gempari

POSITION OPENING!

personal media organizer: grooming your digital appearance

requirements:
*make life appear in chronological order via Facebook, flickr, twitter, & other social media utilities.
*arrange choice photographs and text clips so that all feels beautiful and exciting; create with ease an authentic digital persona colored by the bright blur of travel, weddings, celebrations, & touching moments.
*clean up the mess of partially-filled albums, half-hearted blogs, awkward announcements, & insufferable comments.

preferred:
*Photoshop expertise
*punchy attitude

please send:
*your FB page in all its shining glory
*Instagram photos of babies & food

Millenium Job Postings
gempari.tumblr.com

One cannot help but do it. Long eyelashes will remind you when you think it’s died somewhere in the back of your throat that you still fall, tumbling towards pretty things, objects that glitter, golden or raven-colored hair, boys with sweet smiles and a dusting of freckles, and hands that smooth over everything, knot into your hair.

It is good to know. A relief to be yourself, the stumbling idiot, the poet you always were, not transformed by any external force into a solid, upright being. (How disappointed your ageing parents will be.)

It cannot happen to some souls, so—

like weeds in wind, like the day it rained ash in Los Angeles and we kissed on the fire escape and an ambulance drove by and my childhood cat died and my brother called to tell me. like everything and all the mistakes from before. Here we go.

A redwood or sequoia, a California tree of some variety, uprooting part of the side walk.

We had come from the office and our shoulders ached from our bags, the laptops tucked inside, our ideas typed down, saved, close all tabs.

We could have wrapped our arms around it and wept like children. I wish, now, we had.

Sitting at desks under sour-green lights, our screen savers flickering with images of a far-off Barbados while all along, just outside, there was this everything, this tree.

Dear writer. Dear staff. Dear editors. Dear CEO. Dear X.

Here is a note. Here is a fix. Here is an edit. Please start over. Please don’t do that. Please make it better. Please erase. Please accept this: please, don’t cry.

Someone must have thought it of their lover, blinking into morning, doe-faced, two parts grace, one part fear caught in the wash of sun.

Dear writer, dear writer, deer face.

Start again.