An Author, to His Blog

First, a RAFT by someone more clever than I:


Ever since we've gotten this assignment, I've been thinking about Anne Bradstreet, the proverbial tenth muse, and her poem "An Author, to her Book." And then my friend just went and wrote an address to his pencil. So, as a little bit of background, this is inspired by those two and my recent decision to read back through John Igo's On Poetry and Poetics. (inspired by last week's post).

My RAFT:

Role: The Kleenex Box
Audience: People
Format: Commentary/Critique/Monologue
Topic: Manners

The Snuffbox Decides to Sneeze

Bless you is a great example: it is a knee jerk reaction, one that no one seems to be sure of it's initial meaning anymore. Everyone says it. No one means it. It's one of those fickle redundancies without reason or reference with your sort, you humans. I feel like I could be an apt metaphor for human relations, what with the way you use me up, empty me out, and replace me with the next--No single after-thought as I'm tossed into the dustbin. No one ever says thank you. Never have I heard a 'Bless you.' Just an unceremonious push off the desk, to be replaced by a scarcely distinguishable relative, full and bursting with life, and here I am, the object of a conscientious human's conservative fetish. Your type is funny about what gets a ceremony. Deaths, sneezes, mornings--It's all closer to drudgery than celebration; I've never seen a species more devoted to the careful observation of your own misery. And never anyone else's either--always your own: A bless you, a how are you, a million facebook friends--all of them to be used up, emptied out, and replaced with the next. And all of this, without a Bless You.

P.S. Sorry if this is a bit more morose than usual. We can't all be hilarious all the time.