“Could you make me a cup of tea?”
“Uh. Yes,” she turned back to the woodstove and lifted up the kettle, surmising the amount of boiling water she had left. “I should have enough for another mug,”
She brought out the other mug and then sifted around in the tea cabinet again, selecting a store-bought, pre-packaged tea bag. Boring English Breakfast. She poured the water into the cup and ripped open the packet. The gauzy package floated on the water for a moment, before it was overcome with absorption and fell under the surface.
The visitor, still shrouded in the dark, gestured to the mason jar. She almost thought she could see the glint of his rings. Two silver ones, on his left hand. Index and middle fingers.
“Did you blend that one yourself?” he said.
“Yes. I grew the raspberries in the backyard. I dry them in the cellar with a dehydrator I made last winter.” She sounded so efficient. And cold.
The silhouette’s head bobbed and she knew he was nodding.
“How did you manage that?”
“With some extra wood. And time.”
“Ah.”
Petra let one hand sit on the table and fished out the homemade teabag from her mug. She squeezed it damp and then dropped it on the table with a feeble padding sound. She added milk and sugar to her tea, thinking, as she always did, it’s like raspberries and cream.
“I like my tea really weak” he said, and she pulled on the string of his tea bag, and dropped it onto top of hers.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.” And then when she started to spoon in the sugar, “And easy with that.”
She slid the cup over the table, and he reached out and grasped it by the handle. His wrist and hand slid into the light and they were exactly as she had remembered, all thin and pronounced and right.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She said, lifting her mug to her lips.
“You don’t get too cold out here?” He asked.
“No. The stove keeps me really quite warm.”
“And you have a plethora of sweaters.”
“Yes.” she said
“And in the summer?”
“It gets really hot. Usually we just stay outside and try to keep cool. I garden… The dog nearly died this summer of the heat, though. I had to take her into town she was so sick.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes.” She said, and he waited for a moment.
“Do you make other kinds of tea?”
“Mostly just berry teas. But sometimes I try a rosemary blend.. Or thyme.” She waited.
“I like my thyme to be punctual.” he said, putting down his mug on the table. His hands again.
She nearly smiled and instead stared down into her tea, smooth and opaque.
“Where do you go, when you leave?” she said.
But even before she looked up, she knew that the silhouette was gone, and that she wouldn’t have an answer.