Social Networking

I’m not so sure about this technological social networking foray of mine.

I watched from the sidelines for a long time. Everyone seemed to be singing praises for virtual land. The benefits were flouted while I watched people’s fingers peg away in some asymmetric tapping rhythm that’s not familiar to me. I’d find myself drifting off with the beat of it. People were talking to me, and to whoever was on the other end of what they were sending. All at the same time! I consider myself a pro at doing chores while I’m on the phone but it’s not the same. Dancing a newly washed floor dry with rags rubber-banded to slippers doesn’t use the same part of my brain as talking. But multiple conversations? It’s so … well I’m trying to figure out what it is. Sometimes I think it is the rhythm of fingers on keys that calls to me. It’s a sheer audio of movement you can barely hear and yet it evokes the feet of Gumby and Pokey which somehow softens the insides of my ear drums. I suppose it could be nostalgia but I actually think that hearing in the perfect register makes my world hum better.

Embarking has been amazing though. Lets face it. The web is the perfect locale for someone who’s compelled to go forward while simultaneously obsessed with deconstructing every nuance of every angle that could possibly be connected to every miniscule detail about where it is they’re going. And again, I’m not trying to narrow things down. I’m just attempting to craft a voice, find a cadence, sing out like a ‘Polly Anna’ scamper, and ultimately have a conversation with the world.

It’s a challenge though. You see, I’m a woman that has a routine. There. I’ve said it. I do. I like to follow some set of something. At least when I first wake up in the morning. And this itself is a phenomenal fact, given that I’m super independent. But I do. Like to follow something. I used to wish I had a hero. When I was younger I wanted to be like all kinds of different people. I planned to be a Florence Nightingale to the sad. A Dr. Albert Schweitzer to the ignored. Some kind of Heidi of the heart. A lover of goats. The artist who’d bring beauty to blind people. A sculptor of any material. I used to lay on my bed and plan how I’d be the one who’d take a mountain of bird-poop and bring such magnificence to its’ description that the sheer irrepressible beauty of it would be indisputable. Now though, I’ve simplified. Age does that to a woman. I just need to make sure I take my shower before I start my day. That’s the extent of my routine.

But I’m blowing it. Since I’ve started this reaching out to the Netherlands of virtual-ity, with only my fingers on this twelve-inch keyboard, I find myself sitting here, grabbing and typing my thoughts before I’ve even washed the sleep grit out of my eyes.

It’s just that there are so many questions. So many things to ponder. So I’ve decided to jump right in and do something about it. As soon as I figure this out, I’ll go take my shower and be right back on track.

I’ve typed and deleted, deleted and typed. I could take up drumming with all this non-melodic practice but instead, I’ve decided to start a column. A ‘Dear Abby’ of sorts. I’m excited. I’ve had lots of years to develop a repertoire of voices, a veritable chorus of perspectives. A column seems a great use for it all. A written give-and-take will allow all-of-you to ask all-of-me, any of the myriad questions that seem important. And nothing will be lost. Because they’ll be a multitude of you. And this techno-writing medium allows for the full extent of me. I’ll listen to my fingers as they make music on the keys.

I just realized that I’ll need a pen name. Any good columnist knows this. A ‘Ms. Something’ that evokes an omnipotent Mommy.

So here’s my plan. First I'll choose the name. Then I’ll take my shower. This way, by the time I come back, the questions will be waiting. Here. Right on my screen. And then the many me’s will type their answers. This could be a rest-of-my life kind of routine. If I can answer all the inquiries, maybe the Don Quixote wannabe of me will finally be satisfied. I do want real questions. But if interactions are low, I can long for conversation enough to do it on my own.

I need a name though. All suggestions welcome. I’ve tried on ‘Dear Andrea’ but it’s just too singularly impaired. That’s the problem with the ‘Dear Abby’s’ or ‘Miss Manners’ of the advice world. I read those columns and I can’t help but wonder whether they’re freshly showered before they respond. It’s true you know. Without some sort of routine, things can fall apart. And then there’s the fact that people’s perspectives are enhanced by all sorts of odd variables. Did you ever wonder just who ‘Dear Abby’ is? And what about ‘Dr. Ruth’? Even Dr. Phil has to be a real man sometimes. I don’t begrudge advisors their humanity. I realize it’s important. I just want to be sure there’s a place of reflection going on, before their words become my guiding light. So if my column is going to fly, the name people write to needs to sound reliable, many dimensioned and at least occasionally wise. Anyone could do it. I think you just have to sort of bounce around inside, until you find the part of self that holds an answer or perspective on whatever’s the issue of the moment. We all have this. Parts of self. It’s something about our species. A way of being fallible in our conscious mortality while being wise in our limitless potential. So the name has got to be encompassing. Not too egotistical. And certainly not unduly biased. Rigidity would guarantee a lack of readership and wishy-washy would disappoint. I need a name that’ll cover all the bases, without presuming anything that could be construed as offensive. I feel like I’m fighting the cosmos here. I want something elegant. I wish for something sale-able. Denying this aspect would be like hocking a loogie out a pickup truck window on a high wind day. They just blow right back in behind your head and land on the rear facing window where they slowly, in full view, ooze their way down. I hope I find something on Google. I’ll look up ‘multitude’, ‘many faceted’, ‘conglomerate’, and maybe ‘conundrum’. The thing is, to feel confident in the replies, people have to like whom they’re addressing and each of these names has flaws.

I’ve got some ideas. Right now ‘Ms. Possibility’ sounds good to me. And ‘Ms. Multi-Genre’ has sort of a nice ring. I like ‘Ms. Everything-Counts’, even though it’s kind of long. It’s a challenge to find something that says it all and still holds a syncopated cadence. The truth counts here too. I can’t have a name that implies anything dishonest because lying begets a kind of denial that’ll make me want to quit this job and I don’t want to stop before I’ve all-the-way started. How about ‘Ms. Borscht’? I like soups. Stews are my specialty, particularly when they make exquisite flavor out of an odd mix of apparently disparate ingredients. ‘Ms. Mambo’ keeps flashing in my brain. Mambo. Hmmm. It brings to mind all sorts of places and foods that carry a multitude of perspectives. This could be good. Mambo reminds me of the ‘Jambo’ (hello in Kenya) from when I spoke at a U.N. conference in 1981. The goat stew I choked down to be polite in St. Kitts in 1978, the dance I dance when I’m belonging, and the generally large, swaying body size I feel when I’ve overeaten. I’ve just looked it up and it seems right:

☆ mambo (mäm′bō) noun pl. mambos -·bos
a rhythmic musical form, of Caribbean origin, in 4/4 syncopated time and with a heavy accent on the second and fourth beats

1. musicians' slang term equivalent to “riff” (emphasis mine)
2. intransitive verb to dance the mambo

Riff sounds good. Almost like a jam of thoughts. Drawing on every possible frame of reference I possess. Because when I start getting letters, ruminations, questions, and musings of many sorts, I plan to reach into the abyss of every possible identity I’ve ever touched and bring that to the page.