The Son 08
©1989 Craig Ashby
4.25″ x 8″
Pen and Ink

The Son by Rochelle Ratner

Mother, hold on, I’m coming.
I folded my shirt and pants
neatly on the bank.
I only did what I had to do—
almost the same thing my father did
for I am not anymore a man than he is.

The Son 08 is the end of this. The suicide note of a poem’s end. Incriminating mother and father. Oh parents, it really is your fault.

Maybe that would explain this persistent funk I am in. Maybe I am working too much. Maybe the world has moved beyond me.

This past week I finally got on to Instagram. Another rabbit hole of contemporary living. I do love that it is visual for the most part.

What took me so long was the Polaroid convention and square format. I just hate restraining a photo because of nostalgia. How can you retain nostalgia in the narcissistic age of the selfie?

But after much hounding from Ernie I started uploading. Another empty feeling with fleeting joy like moments. Another time sinkhole.

I do think I should replace the Pinterest button here with my Instagram account. Pinterest is the gated community of photo sharing. Like most gated communities it has done nothing for me. Soon enough it will be time to say goodbye to Pinterest.

If only I were as strong with Facebook. I am pulling away more everyday. It bores me with its whiplash ignorant political commentary. The belated memes repeating like echoes. It’s a graph of early to late adopters.