wRite: Life After Facebook | The Source Weekly - Bend, Oregon

wRite: Life After Facebook

You can't really know the poppy by its photo - how the blossom holds the last of sunset, how the pollen is silky on your finger. You have walked along the shining river.

You can't really know the poppy by its photo - how the blossom holds the last of sunset, how the pollen is silky on your finger. You have walked along the shining river. You are tired and a little lonely. When you discover the poppy glowing against its dark leaves, you stop. A man walks by with his dog. "Gorgeous time to walk," he says. The smoke from his cigarette drifts back.

I had breathed deep and imagined writing about life after Facebook, about all of it: the loneliness, the poppy, the sweetness in the stranger's voice, the harsh scent of his smoke. I took myself off Facebook because my daughter had been exploring the privacy violations she and so many others found outrageous. But there was more. I can't think of a time in history when it has not been dangerous for one institution to hold huge amounts of information about so many. Consolidation of data is consolidation of power.

While Facebook's worst transgression may be in selling our passions, tastes and predilections to businesses, there is no guarantee that entities with more sinister agendas than the draining of our pocketbooks can't find a way to know that you believe in goddesses or are going on vacation in a week or don't wear an American flag pin. Twitter and the iPad have been hacked more than once. Why not Facebook?

There was my growing compulsion to check FB at too many moments of discomfort - when the last paragraph of the new book proposal wouldn't fall into place, when there was nothing intriguing in my email or on my cell, when I was bored by a life most people would find rich and fulfilling. I'd found myself having to force myself to go out to walk along the river - when connection with light and rock and water is my lifeline. I'd finally find myself standing on the old wooden bridge over the Deschutes watching geese arrow overhead, and I'd know what I needed. But by the end of an hour, I'd be eager to check FB to see whether there'd been a post from The One or something, anything to cut the loneliness.

The first day off was predictable. I felt jittery - with onlygmail and yahoo to check. I was bored. There didn't seem to be much to look forward to. It was the same old same old junkie withdrawal one - person tango.

I worried about no longer having FB as a place to let people know about book signings and readings. It has become clear to me that most of the marketing a writer has to do these days is on the Internet. Even in that, my addict brain kicks in: I see my books mentioned and I get high; days go by without a review and I crash.

There were deeper losses. I'm a single woman. Both my parents are dead, my biological family is spread out over the globe. I learned long ago to make friends my family. So I miss the few moments of genuine contact with perhaps two dozen real friends among the 600 "friends" I had amassed at the request of my publishers' marketing people. I told about 50 new "friends" that I wanted to stay in touch. I've heard from two of them. The people with whom I have long - standing connections stay in touch - though often with less frequency. So I reach out - and face that despite my reclusive nature, I will have to continue to make new three-dimensional friends and deepen the new friendships I've made here in Bend. If you are a shy person, you might understand.

Despite the losses, I find life after Facebook to be rich. Along with jitters and poppies, there is no longer participation in a phenomenon about which I have grave reservations. An NPR listener once wrote me about my commentary: Thank you for living your values. I'm not quite ready to live mine.I'd resisted writing back to her that if she didn't live her values, they weren't her values, because I sensed the sadness in her message - and because she gave me too much credit. In life after Facebook, a value I'd betrayed is again mine.

- Mary Sojourner

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