Talking

Most of my journalist friends like Twitter. My artist friends and small business colleagues tend to go with Instagram. When I ran my vegan cafe, I used Facebook, mostly because I was familiar with it.

Twitter is enervating for me, though I do appreciate a well-developed Twitter thread; I have encountered some that read like poetry. Insta has always felt over-curated. Who has that kind of time? (Well, okay, a lot of us do right now, so have at it.) But I’ve found myself returning to Facebook during the pandemic, saying hello to friends, wandering through their lives a bit. It’s been nice.

“Saying hello.” On Facebook it’s a comment below a post. “I love this!” I type beneath a friend’s photo. They heart me back. O hi. You’re here, too. I’m glad.

The other day I dropped off some art at a friend’s house. I left it behind the potted plant on their porch for a no-contact delivery, but as I made my way back down the sidewalk, they came out onto the porch to talk. Lots of people are coming out onto porches to talk. That’s nice, too.

It doesn’t take much to satisfy my desire for connection. I’m one of those strange folk who doesn’t like hugs. It’s a peculiarity, I know. (I also dislike massage. True fact.) I need words, though. Apparently. Yesterday I worked with one of my crew members at the coffee bar, doing a deep clean of the kitchen. It took nearly four hours. I swear I talked for at least three of them.

That’s what two months of isolation will do.

What kind of talking are you doing these days?

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