The Social and the Private

Written in response to the nude photo leaks several months back.

We are a society of voyeurs.
Where once an inky curtain was drawn.
Fragile as gossamer.
Now a glowing window stands.
Inviting us to just take a peek.

A reporter at the door asks:
“Can I photograph your living room?”
As if he can capture the essential ordinariness of it
and like a trophy, mount it as a center piece.
Page four.
Under some headline that reads. “Ordinary Families Across Canada…”
Doesn’t he know that the ordinary vanishes under the limelight.
Light so bright that it bleaches away the ordinary until all that remains is that which stands out.

Silently pad through the lives of celebrities.
Soaking up every detail
Like a parched man guzzling water.
Until the well runs dry
Desperate for more we grab our shovels and dig
we act shocked when they come away full of dirt.

The nude photo.
A secret liaison.

Do we set our shovels down.
Replace the disturbed soil.
Walk away.
Leave the house we trespassed in.
The life and memories we trampled over in our urge to know.
No.
We bend down and breath in the scent of the disturbed soil.
As if we were a man who thought to never seen land again.

We have normalized stalking…
after all, lives are supposed to be shared.
A gaggle of teen gather around a computer.
Laughing as they traverse a backlog of pictures
A life on display.
Is it any surprise we are voyeurs.
When we are exhibitionists
Why should privacy of another hold meaning.
For those who hold nothing private.