It's getting near dawn,
When lights close their tired eyes.
I'll soon be with you my love,
To give you my dawn surprise.
I'll be with you darling soon,
I'll be with you when the stars start falling.
-Cream
When I see him, it's from a distance. A good distance. He sits with the guitarist, on the back edge of a big blue 1970s Oldsmobile wagon, outside the festival tent, getting ready for the next set. It comes at once--kids in the schoolyard walk up behind and kick your knees out from under you--that's the feeling. I stand on the dirt path, fixed in a secret place, wondering who he is, deciding to watch him for a while, at a distance. I'm just 21, catholic college girl, come out virginia, wanting, afraid of wanting, and wondering. Catholic school girls do a lot of that.
The drums hit, and they head back to the stage. Numb legs carry me closer as they start to play.
Daughter of a bassist, is that what calls me closer? Resurrecting my father, why not. That place I see him go as he leads the band further out, his back arched, eyes full of a pain that is my pain, releasing it, bass to the sky, electric orgasm.
Isolating the bass is a trick I've played since I was four, the low end has always mattered most to me, born into bass, take me home, take me from this place, I am so scared, alone, I am so eager to go.
He never saw me that day,
but he took me.
When we meet face to face, it is night, not day. This is no accident. I go with a single purpose, to find him, to let him find me. This night is especially hot and sticky inside Schnoz's, a Rochester hotspot in its day, and that day was September 21, 1984. In the club, you don't know where your body ends and another begins, beyond crowded, elbow to gut, beer spilling, feet stuck to tacky floor, we are all in this together.
About to sign with MCA, Cabo Frio is just starting to tour nationally. When they play in town, everyone goes. I didn't know any of that then. I only knew this: he was the most beautiful, passionate, talented, exciting man I'd ever seen.
The spotlights hit--red plus blue plus black equals ecstasy. I dance my ass off, and God it feels good to be 22 this night. I watch him the whole time. He watches me, and I know it, and I move just for him, and breathe in every note, watch his fingers climb up and down the neck with ease and precision I've never seen. And when it's all over, I sit with my girlfriend at a table, we're smoking our brains out, hair dripping, talking about what we should do tomorrow.
She gets up. I see him coming. Every breath of air is sucked out of me, and I wait. I've been waiting so long.
I press out my Carlton menthol--yeh, I was trying to quit--in the ash tray and he's standing there. Holy shit. Holy shit. What do I say? But he speaks first.
"Hey, I smoke that brand too," he says.
"Oh, really?" I say.
Yes, those are our first words. When we look back now, we have a good long laugh. Two smooth operators. Heh.
But to me, this night, his words echo across the sky, wrap around the moon, and come to rest in my solar plexus. We talk. We stare. He takes me to his place, and we talk all night, on top of the covers, until he falls asleep and I lay staring at him, too electrified to sleep, wondering what I am doing--this is not real. He tells me that night, before sleep, that he wants to marry me. I wonder if this is real. Think I'd better go home.
And I do go home. And I spend the next six months trying to push him away, the intensity terrifies me, dark savior why did you come for me? I tell myself I am too scared, and I don't understand, and I'm not ready, and I'm only 22, and I don't know what love is, and I've had a shitty life, and I don't deserve to be loved, and do I really want this life, and maybe I should go back to school, and I have issues with men, and what I tell him is this: "I'm not sure I can ever love anyone."
With this, he says, okay. I get it. Goodbye.
And he goes. Away. For a long time.
Without him, I can't love, I can't walk, talk, hear, live, eat, breathe, think, write, work, laugh, sit, stand, lay, smile, drink. The pain is so gut wrenching I vomit. Every day. What have I done?
He moves on, with one eye watching me still, and I set out with a passion I didn't know I had to get him back. I would kill to get him back. You don't understand. I know what I want now. I get it. Thank you, you have shown me love, reminded me of loss, I know the difference between together and alone, and I hate alone, and I get it. Okay. I get it. Take me off the torture wheel, will you?
I leave him cards on his car windshield. Other women take them off. I call more than I should. I'm pained and I'm pitiful.
And I'm still the one he wants.
"I've been waiting so long
To be where I'm going
In the sunshine of your love."
And he comes back. He holds me and Heals me. He captures me and frees me. His strong arms hold me up. His love lifts me up higher.
And in the 17 years since then, we've weathered storms that could sink well-armed warships, We've watched our friends' marriages go down in flames, and we hang on. At the core, it is the music, so tightly allied with love, there is a chord that resonates between us, sustained, even in the hardest of times.
Sustain. Resonance.
The secret of voice, the secret of love enduring.
May 04, 2002
Haven't laughed in a Day
But I found Fishrush's Vowel Blog hysterical. Does this mean I've cracked completely? I'm hoping he comes out with an article or preposition blog really soon.
Thanks for the chuckle my finned friend.
Thanks for the chuckle my finned friend.
When you start taking bets, let me know
The gauntlet has been tossed. fishrush and Eric "RapBlogger" Norlin are taking it to the streets for the Chicago Marathon. May the best man win, or at least not blow out a knee.
Who's your money on?
Who's your money on?
May 03, 2002
Spill
Colored rain
Tastes like
Colored rain
Rain down colored rain...
Rain...
Bring it on down, babe
Spill.
-Traffic
Bad weather here in Georgia this day. Sadness spills and fills my street. Dropped my life off at school today—postcard from her daddy tight in her hand. It’s the first postcard she’s ever seen, and it’s from her daddy, even better, she misses him so much. She runs up to the circle where the teacher sits with the children, starting to read a book. A book my daughter could already read on her own. The circle is isn't about story time, the circle is about structure, control.
This day, my daughter can’t sit down. I found myself, standing inside of her, so excited to share these words, this picture from daddy. She holds in her hand the missing piece to the puzzle that is her world. At that moment, there is nothing more important to her—to the world—than this 4X6 piece of cardboard.
The teacher says, “Please, sit when you come into the circle.”
“I have this,” holding it out.
“I’m reading a book right now—you need to wait.”
Crushed that her world isn’t their world and our world doesn’t fit like it used to, how do you make sense of that at 4? And I think back to my own education—what mattered to me, did it ever matter inside those walls? Slice and dice, pound the peg, take your seat. Hail Mary, Full of Grace.
I left, and I didn't look back.
The money that we spend on school isn't what bothers me. It’s seeing the future, the lifetime ahead of conforming or paying the price, of not relishing the unique, the spirit unlike, the one who is so much more.
I have no way to fix the future, never mind the past, and that’s what bothers me this day.
Torrents of torture, rob my soul, tie my hands, take their toll.
Wet with sadness, more rain on the way.
"Bring it on down, babe"
Spill.
May 01, 2002
Shine
RageBoy and Chris Locke have converged this week for a spectacular solar display of the human soul. This cacophony of music and colors, not experienced since 1969, is intensely brilliant. Do not stare directly at it. Best to use one of these while viewing this or this.
There is so much--a lifetime really--within these two EGR sends. There are moments and hours, there are years and painful seconds, a tune out time, a soul out of rhythm, finding the cadence, hitting the groove, and then back again to that electric, archetypal (aaah!) place called loneliness.
The ideas----of rubber soul, bounceback, resonance, relativity, actions and reactions, and what voice has to do with it-----these are what make me tick as a blogger, and as a human. Echo? I'm not sure about echo, because an echo, after all, is you resonating unto yourself. Forced masturbation. And that's why the echo is the loneliest sound.
I will blog more about this. I haven't slept much in two nights trying to keep my household, child, life, and job in gear simultaneously, while alone, missing the person who keeps me steady, so far, so fucking far away.
I don't want to stop blogging tonight. I want to blog all night and into morning and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night. I want to blog in the tub and in bed; I want to blog outside, on the porch, with an American Spirit hanging from my lips; I want to start a 48-hour blogathon, fueled by the raw energy, the sparks, of these ideas.
What makes me even more tired, more depressed, is that I can't--not tonight. I'm tired, spent, exhausted, whipped, physically that is. My mind wants to write, but my hands aren't willing. Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't let these words, these sparks, die down. Someone--Golby? Keep fanning the flames til I get back. Good night.
There is so much--a lifetime really--within these two EGR sends. There are moments and hours, there are years and painful seconds, a tune out time, a soul out of rhythm, finding the cadence, hitting the groove, and then back again to that electric, archetypal (aaah!) place called loneliness.
The ideas----of rubber soul, bounceback, resonance, relativity, actions and reactions, and what voice has to do with it-----these are what make me tick as a blogger, and as a human. Echo? I'm not sure about echo, because an echo, after all, is you resonating unto yourself. Forced masturbation. And that's why the echo is the loneliest sound.
I will blog more about this. I haven't slept much in two nights trying to keep my household, child, life, and job in gear simultaneously, while alone, missing the person who keeps me steady, so far, so fucking far away.
I don't want to stop blogging tonight. I want to blog all night and into morning and all day tomorrow and tomorrow night. I want to blog in the tub and in bed; I want to blog outside, on the porch, with an American Spirit hanging from my lips; I want to start a 48-hour blogathon, fueled by the raw energy, the sparks, of these ideas.
What makes me even more tired, more depressed, is that I can't--not tonight. I'm tired, spent, exhausted, whipped, physically that is. My mind wants to write, but my hands aren't willing. Tomorrow. I'll be back tomorrow. Don't let these words, these sparks, die down. Someone--Golby? Keep fanning the flames til I get back. Good night.
April 28, 2002
experiment in anger
I'm getting my feet wet here. In my prose, in my blogging, I've been dealing with a lot of anger and rage lately over the stuff that makes up these 39 years I've spent on this planet. I keep my poetry a little more cryptic. So, about tonight; I didn't sit down to blog anything at all tonight. I sat down to read. Things are quiet though, and I said, let me open my little bloggerpro window and see how I feel, and I discovered something: I'm really fucking angry. That's why, I guess, I've layed a few F-bombs in the last three posts.
Why so angry, Jeneane? I'm not sure (the therapist on my shoulder says, well, what might it be?) I dunno. Maybe a phone call from a family memeber who isn't supposed be drinking anymore, and, maybe, you know, the conversation, friendly as it was, reeked with deceit. You know the conversation? Anyone out there? It starts with niceties, the guard goes down, followed by a few slurred words here and there, and your ears fill with blood, and you start thinking, motherfucker, you said you were done with that....
And then after you hang up, you walk around the house thinking, probably my imagination. didn't sound too bad. but I swear I heard something in that voice (... that voice .... that voice... that voice....) Lost in thoughts of screaming matches past. Fist to table. DAMMIT!
And then the celestial heavens, perfect side men, start ripping up the sky with a thunder storm to die for. If I wasn't a mother with a kid in bed, I'd have been out in the driveway, hands to the sky, fingers stretched up up up trying to touch the violence, the cracks in the night sky, yelling,
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!"
And so, stopping myself short, I'll just say: Bring it on.
I'm ready for round three.
ding ding, motherfucker.
Why so angry, Jeneane? I'm not sure (the therapist on my shoulder says, well, what might it be?) I dunno. Maybe a phone call from a family memeber who isn't supposed be drinking anymore, and, maybe, you know, the conversation, friendly as it was, reeked with deceit. You know the conversation? Anyone out there? It starts with niceties, the guard goes down, followed by a few slurred words here and there, and your ears fill with blood, and you start thinking, motherfucker, you said you were done with that....
And then after you hang up, you walk around the house thinking, probably my imagination. didn't sound too bad. but I swear I heard something in that voice (... that voice .... that voice... that voice....) Lost in thoughts of screaming matches past. Fist to table. DAMMIT!
And then the celestial heavens, perfect side men, start ripping up the sky with a thunder storm to die for. If I wasn't a mother with a kid in bed, I'd have been out in the driveway, hands to the sky, fingers stretched up up up trying to touch the violence, the cracks in the night sky, yelling,
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!"
And so, stopping myself short, I'll just say: Bring it on.
I'm ready for round three.
ding ding, motherfucker.
sea breeze
Key of E
minor
melancholy
merry go round
out of time
play that
carnival song
evil for me.
childhood
that wasn't,
everything
you took
from me.
pretentious pretender
what the fuck
were you after?
Robber, beggarman, thief
anything
would have been better
than this.
Swing my leg
over the
painted pony,
the one that
moves that way
Strike up the band
nuke the high end
boost the bass
take me round
and round
spin me faster
til
my hair
catches the breeze
flying now,
blast me off
this fucking
ride.
got nowhere
to land.
minor
melancholy
merry go round
out of time
play that
carnival song
evil for me.
childhood
that wasn't,
everything
you took
from me.
pretentious pretender
what the fuck
were you after?
Robber, beggarman, thief
anything
would have been better
than this.
Swing my leg
over the
painted pony,
the one that
moves that way
Strike up the band
nuke the high end
boost the bass
take me round
and round
spin me faster
til
my hair
catches the breeze
flying now,
blast me off
this fucking
ride.
got nowhere
to land.
the lie
lightning strikes me
strikes you,
never
the same place
twice.
How did you think
it would be?
You, with all the answers
never listening
to the question
Stand on your bully pulpit
motherfucker,
while I rip pieces
from it
one by one
throw your balance
off.
The biggest lie
is the one you tell
yourself,
your voice
gives
you away
every time.
your crutch
can't hold you up,
losing your grip
too often now.
Watching you fall
watching you fall
waiting.
hit bottom,
damn you.
strikes you,
never
the same place
twice.
How did you think
it would be?
You, with all the answers
never listening
to the question
Stand on your bully pulpit
motherfucker,
while I rip pieces
from it
one by one
throw your balance
off.
The biggest lie
is the one you tell
yourself,
your voice
gives
you away
every time.
your crutch
can't hold you up,
losing your grip
too often now.
Watching you fall
watching you fall
waiting.
hit bottom,
damn you.
April 24, 2002
Daddy, I NEED You
My daughter is missing her daddy, my husband, more and more as the days pass slowly by. Playing in Hong Kong for three months, he's been gone for two weeks, and it seems a year. Tonight our daughter wept in her room, "Daddy, I *need* you," and it nearly broke my heart, for me as much as her. I remember crying the same words at nearly her same age, but I knew that my daddy wasn't coming back.
It's the needing that socks me in the gut. That desparate helpless needing, unable to manifest that person you want so badly to see and touch, the one single solitary thing that can make it all better, and I mean *all* better. But you can't form them from the air around you. You know you can't, and the knowing feeds the cycle of want, making it even more powerful as time ticks by. Tick tock, tick tock tick tock.
Daddy, we miss you.
It's the needing that socks me in the gut. That desparate helpless needing, unable to manifest that person you want so badly to see and touch, the one single solitary thing that can make it all better, and I mean *all* better. But you can't form them from the air around you. You know you can't, and the knowing feeds the cycle of want, making it even more powerful as time ticks by. Tick tock, tick tock tick tock.
Daddy, we miss you.
Scratching the Itch
If you haven't read this latest EGR, you should. I've been talking a lot about getting personal lately. Why blogs are most interesting when the writer "dares to." Dares to do what? Dares to do something, anything personal. The brave hearts online are those who give a little something away to you, a piece of themselves. They give some to get some. They are willing souls who treat blogging like an airport strip search. Go ahead. Check it out--check it all out. This is all I have. There's nothing else hiding anywhere--well, anywhere you can see right now.
That's the beauty of Locke's latest EGR. Something I sent to him I'll blog here because I don't think he'll mind me sharing (to quote him who sent: "Whether it's beautiful or butt ugly, don't ever tell me not to write about it.") And it goes a little something like this, ya'll...
---------------------------------------
Transported...
To an anthropological dig, a group of young scientists in cut-offs and tank tops, unearthing an ancient stone tablet, all damp and clay covered, etched with hieroglyphs from an unknown civilization, long extinct.
They hold the stone and stare at the muddy water dripping from their hands, and they realize the stone is weeping, and when they hold it to the sun, it reflects a light so brilliant they have to shield their eyes against it.
They work day and night to bring these silent symbols to life, to give them voice, and they are amazed to discover that this stone holds the secrets--the fucking *answers*--to love and loss, to living and re-living.
It is a text for human survival.
This is what you've made.
------------------------------------
Now, all of you, go bathe in it.
That's the beauty of Locke's latest EGR. Something I sent to him I'll blog here because I don't think he'll mind me sharing (to quote him who sent: "Whether it's beautiful or butt ugly, don't ever tell me not to write about it.") And it goes a little something like this, ya'll...
---------------------------------------
Transported...
To an anthropological dig, a group of young scientists in cut-offs and tank tops, unearthing an ancient stone tablet, all damp and clay covered, etched with hieroglyphs from an unknown civilization, long extinct.
They hold the stone and stare at the muddy water dripping from their hands, and they realize the stone is weeping, and when they hold it to the sun, it reflects a light so brilliant they have to shield their eyes against it.
They work day and night to bring these silent symbols to life, to give them voice, and they are amazed to discover that this stone holds the secrets--the fucking *answers*--to love and loss, to living and re-living.
It is a text for human survival.
This is what you've made.
------------------------------------
Now, all of you, go bathe in it.
April 23, 2002
Accupuncture Part 2 and Car Shopping Question
Okay, so I'm all itchy and I have a migraine. I'm hoping these are good things. Ancient cleansing or something. I don't know.
Today we have a quiz. If you had to buy a good, cheap car (or even lease one for cheap), what would you choose? I need to do just this and I have absolutely no inclinations or brand loyalty when it comes to cars. Something with a good warranty. Something cheap. That's all I need. I spent 4 hours car shopping this evening and am more confused now than before I left home, hence the migraine and itching I suppose.
Oh, and ideally I have to dump a 97 loaded Ford Explorer that I'm upside down on in the process. Forgot to mention that little deal breaker.
And I can get a GM discount if I go with GM. That's another parameter that may help you advise me accordingly.
Recommendations are appreciated. Thank you for your assistance.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll have my brain back. I'm not sure. Life is kicking my behind.
-j.
Today we have a quiz. If you had to buy a good, cheap car (or even lease one for cheap), what would you choose? I need to do just this and I have absolutely no inclinations or brand loyalty when it comes to cars. Something with a good warranty. Something cheap. That's all I need. I spent 4 hours car shopping this evening and am more confused now than before I left home, hence the migraine and itching I suppose.
Oh, and ideally I have to dump a 97 loaded Ford Explorer that I'm upside down on in the process. Forgot to mention that little deal breaker.
And I can get a GM discount if I go with GM. That's another parameter that may help you advise me accordingly.
Recommendations are appreciated. Thank you for your assistance.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll have my brain back. I'm not sure. Life is kicking my behind.
-j.
A personal wellness first
I tried accupuncture today. Wow. It was kind of amazing. No it was really amazing. Me--a hater of needles and all things pointy--laying there with these pins sticking out hither and yon (the yon ones did hurt a little). The amazing thing is that it really didn't hurt. It was relaxing and energizing at the same time. I'd find myself fighting the needles, then submitting to them, then relaxing, then I'd tighten up again and begin the familiar climb toward 'freak out,' in this dark room all by myself looking like a pin cushion, and then I'd submit again. A few times I even found myself thinking positiviely. Imagine!
I'm hoping it's going to help relax me a little, center me a little, bring me back into focus, which I've wandered pretty far away from lately. There was a book the office I think I'm going to get about TCM (traditional chinese medicne) called The Web that Has No Weaver. How appropriate is that to the net, blogging, and the discussions flying around out here these days? Yah, I know it's not about the Internet, but something in the interconnected nature of Chinese medicine does parallel what we are doing here. Anyway, this is a short and boring post, but to me it's exciting because I faced a fear (needles) and did something positive for me (accupuncture and herbs), which doesn't happen all that often.
more later.................. going to lick my wounds now.
I'm hoping it's going to help relax me a little, center me a little, bring me back into focus, which I've wandered pretty far away from lately. There was a book the office I think I'm going to get about TCM (traditional chinese medicne) called The Web that Has No Weaver. How appropriate is that to the net, blogging, and the discussions flying around out here these days? Yah, I know it's not about the Internet, but something in the interconnected nature of Chinese medicine does parallel what we are doing here. Anyway, this is a short and boring post, but to me it's exciting because I faced a fear (needles) and did something positive for me (accupuncture and herbs), which doesn't happen all that often.
more later.................. going to lick my wounds now.
April 21, 2002
A Personal Blogging First: Remove Me
There are many firsts as we begin our lives as bloggers. Registering for the first time with blogger.com or your tool of choice. Choosing you first blog template. Executing that first "link." Adding the first bunch of bloggers to your blog roll. Publishing your very first post. Reading the first comment that makes its way to your site. All of these are blogger milestones, those things that get us "jazzed" and propel us along in this journey called blogging.
Today I have another personal first. It's not one that gives me great personal joy, as those I've just mentioned. But it is something that I feel I must do: I've asked Mike Sanders to take me off his blog roll. I've never asked to be removed from a blog roll before. Yeh, it's not too smart in terms of linkage and google results. But sometimes you have to say, "enough."
The idea of removal was something Mike mentioned a while back. He offered to remove anyone from his blogroll that couldn't define terrorism, or who didn't think terrorism was always wrong, or something like that. I have neither the time nor inclination to search through his archives to find the exact post. I do remember this--when I read it, I had a little urge to say: "Remove me." It was too Bush-like for me... Too limiting. That "You're either with us or against us" mentality that doesn't sit well with me. But I let that go, figuring Mike was just hot-headed over the current state of affairs, which was understandable.
There's a lot in the middle here you'll never know. The emails I've received from Mike that I felt insulted and provoked by. I won't go into them here. Mike's view is that emails aren't for the public square, and I'll respect that.
Instead I'll say this: I blog, in part, to learn. That means digesting what others have to say. It does not mean rushing to judgement, putting up walls, tearing down ideas, labeling people, or name calling. Mike Sander's post today where he goes after Mike Golby is just that kind of post, and it's not his first. He takes a shot at Doc and others he's labeled "peace bloggers" too.
On Golby, Sanders says: "For me the breaking point came when Mike Golby continued to express his virulently anti-Israeli viewpoints which were picked up in varying degrees by others. The irony is Mike seems to be a nice guy and if it wasn't for his diatribes I would probably still be a friend."
This is both painful and exhausting to me. I'd like to just leave it up to you to figure out what's wrong with this. I'd like to say: If you can't figure out for yourself what is wrong with this, then find a Blogging 101 course -- no, a humanity 101 course -- and sign up. But it would be a cop out to stop here...
...because there are so many things wrong with it.
-Labeling another blogger as "pro" or "anti" anything--especially anything that strikes at the core of their personal belief system--without giving backup is wrong.
-Picking apart bloggers who are brave enough to get personal on their own blogs without daring to get personal yourself is wrong.
-Posting inflamatory comments on your blog without a comment mechanism for others to contribute to the conversation or defend themselves is wrong.
-Using your blog to deliberately inflict pain on others is wrong.
-Using a global medium to state your views without acknowledging the global context and ramifications of what you say is wrong.
-Accusing others of being unfair and insulting when you practice the same regularly is wrong.
There's more. Isn't there always? But I hope this gives some reasoning to why I am drawing the line, why I am saying, "Take me out of this conversation, remove me from the discussion, take me off your Blog Roll please, Mr. Sanders."
There are some who will read this and say, "Oh, she's just allied with Mike Golby." If you take out the "just," I'll agree with you. I am allied with Golby. I see in him a level of humanity and caring that is refreshing and sometimes astounding--and its something he has brought to the art of blogging that has inspired a whole new era of bloggers.
Seeking to become more than "opinion bloggers," Mike and I stand allied together and say, "We will put ourselves into our blogs; we will get personal." What we give you is not just words and current events, but the context for our words and life events, the dramma, joy, and tragedy that has informed us and our words. We try our best to reach through your screen and touch you on the arm--"Hey, we're here. We're *really* here." We dare to give you the whole picture.
If you think that isn't personally dangerous or risky, then you haven't tried it. And maybe you should.
Today I have another personal first. It's not one that gives me great personal joy, as those I've just mentioned. But it is something that I feel I must do: I've asked Mike Sanders to take me off his blog roll. I've never asked to be removed from a blog roll before. Yeh, it's not too smart in terms of linkage and google results. But sometimes you have to say, "enough."
The idea of removal was something Mike mentioned a while back. He offered to remove anyone from his blogroll that couldn't define terrorism, or who didn't think terrorism was always wrong, or something like that. I have neither the time nor inclination to search through his archives to find the exact post. I do remember this--when I read it, I had a little urge to say: "Remove me." It was too Bush-like for me... Too limiting. That "You're either with us or against us" mentality that doesn't sit well with me. But I let that go, figuring Mike was just hot-headed over the current state of affairs, which was understandable.
There's a lot in the middle here you'll never know. The emails I've received from Mike that I felt insulted and provoked by. I won't go into them here. Mike's view is that emails aren't for the public square, and I'll respect that.
Instead I'll say this: I blog, in part, to learn. That means digesting what others have to say. It does not mean rushing to judgement, putting up walls, tearing down ideas, labeling people, or name calling. Mike Sander's post today where he goes after Mike Golby is just that kind of post, and it's not his first. He takes a shot at Doc and others he's labeled "peace bloggers" too.
On Golby, Sanders says: "For me the breaking point came when Mike Golby continued to express his virulently anti-Israeli viewpoints which were picked up in varying degrees by others. The irony is Mike seems to be a nice guy and if it wasn't for his diatribes I would probably still be a friend."
This is both painful and exhausting to me. I'd like to just leave it up to you to figure out what's wrong with this. I'd like to say: If you can't figure out for yourself what is wrong with this, then find a Blogging 101 course -- no, a humanity 101 course -- and sign up. But it would be a cop out to stop here...
...because there are so many things wrong with it.
-Labeling another blogger as "pro" or "anti" anything--especially anything that strikes at the core of their personal belief system--without giving backup is wrong.
-Picking apart bloggers who are brave enough to get personal on their own blogs without daring to get personal yourself is wrong.
-Posting inflamatory comments on your blog without a comment mechanism for others to contribute to the conversation or defend themselves is wrong.
-Using your blog to deliberately inflict pain on others is wrong.
-Using a global medium to state your views without acknowledging the global context and ramifications of what you say is wrong.
-Accusing others of being unfair and insulting when you practice the same regularly is wrong.
There's more. Isn't there always? But I hope this gives some reasoning to why I am drawing the line, why I am saying, "Take me out of this conversation, remove me from the discussion, take me off your Blog Roll please, Mr. Sanders."
There are some who will read this and say, "Oh, she's just allied with Mike Golby." If you take out the "just," I'll agree with you. I am allied with Golby. I see in him a level of humanity and caring that is refreshing and sometimes astounding--and its something he has brought to the art of blogging that has inspired a whole new era of bloggers.
Seeking to become more than "opinion bloggers," Mike and I stand allied together and say, "We will put ourselves into our blogs; we will get personal." What we give you is not just words and current events, but the context for our words and life events, the dramma, joy, and tragedy that has informed us and our words. We try our best to reach through your screen and touch you on the arm--"Hey, we're here. We're *really* here." We dare to give you the whole picture.
If you think that isn't personally dangerous or risky, then you haven't tried it. And maybe you should.
April 18, 2002
that little rascal
watching the white car take another actor to jail for allegedly killing his wife. Hope he didn't do it--the guy had a tough life and made something out of it. Now, my prediction (and why not)... not guilty. A risky prediction given everyone's still wanting to convict OJ. Ah well. Nothing more for tonight, and no links because I haven't seen any online sites hitting on this yet. I'm sure the bloggers will be on it first.
April 17, 2002
I'm alive
Got three emails today from blog buddies gently nudging me (and then there was that blogstickers guy) because I've been quiet. I bet you all thought I was deep in thought, exploring the realms of death and loss, talking with those dark muses that inspire me, or trying to beat RB for the longest bout of depression non-blogism.
I would that it were so, my dear, concerned friends. Unfortunatley, it's my job (remember--we do have those... I know; I forget too sometimes) that's got me roped and tied to MSWord and my laptop this week--big deadline, big headaches. I feel like the reclusive shut in I am. And when I have had a second to blog, blogger sticks it's big stupid tongue out me and says, "not now chickadee."
George is doing well in the Far East, if you don't count the fact that they've brought this super group of jazz musicians over there to play for pay, only to insist on the likes of Proud Mary, Mustang Sally, and other jazz classics as their repetoire. Yes, on upright bass. So you see? Nothing is as it seems and everything is the same. Really.
I am ignorant on current events the last few days. I heard something about "UBL" as Asscroft calls him. I am expecting ELO to start the strings any minute. I have no idea what's going on, and actually it has made a kinder, gentler person. Let's just ignore it all, you and I, shall we?
So, all of this is to say, I have nothing to say unless you want to read my eight pages of client copy from today, which, trust me, you don't.
good night. may tomorrow be a tiny bit more inspiring for us all.
j.
I would that it were so, my dear, concerned friends. Unfortunatley, it's my job (remember--we do have those... I know; I forget too sometimes) that's got me roped and tied to MSWord and my laptop this week--big deadline, big headaches. I feel like the reclusive shut in I am. And when I have had a second to blog, blogger sticks it's big stupid tongue out me and says, "not now chickadee."
George is doing well in the Far East, if you don't count the fact that they've brought this super group of jazz musicians over there to play for pay, only to insist on the likes of Proud Mary, Mustang Sally, and other jazz classics as their repetoire. Yes, on upright bass. So you see? Nothing is as it seems and everything is the same. Really.
I am ignorant on current events the last few days. I heard something about "UBL" as Asscroft calls him. I am expecting ELO to start the strings any minute. I have no idea what's going on, and actually it has made a kinder, gentler person. Let's just ignore it all, you and I, shall we?
So, all of this is to say, I have nothing to say unless you want to read my eight pages of client copy from today, which, trust me, you don't.
good night. may tomorrow be a tiny bit more inspiring for us all.
j.
April 13, 2002
bloodied hands are everywhere
And just to clarify my stance on terrorism, about which I've received some nasty, unsolicited, and unintelligible emails of late, here you go.
inumerable
wrongs
don't
make
right.
In case that's not clear enough, I'm against terrorism and genocide of all kinds. If you don't like it, take me off your blogroll.
inumerable
wrongs
don't
make
right.
In case that's not clear enough, I'm against terrorism and genocide of all kinds. If you don't like it, take me off your blogroll.
April 12, 2002
microblogging
Some bloggers like most to talk about the global, the big picture, the world, its conflicts, its leaders and losers. Some are very good at it. Others are annoying. Still others are mere copies of what we hear on cable news and talk radio, which, in my mind, is a waste of good blog space.
As for global issues, I will leave it to the bloggers who are good at it. There are more opinions out there on current events than you can shake a laptop at.
The blogs I like to read are the personal, those individual portraits of the human heart, blogs about lives and losses, realizations, aspirations, fears; bloggers who open their closets, skeletons and all. That's where I learn things. I come here to escape the macro, the global, the things I cannot solve, the pieces of the world that others control and seek to dominate. Big secret #1: You have no control of what's happening; it is in the hands of governments, and governments, like corporations, are not human. Only those caught in their in the machinery are human. That is the tragedy.
What I CAN change is me. That's it. That's all I can change. And that's all you can change.
Mirror to face,
Blogging for grace.
I challenge you today to put your heart on the line. Take it past the easy blog fuel--who killed whom today, what could happen next. Go for premium. Get personal. Tell me about you. Who fucked with you today? What happened to you that you are the way you are, the person you are? What brought you to blogging? Not the outside stuff. The *inside* stuff.
I dare you.
As for global issues, I will leave it to the bloggers who are good at it. There are more opinions out there on current events than you can shake a laptop at.
The blogs I like to read are the personal, those individual portraits of the human heart, blogs about lives and losses, realizations, aspirations, fears; bloggers who open their closets, skeletons and all. That's where I learn things. I come here to escape the macro, the global, the things I cannot solve, the pieces of the world that others control and seek to dominate. Big secret #1: You have no control of what's happening; it is in the hands of governments, and governments, like corporations, are not human. Only those caught in their in the machinery are human. That is the tragedy.
What I CAN change is me. That's it. That's all I can change. And that's all you can change.
Mirror to face,
Blogging for grace.
I challenge you today to put your heart on the line. Take it past the easy blog fuel--who killed whom today, what could happen next. Go for premium. Get personal. Tell me about you. Who fucked with you today? What happened to you that you are the way you are, the person you are? What brought you to blogging? Not the outside stuff. The *inside* stuff.
I dare you.
April 09, 2002
panic remembered
The past has a way of protecting you. Sometimes for a long time. Until it’s way way in the past. Yesterday, I remembered suddenly the circumstances around my first panic attack. I used to think they started in high school. The doctors would ask: "When did you start having panic attacks?" I'd try to think back, but, caught in the grips of anxiety, it seemed like always would have been the most accurate reply.
Until yesterday, though, I thought I had it nailed down to my tough times in 10th grade. Those are the ones I remember best. Under siege by what ifs and terrorized by possibilities ranging from the very real to the really absurd, grappling with hour-long bouts that were very painful, and very physical, and made me certain that I was going completely out of my mind and could not take it another split second, the days when a minute seemed like three years and the thought of three years led to the next wave of terror.
But last week I remembered. I didn’t just remember; I was there. In the fourth seat of the first row from the door, Mr. Connor’s 6th grade science class, trying to pay attention even as I was fixated, as always, on his bald head and his wrestling coach walk, and the rumor I had heard from the other kids that his wife had just died.
His question to the class is what started this wave of panic, which ripped up my spine to flush my cheeks, which made me want to run from class to the bathroom where I could throw up. I was sure I would faint, and if I didn’t I was sure I would die. It was perhaps the hardest question I had ever been asked and is even still:
“What does your father do for a living?”
Followed by, “Let’s go around the room.”
And one by one, the answers came from the other kids, fast and furious, a restaurant manager, a construction worker, a teacher—like you Mr. Connor!—a writer, he works at Xerox, he delivers the mail, until he hit the row before mine. I turned around to Susan, who sat behind me. She lived on my street… one of the few who knew I didn’t have a father, that he was dead—“What do I SAY?” She shrugged her shoulders. “mmmm mm mmmm.”
As a kid, when your father dies before anyone else’s in what you know to be the entire world, that makes you really different. A freak. And in 1969, if he died of cancer, that made you a leper. I was about to become a leper if I didn’t think fast. Really fast.
And as he pointed at me, I said it. Well almost:
“My mother works.”
“Oh. ……………….. What does she do?”
“She shows apartments.”
And he moved on.
But I never did.
Until yesterday, though, I thought I had it nailed down to my tough times in 10th grade. Those are the ones I remember best. Under siege by what ifs and terrorized by possibilities ranging from the very real to the really absurd, grappling with hour-long bouts that were very painful, and very physical, and made me certain that I was going completely out of my mind and could not take it another split second, the days when a minute seemed like three years and the thought of three years led to the next wave of terror.
But last week I remembered. I didn’t just remember; I was there. In the fourth seat of the first row from the door, Mr. Connor’s 6th grade science class, trying to pay attention even as I was fixated, as always, on his bald head and his wrestling coach walk, and the rumor I had heard from the other kids that his wife had just died.
His question to the class is what started this wave of panic, which ripped up my spine to flush my cheeks, which made me want to run from class to the bathroom where I could throw up. I was sure I would faint, and if I didn’t I was sure I would die. It was perhaps the hardest question I had ever been asked and is even still:
“What does your father do for a living?”
Followed by, “Let’s go around the room.”
And one by one, the answers came from the other kids, fast and furious, a restaurant manager, a construction worker, a teacher—like you Mr. Connor!—a writer, he works at Xerox, he delivers the mail, until he hit the row before mine. I turned around to Susan, who sat behind me. She lived on my street… one of the few who knew I didn’t have a father, that he was dead—“What do I SAY?” She shrugged her shoulders. “mmmm mm mmmm.”
As a kid, when your father dies before anyone else’s in what you know to be the entire world, that makes you really different. A freak. And in 1969, if he died of cancer, that made you a leper. I was about to become a leper if I didn’t think fast. Really fast.
And as he pointed at me, I said it. Well almost:
“My mother works.”
“Oh. ……………….. What does she do?”
“She shows apartments.”
And he moved on.
But I never did.
And for Halley
For Halley, who lost her father today, "Passage" below seems a fitting poem for her too. Our thoughts are with you, Halley. Much pain in blogland today.
April 08, 2002
Passage
(for george)
It’s the going
the going
the going
the going,
It’s the deadly
sharpness
of without.
It’s the
not having,
the space
every place
I look
where
you aren’t.
Unsettled
dreaming of
the absence of
things.
It’s the trick
of the eye
turning is
into was
and was
into wasn’t
ever so.
It’s life with
the music off,
the soundlessness
and then
the shrill smack
of the high end
set loose on me.
It’s the first day
without you.
It’s the going
the going
the going
the going,
It’s the deadly
sharpness
of without.
It’s the
not having,
the space
every place
I look
where
you aren’t.
Unsettled
dreaming of
the absence of
things.
It’s the trick
of the eye
turning is
into was
and was
into wasn’t
ever so.
It’s life with
the music off,
the soundlessness
and then
the shrill smack
of the high end
set loose on me.
It’s the first day
without you.
April 07, 2002
The Revelation
so, I'm thinking about doing some writing stuff--you know, outside the blogging realm and the 8,000 client deliverables I'm writing all the time. I don't know. It's not fully formed. But I have this start, or middle, or end that came to me just now. Not sure where it's going. Feedback welcome. -j.
--------------------------------
She has been afraid of bugs for as long as she can remember. More than the typical aversion, hers is the kind of fear that jolts, base of spine to tip, a panic that reaches a crescendo in the time it takes the brain to process what the eye has seen. And for her, beetles are the worst.
June Bugs some call them. They swarm on hot summer evenings, the color of night, knocking against windows, working their way inside screens. June bugs struggle with a single purpose: to burrow before the sun rises. Daylight is their death sentence.
She was 30 before she realized the source of her phobia. It came to her one spring, after a hard rain, the kind that washes worms onto pavement and subsides before they can wind their way back to the earth. She stared at the carnage this day, stunned by the asymmetrical beauty of the worm carcasses, spread out just so, some making a perfect “s”, others coiled tightly. Her eyes played games. Block out the solid, stare at the space, and suddenly the worms were canvas, the pavement paint. She was overcome by the deathly beauty taking place in her own driveway, a place she’d seen a thousand times but never like this.
Until she saw a single worm struggling, alive.
The familiar fear rose, pushing her backwards, the primal instinct to flee more than she could suppress. One step back. It’s okay. It’s just a worm. How ugly. How disgusting. I’m far enough away now. Look how it slithers, only half the body responding to a nervous system that says, “Move, Now!”
There’s no telling how long she stared. That wasn’t the point of the moment. The revelation came after she got into her car and began the drive to work, a revelation that, when it came, took control of her car and pulled it to the side of the road where images surreal were waiting.
You are afraid of bugs because
they ate the skin and flesh
from your father’s corpse,
in and out of his eye sockets,
between his fingers
on the hand you once held tight,
is the wedding ring still there?
And they will eat
you too one day.
That is what bugs do,
consume the dead.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat at the side of the road thinking these thoughts. There were no tears, just the revelation that landed like a thud on a soul hardened to injury.
She was just six when he died, and had wondered plenty of times since exactly what happened to his body inside that casket. How does he look now? Sometimes the urge to dig him up was so palpable her fingertips itched. She dreams of hollow earth, of things underneath the surface. It is a compulsion to understand the dead, and perhaps, in that understanding, to undo death. It’s a desire so intense it shades everything that comes after.
In biology class, when the rest of the class saw a skeleton, she saw her father’s bones. When the life-size model of the human body was unveiled, she saw his organs. When the rest of the class dissected frogs, she was cutting into him.
Step aside, give me the scalpel, let me explore and see if I can’t cut out this disease. “Inoperable?” Urge born from loss, she whishes she had been in the operating room that day, because she is sure she would have taken the time to cut the cancer out, to put him back together just right. Surgeons who don’t love their patients cannot cure them. Daughters should heal fathers. Fathers should fix daughters. We are one, have the same sicknesses, know where they hide, how far the tentacles reach and where. “God,” she implored, “just give me the chance.”
But she would never have the chance. Death once done can’t be undone. And that is the reality she has battled all of her life, the unchangeable “is” that would color her world, give birth to her voice, and become the platform from which she would speak.
And she is me.
--------------------------------
She has been afraid of bugs for as long as she can remember. More than the typical aversion, hers is the kind of fear that jolts, base of spine to tip, a panic that reaches a crescendo in the time it takes the brain to process what the eye has seen. And for her, beetles are the worst.
June Bugs some call them. They swarm on hot summer evenings, the color of night, knocking against windows, working their way inside screens. June bugs struggle with a single purpose: to burrow before the sun rises. Daylight is their death sentence.
She was 30 before she realized the source of her phobia. It came to her one spring, after a hard rain, the kind that washes worms onto pavement and subsides before they can wind their way back to the earth. She stared at the carnage this day, stunned by the asymmetrical beauty of the worm carcasses, spread out just so, some making a perfect “s”, others coiled tightly. Her eyes played games. Block out the solid, stare at the space, and suddenly the worms were canvas, the pavement paint. She was overcome by the deathly beauty taking place in her own driveway, a place she’d seen a thousand times but never like this.
Until she saw a single worm struggling, alive.
The familiar fear rose, pushing her backwards, the primal instinct to flee more than she could suppress. One step back. It’s okay. It’s just a worm. How ugly. How disgusting. I’m far enough away now. Look how it slithers, only half the body responding to a nervous system that says, “Move, Now!”
There’s no telling how long she stared. That wasn’t the point of the moment. The revelation came after she got into her car and began the drive to work, a revelation that, when it came, took control of her car and pulled it to the side of the road where images surreal were waiting.
You are afraid of bugs because
they ate the skin and flesh
from your father’s corpse,
in and out of his eye sockets,
between his fingers
on the hand you once held tight,
is the wedding ring still there?
And they will eat
you too one day.
That is what bugs do,
consume the dead.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat at the side of the road thinking these thoughts. There were no tears, just the revelation that landed like a thud on a soul hardened to injury.
She was just six when he died, and had wondered plenty of times since exactly what happened to his body inside that casket. How does he look now? Sometimes the urge to dig him up was so palpable her fingertips itched. She dreams of hollow earth, of things underneath the surface. It is a compulsion to understand the dead, and perhaps, in that understanding, to undo death. It’s a desire so intense it shades everything that comes after.
In biology class, when the rest of the class saw a skeleton, she saw her father’s bones. When the life-size model of the human body was unveiled, she saw his organs. When the rest of the class dissected frogs, she was cutting into him.
Step aside, give me the scalpel, let me explore and see if I can’t cut out this disease. “Inoperable?” Urge born from loss, she whishes she had been in the operating room that day, because she is sure she would have taken the time to cut the cancer out, to put him back together just right. Surgeons who don’t love their patients cannot cure them. Daughters should heal fathers. Fathers should fix daughters. We are one, have the same sicknesses, know where they hide, how far the tentacles reach and where. “God,” she implored, “just give me the chance.”
But she would never have the chance. Death once done can’t be undone. And that is the reality she has battled all of her life, the unchangeable “is” that would color her world, give birth to her voice, and become the platform from which she would speak.
And she is me.
April 05, 2002
Give Piece a Chance
I haven't finished my copy of SPLJ yet, but I am proud to be a small piece. Something I read over on Burning Bird yesterday got me thinking. Shelley is tired of hearing about Weinberger's book and wants to hear more from the loosely joined pieces themselves. I can relate to her wanting for new, authentic voices, because I've been feeling that way--where are all the new folks that were supposed to become overnight bloggers thanks to all the recent press on weblogs?
Still, some of the comments on the book in response to Shelley's post--part and parcel of the short attention span that is the net--made me say, "Wait a second. I haven't even finished reading it yet. You can't say we're done talking about it. I haven't even had my turn."
So, in support of the continued conversation on the parts and the paste of the net, I proudly display my piece-hood:
Thanks to Gary, always a partner in crime.
Still, some of the comments on the book in response to Shelley's post--part and parcel of the short attention span that is the net--made me say, "Wait a second. I haven't even finished reading it yet. You can't say we're done talking about it. I haven't even had my turn."
So, in support of the continued conversation on the parts and the paste of the net, I proudly display my piece-hood:
Thanks to Gary, always a partner in crime.
April 04, 2002
the ying and yang of blogging
I love this blogging shit. I mean I really love it again. How is that possible. Just a few days ago I was hating it, ready to chuck it all in. Waste of my time. No one there. Not helping me feel better. blah blah blah. A couple days pass, and I'm all over the place, posting here, posting there, commenting wherever I can find an open comment box. How is this possible?
Blogging is opening the door.
It's nice to close the door sometimes, to hide within walls you can see and touch. But as the hours, days pass, you find yourself looking at that door, staring at the knob, wondering what would happen if you unlocked it. You wonder, is it hot out or cold? Who's driving by? Did I get any mail? Well, maybe I'll just peek out the door and see. Stick a finger out there, find out what the weather's like. That's all. Then I'll come back in.
No sooner is the door open than you're running through the grass with your shoes off, half naked, grabbing leaves from the trees and flowers from the earth, celebrating the unending expanse that is the blog universe. See me? Hear Me? I'm here!
The trick to re-engaging is to read some new blogs. Not the popular ones. Not the Daypop toppers. The other ones. The "updated recentlys" and the blogs that show up on the later pages of a google or daypop search. These quieter voices are magic, and before you know it, you engage, and your mind ignites, and the only thing you know to do, the only thing you can do, is start writing again. Join the conversation. Feed the conversation.
And once the flood gates open, even if you didn't want it to be so, the spark of joy is there.
My voice.
Hear myself,
Heal myself.
Gosh it's good to be back.
Blogging is opening the door.
It's nice to close the door sometimes, to hide within walls you can see and touch. But as the hours, days pass, you find yourself looking at that door, staring at the knob, wondering what would happen if you unlocked it. You wonder, is it hot out or cold? Who's driving by? Did I get any mail? Well, maybe I'll just peek out the door and see. Stick a finger out there, find out what the weather's like. That's all. Then I'll come back in.
No sooner is the door open than you're running through the grass with your shoes off, half naked, grabbing leaves from the trees and flowers from the earth, celebrating the unending expanse that is the blog universe. See me? Hear Me? I'm here!
The trick to re-engaging is to read some new blogs. Not the popular ones. Not the Daypop toppers. The other ones. The "updated recentlys" and the blogs that show up on the later pages of a google or daypop search. These quieter voices are magic, and before you know it, you engage, and your mind ignites, and the only thing you know to do, the only thing you can do, is start writing again. Join the conversation. Feed the conversation.
And once the flood gates open, even if you didn't want it to be so, the spark of joy is there.
My voice.
Hear myself,
Heal myself.
Gosh it's good to be back.
April 03, 2002
Fishrush to broker peace deal in mideast...
Methinks the new Fishrush healthy lifestyle gizmo has much potential for convincing waring parties to lower their stress level and relax as they learn to replace the word "revenge" with the word "fishrush."
The Web, My Sky
stavrosthewonderchicken draws a parallel between the web and the sea, that great expanse where he feels at home after all of his years of sailing, his blog like the ship's log, his ports of call fascinating.
I was outside before I came in and read his blog just now, staring up at the moon like I've done since I was 12, with the same degree of awe I have every single time I look, thinking how many people so far away from me see this same thing, might even be staring at just that same moment even when day is night and night is day. Arafat, same moon. Sharon, same moon. Spread across this floating orb, earth, each of us shares a single sky, from different vantage points, with many and varied planets and stars in our focus, every time we look up, look out.
Let your eye hyperlink from star to star, cloud to cloud, or star to cloud, moon to star. Take it in, draw the emotions from it that you need at that very moment. To me, that is the web, and that is blogging.
So wonderchicken, you are water, I am sky. And somehow, that works. Sail on.
I was outside before I came in and read his blog just now, staring up at the moon like I've done since I was 12, with the same degree of awe I have every single time I look, thinking how many people so far away from me see this same thing, might even be staring at just that same moment even when day is night and night is day. Arafat, same moon. Sharon, same moon. Spread across this floating orb, earth, each of us shares a single sky, from different vantage points, with many and varied planets and stars in our focus, every time we look up, look out.
Let your eye hyperlink from star to star, cloud to cloud, or star to cloud, moon to star. Take it in, draw the emotions from it that you need at that very moment. To me, that is the web, and that is blogging.
So wonderchicken, you are water, I am sky. And somehow, that works. Sail on.
digital earth tones
I really like this. An interesting project blog on gardening, just getting started. This is the type blog journal that I would read more than once. Some online diarists--those whose interesting observations sound someting like, "today I called my boyfriend and can you believe what he said," I don't have the stomach for. But the gardening journal, I dig it.
And isn't it so nice to bring the earth into the digital realm, to see those little seedlings sprouting up from your screen, knowing that someone you're reading is taking care of them? Maybe we can all get a tomato out of this or something.
Anyway, just another good use for blogging, as chronicle for a project, archiving of activities that you can revisit when your petunias give you problems. Journalism? No. How-To Guide? Yes.
Works for me.
And isn't it so nice to bring the earth into the digital realm, to see those little seedlings sprouting up from your screen, knowing that someone you're reading is taking care of them? Maybe we can all get a tomato out of this or something.
Anyway, just another good use for blogging, as chronicle for a project, archiving of activities that you can revisit when your petunias give you problems. Journalism? No. How-To Guide? Yes.
Works for me.
April 02, 2002
I've attempted to stay silent
...on the current middle east killing spree. I don't see an end. I see bad guys everywhere I look. I see two men whose hatred for one another is so deep, so long standing, and so impenetrable that an entire region--and perhaps an entire world--could be leveled because of them. I don't deny Israel has a right to self defense against a group of people that loathe its existence. The suicide bombings deserve reprisal--but how, and at whom? A culture without weapons of mass destruction has alternatively grown its own crop of home-grown weapons in the bodies and minds of young people who are rewarded in eternity for becoming human bombs.
Where will it end and what is the answer? Kill Arafat? Worse news for us all. Let him stay? Too late for that. Exile him? He won't go, and if he did, worse still.
Looking at my own country's actions of "self defense," I wonder if there is a line that, once stepped across, transforms defense to offense, almost in an nanosecond. You blink and you miss it. And the lure of crossing it is maybe just too hard to ignore. The line is blurry yet critically important. Step over it and all the answers are erased with the sand kicked aside. The line is gone. The answer is gone.
This, the latest from the war zone.
"In New York, the Committee to Protect Journalists issued a protest letter to Prime Minister Ariel Sharon saying Israel had an obligation to allow journalists to work freely in the West Bank. 'Attempting to prevent journalists from witnessing events on the ground is a flagrant act of censorship,' the letter said. The group also expressed alarm at 'several incidents in which Israeli troops have fired on working journalists.' "
Where will it end and what is the answer? Kill Arafat? Worse news for us all. Let him stay? Too late for that. Exile him? He won't go, and if he did, worse still.
Looking at my own country's actions of "self defense," I wonder if there is a line that, once stepped across, transforms defense to offense, almost in an nanosecond. You blink and you miss it. And the lure of crossing it is maybe just too hard to ignore. The line is blurry yet critically important. Step over it and all the answers are erased with the sand kicked aside. The line is gone. The answer is gone.
This, the latest from the war zone.
"In New York, the Committee to Protect Journalists issued a protest letter to Prime Minister Ariel Sharon saying Israel had an obligation to allow journalists to work freely in the West Bank. 'Attempting to prevent journalists from witnessing events on the ground is a flagrant act of censorship,' the letter said. The group also expressed alarm at 'several incidents in which Israeli troops have fired on working journalists.' "
sheesh, maybe i was onto something
I guess the comments to my previous blog-hating post hit some nerves, because the comments are numerous and great. Seems like several of us hit bottom at the same time. It's a mixed beast this blogging thing. Maybe we are at the bottom of the check-mark, and we're going to start shooting up the other side.
Just yesterday, I started rumbling with something again. Ideas on women and voice and the net, of repression and release and the shere erotic energy of it all, of voice rape and recovery, all of which I think is going on, right now, especially for women bloggers, as we type into these now-somewhat-monotonous little windows that used to seem so cool. I find that to renew my energy, I jump between the blogs I participate in--gonzo engaged, blog sisters, allied, and as soon as I finish the book, the Loosely Joined team blog. Seems like when I peter out on one, I find renewed energy on another and stay there for a while.
Odd, isn't it? All of it? Very odd. I've made an incredible wishlist for myself on Amazon of women writers--historic to post-modern. I'd love suggestions especially as they relate to women and voice, release. I'm going to tackle this beast from one angle or another. I think I'm finding my angle.
And on another note, right now a talented guitarist from Senegal is in my kitchen teaching my daughter French.
Is there anything better than that?
Just yesterday, I started rumbling with something again. Ideas on women and voice and the net, of repression and release and the shere erotic energy of it all, of voice rape and recovery, all of which I think is going on, right now, especially for women bloggers, as we type into these now-somewhat-monotonous little windows that used to seem so cool. I find that to renew my energy, I jump between the blogs I participate in--gonzo engaged, blog sisters, allied, and as soon as I finish the book, the Loosely Joined team blog. Seems like when I peter out on one, I find renewed energy on another and stay there for a while.
Odd, isn't it? All of it? Very odd. I've made an incredible wishlist for myself on Amazon of women writers--historic to post-modern. I'd love suggestions especially as they relate to women and voice, release. I'm going to tackle this beast from one angle or another. I think I'm finding my angle.
And on another note, right now a talented guitarist from Senegal is in my kitchen teaching my daughter French.
Is there anything better than that?
March 30, 2002
What I hate about blogging
Idiots who flame in comments without leaving their email.
Feeling like I have to blog when I don't feel like it.
That the blog takes time away from my family.
That blogging doesn't pay.
Daypop's same old "which one are you" contests that always clog up the Top 40.
When all of blogland turns grey.
When no one comments.
That I have to blog so often.
That I can't blog all the time.
That no good memes have gone around in a long time.
Not finding any great new bloggers to read.
That Shelley's quit and other good bloggers are giving up.
That our secret's out.
That it's a lot of work.
That it makes work seem more like work because work is not as fun.
When bloggers go on vacation.
Clicking on a link and finding that the blogger's the most recent post is three weeks old.
That the apps for blogging aren't evolving fast enough.
...and you?
Feeling like I have to blog when I don't feel like it.
That the blog takes time away from my family.
That blogging doesn't pay.
Daypop's same old "which one are you" contests that always clog up the Top 40.
When all of blogland turns grey.
When no one comments.
That I have to blog so often.
That I can't blog all the time.
That no good memes have gone around in a long time.
Not finding any great new bloggers to read.
That Shelley's quit and other good bloggers are giving up.
That our secret's out.
That it's a lot of work.
That it makes work seem more like work because work is not as fun.
When bloggers go on vacation.
Clicking on a link and finding that the blogger's the most recent post is three weeks old.
That the apps for blogging aren't evolving fast enough.
...and you?
March 28, 2002
Valued Bleeders
Chris Locke took to the Internet airwaves on CNET Radio’s Online Tonight with David Lawrence.
Lawrence and Locke talked about this EGR send, where RageBoy apparently stole the keyboard from Locke and flamed valued readers everywhere. Later, Locke came as close as he ever has to “recanting” with another EGR apologizing for RageBoy’s nasty if not accurate rant earlier in the day.
Fortunately, Locke recanted his near recant on tonight’s radio show, explaining that we EGR subscribers actually enjoy being yelled at. And he even got a shot in at Dvorak. Cooool.
Ask yourself, if you're a RageBoy fan, have you done your part as a valued bleeder?
Lawrence and Locke talked about this EGR send, where RageBoy apparently stole the keyboard from Locke and flamed valued readers everywhere. Later, Locke came as close as he ever has to “recanting” with another EGR apologizing for RageBoy’s nasty if not accurate rant earlier in the day.
Fortunately, Locke recanted his near recant on tonight’s radio show, explaining that we EGR subscribers actually enjoy being yelled at. And he even got a shot in at Dvorak. Cooool.
Ask yourself, if you're a RageBoy fan, have you done your part as a valued bleeder?
March 27, 2002
Small Interview Loosely Joined
Marek interviews David Weinberger on his new book, Small Pieces Loosely Joined. The conversation is as interesting as the book. I wish they would have talked longer. It's kind of a "The Making Of" thing -- you know, like they do for movies, "The Making of Jurrasic Park." Fascinating in and of its own rite. Here's a tidbit from Sir David:
"As to the people who want us to get off the Web and get back to work, I'd say: Yes sir and/or madam! Immediately! I will unplug. And I will also stop talking because if you monitored what I say in a day, you, sir and/or madam, would be shocked -- shocked! -- at just how much time I waste! Why, just this morning I blew almost 2 minutes chatting with the security guard."
"As to the people who want us to get off the Web and get back to work, I'd say: Yes sir and/or madam! Immediately! I will unplug. And I will also stop talking because if you monitored what I say in a day, you, sir and/or madam, would be shocked -- shocked! -- at just how much time I waste! Why, just this morning I blew almost 2 minutes chatting with the security guard."
March 26, 2002
Just one
I'd like to get my mitts on just one parent who allows this, the latest hate group video game, in their house.
We can take turns on the rest.
Part of me wonders, though, might it not backfire for the gang at the wheel of this thing? How many blacks and jews does a kid have to blow away in this game before it gets boring? How many monkey sounds before he doesn't laugh anymore?
"The player (who can choose to dress in KKK robes or as a Skinhead) roams the streets and subways murdering 'predatory sub-humans' and their Jewish 'masters' thereby 'saving' the white world.
I guess I answered my own question.
We can take turns on the rest.
Part of me wonders, though, might it not backfire for the gang at the wheel of this thing? How many blacks and jews does a kid have to blow away in this game before it gets boring? How many monkey sounds before he doesn't laugh anymore?
"The player (who can choose to dress in KKK robes or as a Skinhead) roams the streets and subways murdering 'predatory sub-humans' and their Jewish 'masters' thereby 'saving' the white world.
I guess I answered my own question.
March 25, 2002
Identity Crisis
Eric Norlin takes the identity czars to task over on Digital ID World.
"These discussions over identity shouldn't begin with computer geeks acting like Zoroastrian missionaries -- zealous in their fight for the truth of their position. Rather, these conversations must begin by asking some fundamental questions: How are we to define the idea of a "digital identity" in the coming decades? Is it different than our physical, or non-digital, identity? Is it more valuable? More malleable? More diverse?
"These discussions over identity shouldn't begin with computer geeks acting like Zoroastrian missionaries -- zealous in their fight for the truth of their position. Rather, these conversations must begin by asking some fundamental questions: How are we to define the idea of a "digital identity" in the coming decades? Is it different than our physical, or non-digital, identity? Is it more valuable? More malleable? More diverse?
interesting links of the day
I'd like to attend this session, although I think I'm involved in the home-study-by-default course currently: "giving voice to the man in the woman and the woman in the man, the giant, the witch, the dictator, the victim, the hero, the lover, the elements, animals, demons and gods within us."
I'd like to understand more about this.
I'd like to read this book.
I think Joyce Carol Oates should blog: The human voice, and the ways in which the human being expresses him or herself in the theatrical setting, is very interesting to me. Often people standing in front of an audience say things and reveal things about themselves that they would never even dream of revealing in a more intimate situation. Nor would they think of these things if they were alone. There's some strange -- perhaps it's an atavistic -- response, maybe it's not understood at all.
I'd like to understand more about this.
I'd like to read this book.
I think Joyce Carol Oates should blog: The human voice, and the ways in which the human being expresses him or herself in the theatrical setting, is very interesting to me. Often people standing in front of an audience say things and reveal things about themselves that they would never even dream of revealing in a more intimate situation. Nor would they think of these things if they were alone. There's some strange -- perhaps it's an atavistic -- response, maybe it's not understood at all.
March 23, 2002
unspoken
a voice hushed
wrapped in chains
lock snapped tight
teeth clenched.
the wrath of words,
fire like hail,
rain down
on this family.
for appearance
we sacrifice
voice, soul
for appearence
we learn to believe
the lie.
Today I spoke.
Today I said
there is a problem,
Today my voice rang clear
for me the child
for my child.
Today I was seen
and heard.
Today,
nothing was left
unspoken.
wrapped in chains
lock snapped tight
teeth clenched.
the wrath of words,
fire like hail,
rain down
on this family.
for appearance
we sacrifice
voice, soul
for appearence
we learn to believe
the lie.
Today I spoke.
Today I said
there is a problem,
Today my voice rang clear
for me the child
for my child.
Today I was seen
and heard.
Today,
nothing was left
unspoken.
March 21, 2002
March 20, 2002
the folks I work with
I bet these guys will let me surf the Internet all day long! And I don't even mind that he's recruiting from within my own bloggernizations.
"A global reach consulting team, with offices in more than 10 countries, staffed by 20+ experts, with round the clock continuous operation."
One thing: don't gobble up ALL of my blog sisters' resources, dammit! They are an important part of my MRM effort.
"A global reach consulting team, with offices in more than 10 countries, staffed by 20+ experts, with round the clock continuous operation."
One thing: don't gobble up ALL of my blog sisters' resources, dammit! They are an important part of my MRM effort.
March 19, 2002
Who am I, Part 1
I surfed on over to parents.com tonight to see if I could find a little info, a little support for spouses of spouses (?) who travel extensively on business. That after we nearly sealed a sweet gig for my sweet love over in Hong Kong for three months. Yep, three months. As a mom. Working full time. From home. Me, myself, and I, and four-year-old makes four.
Yes, I understand that single mothers do this all the time (how they do it, I'm not sure), but most don't have their kids at home because they have to work (mine has just started school, but it's just for a few hours), and most with their kids at home don't have a husband they love that they're missing so, otherwise they wouldn't be single moms. Am I making sense? No? I didn't think so. He's not gone yet. No it's not a done deal. But you know how bloggers think. I already have him gone.
So my point to all of this was, I found the "Family Boards" on the site and was thinking, heck, I'll find some great ideas for passing the time, or ways I can talk him into coming back early, stuff like that. And I get these boards to choose from:
Family Time Boards:
Married Life
Single Parents
Stay-at-Home Moms
Working Moms
Family Time Open Forum
Recipe Exchange
Suddenly a wave of exhaustion washed over me, as I ran my mouse over the options and realized, in one painful moment, that I am all of these things. At once. (And they don't even list "Blogger" or "Team Blog Leader.")
Lets run through the list, shall we?
-Married life: check, been married 16 years.
-Single parents: yep, married to a road warrior music man, and have an amazing, spirited, demanding, insanely creative child. go figure.
-Stay-at-home mom: yep, I stay at home all the time (except every other Friday, when they make me come into the office)
-Working mom: check, work full time, usually more. maintain near perfect utilization and manage an editorial group. online 24/7, except when I sleep. sometimes.
-Family time: yep, every Sunday is family day. the rest of the week we pretty much play it by ear. our household is jazz through and through.
-Recipe exchange: yessiree, I cook too.
I'm not saying I'm special or anything, but, shit, no wonder I'm stinking tired.
Is there a name for this? More importantly, is there a cure?
And, finally, which one do I click?
Yes, I understand that single mothers do this all the time (how they do it, I'm not sure), but most don't have their kids at home because they have to work (mine has just started school, but it's just for a few hours), and most with their kids at home don't have a husband they love that they're missing so, otherwise they wouldn't be single moms. Am I making sense? No? I didn't think so. He's not gone yet. No it's not a done deal. But you know how bloggers think. I already have him gone.
So my point to all of this was, I found the "Family Boards" on the site and was thinking, heck, I'll find some great ideas for passing the time, or ways I can talk him into coming back early, stuff like that. And I get these boards to choose from:
Family Time Boards:
Married Life
Single Parents
Stay-at-Home Moms
Working Moms
Family Time Open Forum
Recipe Exchange
Suddenly a wave of exhaustion washed over me, as I ran my mouse over the options and realized, in one painful moment, that I am all of these things. At once. (And they don't even list "Blogger" or "Team Blog Leader.")
Lets run through the list, shall we?
-Married life: check, been married 16 years.
-Single parents: yep, married to a road warrior music man, and have an amazing, spirited, demanding, insanely creative child. go figure.
-Stay-at-home mom: yep, I stay at home all the time (except every other Friday, when they make me come into the office)
-Working mom: check, work full time, usually more. maintain near perfect utilization and manage an editorial group. online 24/7, except when I sleep. sometimes.
-Family time: yep, every Sunday is family day. the rest of the week we pretty much play it by ear. our household is jazz through and through.
-Recipe exchange: yessiree, I cook too.
I'm not saying I'm special or anything, but, shit, no wonder I'm stinking tired.
Is there a name for this? More importantly, is there a cure?
And, finally, which one do I click?
Restructuring at Blogsisters--New President to Share the Load
Sometimes you have to take a hard look at your business, a hard look at your life, and realize that things aren't working the way they are. That's what spurred me into action, reorganizing the women-only blog behemoth called Blog Sisters after just three weeks in business. Read more about our organizational changes here.
March 18, 2002
sorry i haven't blogged more
but i've been engaged in fighting a vast right-wing conspiracy over at Blog Sisters. You can wander over and see what all the comotion's about, or you can just read b!x's take on it and call it a day. I recommend the latter, the former being too irritating.
More news on blog sisters soon. Big news. Ha, now I have your attention.
Nah-nah. Blog Sisters nay-sayers, get your little steely knives ready to see if you can kill this beast.
Not.
More news on blog sisters soon. Big news. Ha, now I have your attention.
Nah-nah. Blog Sisters nay-sayers, get your little steely knives ready to see if you can kill this beast.
Not.
March 17, 2002
From father to husband
My father was a professional bassist and composer; my husband is a professional bassist, composer, and producer. Freud would have a field day with me, but I have never cared. We seek to marry our fathers, our daughters, our mothers, our sons, and it isn't inherently wrong. My husband, George Sessum has been my harbor for 18 years. His mind and his music wrap me in comfort and blow away my dark clouds.
Digital heritage
Al Dimino on piano, 1965 at my grandparent's house, where there was always music. Who do you think the munchkin whooping in the background might be?
Alphonse Dimino
He doesn't exist on the net. These are not him. He's not here with me. The further I wander into this world, the further I wander from him. So, today, I bring him here. With me.
Ancestry.com gives me information I never knew. My father wasn't 36 when he died, he was 38. I wasn't 5, I was 6. To anyone else, these life-long discrepancies are meaningless. To me, they rock the foundation on which I've built my life. Especially so because without the net, I never would have known. The net moves beyond the living to give insight into the dead. Moreso, I'm sure, as we, the pioneers of net voice, live and die online.
ALPHONSE DIMINO Request Information (SS-5)
SSN 070-26-8940 Residence: 14526 Penfield, Monroe, NY
Born 16 Dec 1930 Last Benefit:
Died Mar 1969 Issued: NY (Before 1951)
That's the only reference to him here, in this world. Nothing about his soft voice, the cleft in his chin, the way his shoulders hunched over his upright bass when he played. Nothing about Al Dimino's nickname, "Tootie," which he went by at home and in the music business. Nothing about his time with the Woody Herman All Stars, Nothing about touring with Serge Chaloff. His lyrics aren't here. His music isn't here. There's nothing about how my daughter has his eyes, his chin.
Today, he has a place online.
I am making him a place. With me.
Because I can't leave him behind.
Ancestry.com gives me information I never knew. My father wasn't 36 when he died, he was 38. I wasn't 5, I was 6. To anyone else, these life-long discrepancies are meaningless. To me, they rock the foundation on which I've built my life. Especially so because without the net, I never would have known. The net moves beyond the living to give insight into the dead. Moreso, I'm sure, as we, the pioneers of net voice, live and die online.
ALPHONSE DIMINO Request Information (SS-5)
SSN 070-26-8940 Residence: 14526 Penfield, Monroe, NY
Born 16 Dec 1930 Last Benefit:
Died Mar 1969 Issued: NY (Before 1951)
That's the only reference to him here, in this world. Nothing about his soft voice, the cleft in his chin, the way his shoulders hunched over his upright bass when he played. Nothing about Al Dimino's nickname, "Tootie," which he went by at home and in the music business. Nothing about his time with the Woody Herman All Stars, Nothing about touring with Serge Chaloff. His lyrics aren't here. His music isn't here. There's nothing about how my daughter has his eyes, his chin.
Today, he has a place online.
I am making him a place. With me.
Because I can't leave him behind.
the day of shamrocks and death
today is the day my mother, just 35, lost her husband, the only man she would ever love.
today is the day my mother cried on her father's shoulder, not knowing that in three weeks he too would be dead.
today is the day my mother lost her mother, twenty years later.
today is the day my mother, unquestioning Catholic, celebrates her feast day, Patricia to Patrick, living to dead.
Grief unspoken destroys us. Grief unspoken welcomes disease, turmoil, violence, and chaos. Grief unspoken consumes the family. Grief unspoken has taken my mother from me.
today is the day I celebrate loss.
today is the day my mother cried on her father's shoulder, not knowing that in three weeks he too would be dead.
today is the day my mother lost her mother, twenty years later.
today is the day my mother, unquestioning Catholic, celebrates her feast day, Patricia to Patrick, living to dead.
Grief unspoken destroys us. Grief unspoken welcomes disease, turmoil, violence, and chaos. Grief unspoken consumes the family. Grief unspoken has taken my mother from me.
today is the day I celebrate loss.
March 14, 2002
Machine Gun Memories
It's 3:00 in the morning. I haven't slept well in weeks. Machine gun memories. I have never had them before.
The movie is playing backward in my head again. What act, what scene?
One after the other after the other after the other.
Rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat.
"Hold your fire!" I cannot make it stop.
I'm 36, I'm 30, I'm 26, I'm 22, I'm 18, I'm 16, I'm 12, I'm 9, I'm 6, I'm 3.
Backwards in time.
I'm in the house with the turret, the one in the city, my father's baby grand sits at the bottom of the winding staircase for three years because no mover will bring it up past those stained-glass windows, relics of another age.
I'm in the perfect brick ranch, where nothing is perfect except the brick facade, a year in Virginia like a life sentence.
I'm in the house with the pool that no one wants to clean and it isn't the only thing that's dirty.
I'm in the house by the Lake, my room all arches and charm, my closet full of gobblins.
I'm on the farm, I don't swing from the hayloft--if you fall through the trap door you'll die.
What is this movie and why am I in it?
Who are these people--I don't remember them.
I don't remember playing this part.
This wasn't how the story went.
My gut is on fire.
My lungs burn.
I can't get close to my daughter this week--I see me standing there, not her, and I'm not ready. I will be ready? For now I am glued to my own rapid fire memories. Forgive me. Baby, forgive me.
I wan't to go back and reshoot these scenes, the ones that are haunting me now, my rage building now.
What were they thinking?
Patches and patterns.
Pieces. Falling to pieces.
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
Villian, villian, hit your mark,
The spotlight's coming your way.
The movie is playing backward in my head again. What act, what scene?
One after the other after the other after the other.
Rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat. rat tat tat tat tat.
"Hold your fire!" I cannot make it stop.
I'm 36, I'm 30, I'm 26, I'm 22, I'm 18, I'm 16, I'm 12, I'm 9, I'm 6, I'm 3.
Backwards in time.
I'm in the house with the turret, the one in the city, my father's baby grand sits at the bottom of the winding staircase for three years because no mover will bring it up past those stained-glass windows, relics of another age.
I'm in the perfect brick ranch, where nothing is perfect except the brick facade, a year in Virginia like a life sentence.
I'm in the house with the pool that no one wants to clean and it isn't the only thing that's dirty.
I'm in the house by the Lake, my room all arches and charm, my closet full of gobblins.
I'm on the farm, I don't swing from the hayloft--if you fall through the trap door you'll die.
What is this movie and why am I in it?
Who are these people--I don't remember them.
I don't remember playing this part.
This wasn't how the story went.
My gut is on fire.
My lungs burn.
I can't get close to my daughter this week--I see me standing there, not her, and I'm not ready. I will be ready? For now I am glued to my own rapid fire memories. Forgive me. Baby, forgive me.
I wan't to go back and reshoot these scenes, the ones that are haunting me now, my rage building now.
What were they thinking?
Patches and patterns.
Pieces. Falling to pieces.
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
How could they let this happen to me?
Villian, villian, hit your mark,
The spotlight's coming your way.
March 13, 2002
And someone is watching us.
RageBoy points us to an article by Henry Jenkins (let's all use his name) that should tickle all bloggers right down to their, well, shoelaces, if we were wearing shoes. It builds nicely off my previous, now pre-historic post, which points an older article that puts words around the journalistic chasm that bloggers are now bridging.
Oh joyous noise. We are making such joyous noise.
Henry Jenkins writes: "Broadcasting will place issues on the national agenda and define core values; bloggers will reframe those issues for different publics and ensure that everyone has a chance to be heard."
See, we are Fixing the World!
I feel like I will sleep like a baby tonight. Why? I don't know. Some unnamable burden has just slipped of my shoulders. I wish I knew what it was so I could really enjoy it.
Oh joyous noise. We are making such joyous noise.
Henry Jenkins writes: "Broadcasting will place issues on the national agenda and define core values; bloggers will reframe those issues for different publics and ensure that everyone has a chance to be heard."
See, we are Fixing the World!
I feel like I will sleep like a baby tonight. Why? I don't know. Some unnamable burden has just slipped of my shoulders. I wish I knew what it was so I could really enjoy it.
Journalists Are Fixing the World, Bloggers Are Fixing the World
Over on the Cluetrain List, one discussion is revolving around Marek's and Ann C's posts on the broken state of our world. I'm not so sure how broken it is considering RageBoy woke up happy this day. But I wanted to point to a 1997 Columbia Journalism Review article that shows some optimism for the world, and maybe even predicts our part in making it better--us, the bloggers.
The author, Mike Hoyt, says journalists play a key role in fixing the world, making it right again. I think his thoughts, which could be dated, aren't. In fact, they speak as much about the power of bloggers as they do traditional journalists. For example, Hoyt says:
"Why these tales lifted me, I think, is that they are molecules of affirmation of some connection between journalism and generosity. It's not that journalists are selfless, God knows, or that they need a tour of duty in Calcutta. But the best of them, the ones you remember the day after next, tend to be people who want to fix the world. They run on the usual fuel mix - ambition, curiosity, anger, whatever - but like the best cops or doctors, the best journalists also have a strong urge to make things better, to heal some wounds and wound some heels. This is not discussed. It might be considered naive by the wise sophisticates. But at a time when journalism's worst qualities are paraded and discussed everywhere, why be embarrassed about this one?"
Right. Right. And Right again. Hoyt points to that oft-demanded journalistic "objectivity" as one reason why the good journalists aren't given their props on trying--sometimes at great personal peril--to make things better. And Hoyt goes on, almost prophetically, to set the stage for blogging, for the state of the world in 2002, in his last paragraph:
"One student - a compelling writer and a dogged reporter - asked me in an moment of insecurity whether I thought she would ever find a corner in today's media world to do the kind of work she wants to do, which is to dive into some of the knottiest problems society has to offer and write lively and clearly and at some length about them. I told her yes you will. That's my leap of faith."
The best bloggers--the ones I compare to streakers and flashers in a post below--draw me in, as I said, because they expose. They expose something personal or something universal. Something incredibly just or unjust. Something perplexing or reassuring. And they are always interesting. I think blogging can fix things, is fixing things. With dialog, conversation, concern, and the emergence of understanding all things are possible. I only hope we're not too late.
The author, Mike Hoyt, says journalists play a key role in fixing the world, making it right again. I think his thoughts, which could be dated, aren't. In fact, they speak as much about the power of bloggers as they do traditional journalists. For example, Hoyt says:
"Why these tales lifted me, I think, is that they are molecules of affirmation of some connection between journalism and generosity. It's not that journalists are selfless, God knows, or that they need a tour of duty in Calcutta. But the best of them, the ones you remember the day after next, tend to be people who want to fix the world. They run on the usual fuel mix - ambition, curiosity, anger, whatever - but like the best cops or doctors, the best journalists also have a strong urge to make things better, to heal some wounds and wound some heels. This is not discussed. It might be considered naive by the wise sophisticates. But at a time when journalism's worst qualities are paraded and discussed everywhere, why be embarrassed about this one?"
Right. Right. And Right again. Hoyt points to that oft-demanded journalistic "objectivity" as one reason why the good journalists aren't given their props on trying--sometimes at great personal peril--to make things better. And Hoyt goes on, almost prophetically, to set the stage for blogging, for the state of the world in 2002, in his last paragraph:
"One student - a compelling writer and a dogged reporter - asked me in an moment of insecurity whether I thought she would ever find a corner in today's media world to do the kind of work she wants to do, which is to dive into some of the knottiest problems society has to offer and write lively and clearly and at some length about them. I told her yes you will. That's my leap of faith."
The best bloggers--the ones I compare to streakers and flashers in a post below--draw me in, as I said, because they expose. They expose something personal or something universal. Something incredibly just or unjust. Something perplexing or reassuring. And they are always interesting. I think blogging can fix things, is fixing things. With dialog, conversation, concern, and the emergence of understanding all things are possible. I only hope we're not too late.
God gets a bum rap
Sorrow begets many questions. And mostly, we direct them at God.
Raised Catholic (I am not now), I was lectured to frequently in school about how brave Job was. How stoic. He was a role model. He never questioned God. Right we all said. Like Job, I'd Like to Be Like Job. We shouldn't question or wonder why God threw Job these challenges.
One day, recently, I read the Biblical account of Job for myself. Holy cow, thought I. Contrary to what I had been taught, I saw that Job was all about questioning, all about asking "Why me?" In fact, that Job was almost whiny.
Many faiths, too simplified, too much interpretated for the benefit of the interpretors.
And in many of our interpretations, God sure gets a bum rap.
Our world is a battleground of diametrically opposed forces. Human nature? Scientific? Mathematic? Archetypal? God vs. Satan? However you look at it, with good comes evil, with sorrow comes joy, with the bloggies come the anti-bloggies. Why don't we see this when it comes to God? Why do we assume that the loving and innocent who die, those who are murdered, war among the axes of evil and good, are all His doing? I say, cut God some slack.
When my father died I was 5. He was just 36. Did he deserve the agony of pancreatic cancer? No. To miss his children growing up? No. He was a very gentle and good man. Yet, as it was explained to me in the only way my family could muster, my father was needed in heaven. God apparently had an important job for him. Since my father was a bassist and grocer, I couldn't imagine what God needed my father "up there" to do. But I thought about it a lot. Sometimes it even made me laugh.
Even so, I don't hold God accountable. When my cat was stolen and never found, didn't even occur to me to charge God with the crime. When my dumb dog choked my smart, sweet dog to death with a choke chain, God didn't even pop into my mind. When I almost lost my own life, I prayed a lot for God's help, but I didn't ever think He was the reason I was where I was.
With absolute good and absolute justice comes the antithesis--one that isn't as comfortable to ponder or as easy to explain away. I'll leave it at that. AKMA is a lot better at this than I am.
Raised Catholic (I am not now), I was lectured to frequently in school about how brave Job was. How stoic. He was a role model. He never questioned God. Right we all said. Like Job, I'd Like to Be Like Job. We shouldn't question or wonder why God threw Job these challenges.
One day, recently, I read the Biblical account of Job for myself. Holy cow, thought I. Contrary to what I had been taught, I saw that Job was all about questioning, all about asking "Why me?" In fact, that Job was almost whiny.
Many faiths, too simplified, too much interpretated for the benefit of the interpretors.
And in many of our interpretations, God sure gets a bum rap.
Our world is a battleground of diametrically opposed forces. Human nature? Scientific? Mathematic? Archetypal? God vs. Satan? However you look at it, with good comes evil, with sorrow comes joy, with the bloggies come the anti-bloggies. Why don't we see this when it comes to God? Why do we assume that the loving and innocent who die, those who are murdered, war among the axes of evil and good, are all His doing? I say, cut God some slack.
When my father died I was 5. He was just 36. Did he deserve the agony of pancreatic cancer? No. To miss his children growing up? No. He was a very gentle and good man. Yet, as it was explained to me in the only way my family could muster, my father was needed in heaven. God apparently had an important job for him. Since my father was a bassist and grocer, I couldn't imagine what God needed my father "up there" to do. But I thought about it a lot. Sometimes it even made me laugh.
Even so, I don't hold God accountable. When my cat was stolen and never found, didn't even occur to me to charge God with the crime. When my dumb dog choked my smart, sweet dog to death with a choke chain, God didn't even pop into my mind. When I almost lost my own life, I prayed a lot for God's help, but I didn't ever think He was the reason I was where I was.
With absolute good and absolute justice comes the antithesis--one that isn't as comfortable to ponder or as easy to explain away. I'll leave it at that. AKMA is a lot better at this than I am.
Did ya see that???
Wow, while Blogger goes all goofy on us, YACCS went and added a funky new feature that lets you link to specific comments... Suddenly a percusionist has joined our universal blogging band--think of the tunes we can play now. Holy-take-blogging-up-a-notch batman. Just right click on the number now associated with the comment and copy that address into your post like any other link. Like this. Super Groovy. At how many levels can we converse before we implode? I think maybe six more. I can't wait to go scout around for good comments now.
March 12, 2002
i must go to bed
I appologize to all my team blogs, and I hardly knew where to post this because I'm wrapped up in so many blogs, so I thought I'd post it here. I have two posts waiting--one by Tom Sugart on Gonzo Engaged and one on by Val Elchuk on Blog Sisters that are really interesting and that I want to respond to, but I'm too tired. So consider them bookmarked. Blogger friends, respond to them for me if you are awake in your respective parts of the world.
Also, big fricking revelation to me thanks to a comment left by Phil Ringnalda who lives here. He pointed me to a Blogger FAQ, and did you know that to get the proper link for a post you're looking to link to (compared to what I've been doing with my own posts, which is clicking on them and copying the link from the browser address line, which usually only gives me the right week, not the specific post I'm trying to link to), you can just right click on the link (be it "permalink" or the "time" or "date/time") and go to properties, and you'll find the address to the exact, specific, real live post right there? Also, there's a bit of code you can put in your template to make your post links work like post links and not links to some week somewhere in the vicinity of the post. Crap I'm tired.
So thanks again Phil! (One problem though--it didn't work when I did that with gonzo engaged and copied it in. so crap. but anyway, Phil notes a good FAQ down in one of my comment boxes you should look at. Don't take my word for any of this. I can barely post these days.)
Good night.
And RageBoy, wake up. I need an EGR send.
Also, big fricking revelation to me thanks to a comment left by Phil Ringnalda who lives here. He pointed me to a Blogger FAQ, and did you know that to get the proper link for a post you're looking to link to (compared to what I've been doing with my own posts, which is clicking on them and copying the link from the browser address line, which usually only gives me the right week, not the specific post I'm trying to link to), you can just right click on the link (be it "permalink" or the "time" or "date/time") and go to properties, and you'll find the address to the exact, specific, real live post right there? Also, there's a bit of code you can put in your template to make your post links work like post links and not links to some week somewhere in the vicinity of the post. Crap I'm tired.
So thanks again Phil! (One problem though--it didn't work when I did that with gonzo engaged and copied it in. so crap. but anyway, Phil notes a good FAQ down in one of my comment boxes you should look at. Don't take my word for any of this. I can barely post these days.)
Good night.
And RageBoy, wake up. I need an EGR send.
March 11, 2002
Southern Exposure
Why is it that the blog posts I like best are those like Mike Golby's of the other night? What draws me to bloggers that are willing to show me how and where they live? What they really believe?
The answer that came to me just this evening is "exposure."
Open your trench coat, show me what you've got. Give me a reason to look, a reason to care, a reason to come back. Give me a laugh, a tear, or rifle my feathers; the only way you are going to do that is if I know you are real. If you expose yourself to me. Let your guard down. Open up.
In one sense, we bloggers are online streakers. We expose ourselves to whatever crowd we imagine is gathered, and we do it because it is exhilerating, freeing, fun, and I think, healing. We also do it because we can.
Doris McIlwain, a lecturer in Psychology at Macquarie University, describes the appeal of streaking: "The streaker is breaking a taboo, and the shock of that is what makes us laugh. Nudity is a great leveller in a way. The streak itself is a form of protest as well as fun; it's usually a challenge or a dare. It's also about power: 'I can do this and no-one can stop me'."
And no one can stop us.
Obviously, though, we aren't exposing our flesh like the streaker, or even the more compelled flasher. So what are we disclosing here on the net? What are we showing the crowd if not our bodies, the family jewels?
Perhaps we are revealing our souls.
Charles Hayes begins his article A Materialist Notion of Soul and Spirituatlity with this:
"In a recent television interview best-selling author Tom Wolfe suggested that soul is the sum of one’s human relations. This struck me as a very profound statement and as a big surprise, coming from Wolfe. Still, it seems right, although the notion needs to be greatly expanded. It’s useful to think of soul not just as the metaphoric sum of one’s human relations but as a model applicable to all relations. In other words, we can think of soul as the sum of relating to people and to everything and anything one can relate to. This way, a person’s life can be thought of as a project, as a work in progress, a spark in a dark void, something worth doing, a life worth living."
Well it struck me too, Tom Wolfe's little suggestion. The soul, the sum one's human relations. Human relations encompassing online relations as well as realworld relations. The way Hayes carries Wolfe's notion along--proposing that the soul is the "sum of relating to people and to everything and anything one can relate to"--is also relevant to blogging, isn't it? The sum of the blog universe is just this: relating to people and to everything and anything we can relate to.
If we are streakers, daring to display our souls instead of our flesh, that does not mean that all posts must expose as fully or dramatically as Mike's did? Surely, the net would collapse under the emotional strain of millions of posts like this one. Exposure does not always have to look sombre--it can be funny, it can be outrageous, it can be many things. Universally, though, it is always interesting. We are the streakers of the net, compelled by an overwhelming need to expose, disrupt, and elicit a reaction from the crowd. We are removing our masks, revealing ourselves, to anyone who will watch.
No wonder it's so damn much fun.
The answer that came to me just this evening is "exposure."
Open your trench coat, show me what you've got. Give me a reason to look, a reason to care, a reason to come back. Give me a laugh, a tear, or rifle my feathers; the only way you are going to do that is if I know you are real. If you expose yourself to me. Let your guard down. Open up.
In one sense, we bloggers are online streakers. We expose ourselves to whatever crowd we imagine is gathered, and we do it because it is exhilerating, freeing, fun, and I think, healing. We also do it because we can.
Doris McIlwain, a lecturer in Psychology at Macquarie University, describes the appeal of streaking: "The streaker is breaking a taboo, and the shock of that is what makes us laugh. Nudity is a great leveller in a way. The streak itself is a form of protest as well as fun; it's usually a challenge or a dare. It's also about power: 'I can do this and no-one can stop me'."
And no one can stop us.
Obviously, though, we aren't exposing our flesh like the streaker, or even the more compelled flasher. So what are we disclosing here on the net? What are we showing the crowd if not our bodies, the family jewels?
Perhaps we are revealing our souls.
Charles Hayes begins his article A Materialist Notion of Soul and Spirituatlity with this:
"In a recent television interview best-selling author Tom Wolfe suggested that soul is the sum of one’s human relations. This struck me as a very profound statement and as a big surprise, coming from Wolfe. Still, it seems right, although the notion needs to be greatly expanded. It’s useful to think of soul not just as the metaphoric sum of one’s human relations but as a model applicable to all relations. In other words, we can think of soul as the sum of relating to people and to everything and anything one can relate to. This way, a person’s life can be thought of as a project, as a work in progress, a spark in a dark void, something worth doing, a life worth living."
Well it struck me too, Tom Wolfe's little suggestion. The soul, the sum one's human relations. Human relations encompassing online relations as well as realworld relations. The way Hayes carries Wolfe's notion along--proposing that the soul is the "sum of relating to people and to everything and anything one can relate to"--is also relevant to blogging, isn't it? The sum of the blog universe is just this: relating to people and to everything and anything we can relate to.
If we are streakers, daring to display our souls instead of our flesh, that does not mean that all posts must expose as fully or dramatically as Mike's did? Surely, the net would collapse under the emotional strain of millions of posts like this one. Exposure does not always have to look sombre--it can be funny, it can be outrageous, it can be many things. Universally, though, it is always interesting. We are the streakers of the net, compelled by an overwhelming need to expose, disrupt, and elicit a reaction from the crowd. We are removing our masks, revealing ourselves, to anyone who will watch.
No wonder it's so damn much fun.
Peter Pan Propaganda. And other thoughts.
I've taken to blogging in Notepad. Yes, it's come to this. Blogger has been completely unreliable since the last upgrade, and it wasn't so hot before that, oh say, for the last four weeks. Or, ever since I paid for it. I am finding this to be more and more true as a life rule. It's like those couples who live together for a thousand years before they get married, and then they get married and six months later you hear they're divorced. Go figure.
Just got back from seeing Return to Neverland the sequel to Peter Pan. Our daughter begged us, and my husband and I said okay fine, the popcorn and candy will make it worth while. I meant to bring Stupid White Men (the book, not acutal stupid white men) so I could sneak in a couple of chapters when the lighting would allow, but I forgot it. So I was stuck watching the movie, which was mostly bad. The beginning was, well, wartime propaganda? I'm trying to figure out if they came up with this shlock pre or post 9-11. I have my guess when the dramatic opening scene popped into their heads.
It opens in London with what I think was WW2 hot and underway, bombs falling, air raid sirens blaring, father leaving for the War, and frightened "Jane" trying to make her way home to Wendy, Jane's mother the heroine of PP1. Lights go out in the windows of the houses still standing amid the destruction of previous bomb blasts, and, after what's left of the family emerges from the bomb shelter in their back yard, an official goes door to door announcing that all the children of London are being taken to the country, away from danger and their families, to wait out the war.
For crying out loud. Okay? My daughter's four. I thought this was all about pixie dust.
But of course, everyone's willing to do their part for the War Effort--that axis of evil has existed for a really long time; different players, same deal--and our Wendy prepares
to tell her daughter she'll be the one looking after her little brother in whatever camp they're taking all the children to. At this point Wendy falls fast asleep and has an Ecstacy-induced dream where she straddles the back of Peter Pan, who flies her around Neverland before taking her to his crib, where she sits on his bed and meets all the boys who hang there.
And so it goes. There were probably six or so kids in the theater (it's not pulling them in in droves, in other words), and I heard a few crying, but none laughing. Everything turns out alright in the end (this is Disney), but only after Tinkerbell almost dies.
Skip it if you want my advice. Especially if you're looking for an uplifting fairy tale. Go see Snow Dogs instead. At least you'll chuckle.
Just got back from seeing Return to Neverland the sequel to Peter Pan. Our daughter begged us, and my husband and I said okay fine, the popcorn and candy will make it worth while. I meant to bring Stupid White Men (the book, not acutal stupid white men) so I could sneak in a couple of chapters when the lighting would allow, but I forgot it. So I was stuck watching the movie, which was mostly bad. The beginning was, well, wartime propaganda? I'm trying to figure out if they came up with this shlock pre or post 9-11. I have my guess when the dramatic opening scene popped into their heads.
It opens in London with what I think was WW2 hot and underway, bombs falling, air raid sirens blaring, father leaving for the War, and frightened "Jane" trying to make her way home to Wendy, Jane's mother the heroine of PP1. Lights go out in the windows of the houses still standing amid the destruction of previous bomb blasts, and, after what's left of the family emerges from the bomb shelter in their back yard, an official goes door to door announcing that all the children of London are being taken to the country, away from danger and their families, to wait out the war.
For crying out loud. Okay? My daughter's four. I thought this was all about pixie dust.
But of course, everyone's willing to do their part for the War Effort--that axis of evil has existed for a really long time; different players, same deal--and our Wendy prepares
to tell her daughter she'll be the one looking after her little brother in whatever camp they're taking all the children to. At this point Wendy falls fast asleep and has an Ecstacy-induced dream where she straddles the back of Peter Pan, who flies her around Neverland before taking her to his crib, where she sits on his bed and meets all the boys who hang there.
And so it goes. There were probably six or so kids in the theater (it's not pulling them in in droves, in other words), and I heard a few crying, but none laughing. Everything turns out alright in the end (this is Disney), but only after Tinkerbell almost dies.
Skip it if you want my advice. Especially if you're looking for an uplifting fairy tale. Go see Snow Dogs instead. At least you'll chuckle.
Blogger is sucking lately
I can see my blog, but I can't post. Or I can post, but I can't see my post. I've taken to blogging in other bloggers' comment boxes. I didn't feel as badly about it when it was free. Now I'm actually getting pissed. Not to mention, there's nothing much new to read since most of my blog-buddies are on Blogger too. But thank God for Doc and David and Kent. I'm not thanking God for RageBoy because he hasn't blogged since Friday. But I'm gonna start using his comment boxes to blog in if he's not going to be using his blog for the good of mankind.
Okay, now let's see if this fucknozzle posts.
Okay, now let's see if this fucknozzle posts.
An example of blogging at its best
A post I almost missed is this one by Mike Golby. This single post is a tribute to so many things, I'm not sure I can wrap words around it that capture its essense or beauty. Read it. Bathe in it. Let it wound you, and maybe, if only for the time it takes you to read it, heal you.
This is blogging at its best--the convergence of the personal and the universal. Blogging done right unleashes truths, putting type-to-screen and hyperlinking it across our webbed universe. Although these truths we share would be easier, though not better, left buried, the blog lets us share, discover, dress our wounds in public, and ready ourselves for another day of battle with the imperfections of the real world.
This is blogging at its best--the convergence of the personal and the universal. Blogging done right unleashes truths, putting type-to-screen and hyperlinking it across our webbed universe. Although these truths we share would be easier, though not better, left buried, the blog lets us share, discover, dress our wounds in public, and ready ourselves for another day of battle with the imperfections of the real world.
Doc, live at the scene
Those of us who checked in on Doc's blog last night were treated to a real-time report of the SXSW award show, complete with winners, losers, and Doc's valiant and humorous attempt to keep up with the action, especially given his failing batteries. Absolutely fab--it was almost like being there.
I can't wait to hear more about what a Fray is--Doc describes it as live blogging, which sounds to me really cool. I imagine a bunch of bloggers in the room vibing real time off of one another's posts, but I have no idea if that's what it is.
Doc also touches on the notion that blogging may already be uncool. As long as search engines like google and yahoo and daypop continue to track bloggers, the proof is in the pudding. Four months ago google brought up 1 search result on my name. Today, that number is 3,600. That can't happen with a Web site. It's all about the linking, the conversations, the repercussions, and the resonance. It may be uncool for the too cool, but for the rest of us, it's just cool enough.
Can't wait to hear more about Doc's adventure and his perceptions when he returns.
I can't wait to hear more about what a Fray is--Doc describes it as live blogging, which sounds to me really cool. I imagine a bunch of bloggers in the room vibing real time off of one another's posts, but I have no idea if that's what it is.
Doc also touches on the notion that blogging may already be uncool. As long as search engines like google and yahoo and daypop continue to track bloggers, the proof is in the pudding. Four months ago google brought up 1 search result on my name. Today, that number is 3,600. That can't happen with a Web site. It's all about the linking, the conversations, the repercussions, and the resonance. It may be uncool for the too cool, but for the rest of us, it's just cool enough.
Can't wait to hear more about Doc's adventure and his perceptions when he returns.
March 10, 2002
I'm adding this one to my blogroll
Thanks Denise Howell for this terrific blog resource called Law Meme, where Yale Law School students blog about current legal issues.
Oh, so this is conkers
Mike Golby tells us more about what Conkers is, how you play it, why we should care, and then discusses the cultural implications of this child's game in his usualy witty way, which wanders in and about the subject at hand:
"The Brits will skewer anything given half a chance. They've been doing it for centuries and nothing and nobody is considered sacred (if you've seen 'Braveheart', you've seen the British - the place hasn't changed a bit). They will skewer the Church, the Queen, and Prince Harry the Potter. Their press is currently skewer-in-chief and is said to enjoy Prince Phillip's particular favor. He had the media moguls do the job on that Diana woman. When it comes to their sporting heroes, the media are particularly vicious. "Pathetic", "crushed", "humiliation", and similar words are reserved for reports on sporting events in which they take part."
Mike, you're a bloggers' blogger.
"The Brits will skewer anything given half a chance. They've been doing it for centuries and nothing and nobody is considered sacred (if you've seen 'Braveheart', you've seen the British - the place hasn't changed a bit). They will skewer the Church, the Queen, and Prince Harry the Potter. Their press is currently skewer-in-chief and is said to enjoy Prince Phillip's particular favor. He had the media moguls do the job on that Diana woman. When it comes to their sporting heroes, the media are particularly vicious. "Pathetic", "crushed", "humiliation", and similar words are reserved for reports on sporting events in which they take part."
Mike, you're a bloggers' blogger.
In the hippie dippy tradition
The Hippie Brain Explosion will be fun to play with at the hotel, which I assume will have high-speed Internet access.
March 09, 2002
i laughed so hard I almost tossed my fish
This Fishrush guy is so damn funny. He's right. Hippy dippy is so 60s. Even if Dorkvac thinks we're creepy hippy dippy types, there's no reason why we should have to travel like hippy dippy types. Hell, I'm not sharing a room at the funny farm with any blogger I know. I'm stylin' when we scooter on Washington; that's why I'm buying the "Doc's March on Washington Package™"!
Hurry--space is limited!
Hurry--space is limited!
Tom Matrullo is my Morbid Ally
Someone was reading and is thinking ahead, like me. Tom takes this question of what will happen to our blogs, thoughts, dreams, logos, blogstickers and the like when we're gone? Call me a romantic, but I'm hoping my daughter will continue to pay the annual fee for sessum.com, at least until she gets married--I guess we need a son?--and will take over allied, maybe even blog sisters. Who know what gonzo engaged will have morphed into.
I am, at the very core, a morbid person. I stare at my father's baby grand, upright bass, my grandmother's antique record cabinet. In each of these things, especially because they are made of wood, a little piece of them remains. The indents of my father's fingers in the neck of the bass, the piano keys worn just so, the worn handle on the record cabinet where she opened and closed the door how many times?
I like having these things with me, but my thinking doesn't stop there, with the appreciation of what's been left with me. I think about my father's 1953 Fender electric bass and amp--one of the first off the line--and the only thing I have left of it is the receipt for $150.00. The bass, like many of my father's things, walked away with some pillager after his death.
My mind naturally wanders from these places to the things I've invested the most in--these digital instruments--and contemplates who might take care of them--or rip them off--when I'm gone.
I am, at the very core, a morbid person. I stare at my father's baby grand, upright bass, my grandmother's antique record cabinet. In each of these things, especially because they are made of wood, a little piece of them remains. The indents of my father's fingers in the neck of the bass, the piano keys worn just so, the worn handle on the record cabinet where she opened and closed the door how many times?
I like having these things with me, but my thinking doesn't stop there, with the appreciation of what's been left with me. I think about my father's 1953 Fender electric bass and amp--one of the first off the line--and the only thing I have left of it is the receipt for $150.00. The bass, like many of my father's things, walked away with some pillager after his death.
My mind naturally wanders from these places to the things I've invested the most in--these digital instruments--and contemplates who might take care of them--or rip them off--when I'm gone.
Team Blogs Morphing into Loosely Joined Organizations
Frank Paynter thinks I'm onto something with the blogs as organization of the future theory I posted down below. (Something's wrong with my links/archives. Linking to a past post seems to always go nowhere but the present post. I gotta fix it, but I don't know how. Anyway...) Frank's comment on that post is worth posting here, top level. Look what's already happening:
"I've been sick. But I've been listening. I recently cobbled together a demonstration of the wonders of bloggery for a client: four team blogs with overlapping memberships (three belonged to number four, one and two each had their own workspace but could see each other and comment... and like that). Instant Messaging was a second piece of this puzzle that I didn't demo for them, but loosely invoked as in ("plus you can have an AOL buddy list kind of thing...." They all got it.) So I'm with you on this. Blogs as collaborative workspace make a lotta sense. There are some security issues associated with IM that might make them an operations bad-dream, but the users need the function so we need to harden the implementation a little. Anyway. I gotta clean up my blog and get my Radio 8 working and like that, but I've been as down as you seem to have been with the mid-March blahs and a nasty flu. I hope to surface again as a witty and charming person soon."
Think of this, team blogs with overlapping members, much like what is happening with me between Gonzo Engaged and Blogsisters (with female members anyway), and lately I've had all sorts of quantum leaps on the use of team blogs with any number of "organizational" themes, from writing to PR to mothering. Only thing stopping me is, like Frank, time and exhaustion. Things are bubbling up. Get ready to stir the pot or get burned.
"I've been sick. But I've been listening. I recently cobbled together a demonstration of the wonders of bloggery for a client: four team blogs with overlapping memberships (three belonged to number four, one and two each had their own workspace but could see each other and comment... and like that). Instant Messaging was a second piece of this puzzle that I didn't demo for them, but loosely invoked as in ("plus you can have an AOL buddy list kind of thing...." They all got it.) So I'm with you on this. Blogs as collaborative workspace make a lotta sense. There are some security issues associated with IM that might make them an operations bad-dream, but the users need the function so we need to harden the implementation a little. Anyway. I gotta clean up my blog and get my Radio 8 working and like that, but I've been as down as you seem to have been with the mid-March blahs and a nasty flu. I hope to surface again as a witty and charming person soon."
Think of this, team blogs with overlapping members, much like what is happening with me between Gonzo Engaged and Blogsisters (with female members anyway), and lately I've had all sorts of quantum leaps on the use of team blogs with any number of "organizational" themes, from writing to PR to mothering. Only thing stopping me is, like Frank, time and exhaustion. Things are bubbling up. Get ready to stir the pot or get burned.
March 08, 2002
futureblog
Who will you will your blog to? Is your user name and password somewhere safe? Do team blogs need a co-administrator just in case? Or will your blog go with you here? Twenty, fifty years from now, how many blogs will memorialize and link to dead bloggers' blogs. Leap forward, then look backward. What do you see?
the pain within
is the pain within
there's no getting over
this pain I'm in.
Okay class, that was tonight's cat-in-the-hat for grownups. Ah. I need to work on this blog tomorrow, don't I? Funky february's still there, old books I'm done with. This blog's starting to look like our living room after a baby blogger painting fest. I wish I knew how to work those skins. tom is playing around with redesign. Is it worth it? I'm not sure yet. But this place sure needs some house cleanin'... like my life.
I'm blog jumping tonight, and torturing the bombast-bashing nerds over on slashdot. All in a day's work.
is the pain within
there's no getting over
this pain I'm in.
Okay class, that was tonight's cat-in-the-hat for grownups. Ah. I need to work on this blog tomorrow, don't I? Funky february's still there, old books I'm done with. This blog's starting to look like our living room after a baby blogger painting fest. I wish I knew how to work those skins. tom is playing around with redesign. Is it worth it? I'm not sure yet. But this place sure needs some house cleanin'... like my life.
I'm blog jumping tonight, and torturing the bombast-bashing nerds over on slashdot. All in a day's work.
Golby's on Fire
Mike Golby's latest on this obsession we call blogging:
"Playing conkers with words, smashing them together until the one breaks, dropping them as memes into containers or packets this side of the Web and my head and watching where they go. Weinberger opens us to the realization that space as a container does not apply on the Web. Time becomes that which we measure with a clock and space with a rod. Yet, because we live in the real world, our ideas seem to somehow conform to real-world values. So, on the Web I imagine packets of memes. I pop 'em in, send 'em out and see what happens. This place is eerily open to the most mind-bending phnomena, phenomena that have their origins in us."
Marvelous!
Mike, dictionary.com tells me a conker is "the inedible nutlike seed of the horse chestnut." So, what do you do with them, I mean, if you're not smashing them together. Or eating them, which, apparently, you can't.
"Playing conkers with words, smashing them together until the one breaks, dropping them as memes into containers or packets this side of the Web and my head and watching where they go. Weinberger opens us to the realization that space as a container does not apply on the Web. Time becomes that which we measure with a clock and space with a rod. Yet, because we live in the real world, our ideas seem to somehow conform to real-world values. So, on the Web I imagine packets of memes. I pop 'em in, send 'em out and see what happens. This place is eerily open to the most mind-bending phnomena, phenomena that have their origins in us."
Marvelous!
Mike, dictionary.com tells me a conker is "the inedible nutlike seed of the horse chestnut." So, what do you do with them, I mean, if you're not smashing them together. Or eating them, which, apparently, you can't.
Burn, Baby, Burn
Doc defines marketing in terms of the elements today in one of the most simplistic and inspiring uses of logic I've seen. He says:
"Somewhere back when Cluetrain was forming out of primordial conversations, I told Chris Locke my Theory of Marketing, the logic of which was slyly intended to scare potentially boring clients away from my consulting business. It went like this:
Markets are Conversations; and
Conversation is fire. Therefore,
Marketing is arson."
I suppose that's why I came away from my reading of Gonzo Marketing with this impression:
It's okay.
incite.
spark to flame.
ignite.
Why does fire seem such an appropriate metaphor for what we are doing right now, right here, on the net? The reasons are plentiful:
Conversations are as primeval as fire, one of the earliest discoveries of mankind.
Aren't we sending smoke signals to anyone who will listen?
Fire levels and clears, readying the land for fresh growth.
Fire evokes fear; those who handle it wrong will get burned.
What we are doing is hot, dangerous, exciting, thrilling, and romantic.
Fire is destructive, but what succumbs to its force is often rickety and unstable.
Enter the arsonist, who creeps through the night, explosive power under wraps, until, POW! The only way to wake up whitey....
The only way to lay business as usual to waste, clear the land, sweep away the debris.
We're burning and building right now.
Burning, building, and blogging.
Can't you hear the sirens?
Spark to flame, ignite.
"Somewhere back when Cluetrain was forming out of primordial conversations, I told Chris Locke my Theory of Marketing, the logic of which was slyly intended to scare potentially boring clients away from my consulting business. It went like this:
Conversation is fire. Therefore,
Marketing is arson."
I suppose that's why I came away from my reading of Gonzo Marketing with this impression:
incite.
spark to flame.
ignite.
Why does fire seem such an appropriate metaphor for what we are doing right now, right here, on the net? The reasons are plentiful:
Conversations are as primeval as fire, one of the earliest discoveries of mankind.
Aren't we sending smoke signals to anyone who will listen?
Fire levels and clears, readying the land for fresh growth.
Fire evokes fear; those who handle it wrong will get burned.
What we are doing is hot, dangerous, exciting, thrilling, and romantic.
Fire is destructive, but what succumbs to its force is often rickety and unstable.
Enter the arsonist, who creeps through the night, explosive power under wraps, until, POW! The only way to wake up whitey....
The only way to lay business as usual to waste, clear the land, sweep away the debris.
We're burning and building right now.
Burning, building, and blogging.
Can't you hear the sirens?
Spark to flame, ignite.
March 07, 2002
Team Blogs - The Organization of the Future?
I've been thinking lately about the team blogging movement, one I feel somewhat responsible for nurturing, if not launching. There weren't many when I started Reading Gonzo Engaged, at least not many like RGE. When I started the blog, it wasn't a team blog at all. Today we have more than a dozen members with a range of talents from marketing gonzo-style, to developers, to public speakers, to journalists and authors, and even a lawyer. We discuss meaningful issues about business, the economy, humanity, who's a fucknozzle and who's not.
Since RGE's beginnings, other team blogs have emerged--Blog Sisters, a spot for women bloggers to talk, engage, and become, and most recently Small Pieces and Non Zero, both team blogs to discuss books of the same name (and take it from there).
As I see these organic groups take form and congeal, I have started wondering if the team blog might not be an organizational model for the future--a bloggernization if you will. Gonzo Engaged the most mature of these team blogs in its sixth month, has all the makings of a really smart company. Denver Fletcher mentioned early in RGE's genesis, why not start our own thing. At the time, I thought, man I don't even have time to do what I'm doing, let alone think of how to turn this into a viable business. I'll just sit back and wait for the Gonzo prophecy to be fulfilled, when sponsors come knocking at our blog asking to underwrite and support us.
But maybe one of the iterations of blogs in business will look a bit different than the sponsorship and underwriting model, which I still believe will--if we all stay strong--feed micromarketeers in the near future. Perhaps team blogs are a precursor to some sort of loosely joined organization. (No, I haven't received the book yet, but I've joined the blog already!)
Think of how easy and smart it would be for companies to throw us some work over on RGE. They might leave us a post in some yet-to-be-made blog request box "Need help communicating from our audiences inward, from the bottom up--we want a web site that talks like people talk--you guys have any ideas?" Then we launch a private team blog off of RGE, add the client to that blog with the specialists from RGE that are the best at solving that particular problem, and the conversation moves forward. Ideas, applications, web sites, collateral all spawn from that. Of course, the client pays to join the private team blog, and for everything we do to put our ideas into action. cha-ching.
These bloggernizations won't look much like today's companies. We won't sit in cubes. We sometimes won't wear clothes at all. The team members may have never even met. Or spoken. We will remain connected on a deeper level, one where conversations take the place of staff meetings, and water cooler discussions take place on our individual blogs, linking as we drink. We will care deeply about one another. No one will need to be fired, though they may be encouraged to start a team blog of a different flavor. Our paychecks won't be signed by our bosses; they'll be earned from our ideas.
It's a work world I think makes a lot of sense. Anyone listening?
Since RGE's beginnings, other team blogs have emerged--Blog Sisters, a spot for women bloggers to talk, engage, and become, and most recently Small Pieces and Non Zero, both team blogs to discuss books of the same name (and take it from there).
As I see these organic groups take form and congeal, I have started wondering if the team blog might not be an organizational model for the future--a bloggernization if you will. Gonzo Engaged the most mature of these team blogs in its sixth month, has all the makings of a really smart company. Denver Fletcher mentioned early in RGE's genesis, why not start our own thing. At the time, I thought, man I don't even have time to do what I'm doing, let alone think of how to turn this into a viable business. I'll just sit back and wait for the Gonzo prophecy to be fulfilled, when sponsors come knocking at our blog asking to underwrite and support us.
But maybe one of the iterations of blogs in business will look a bit different than the sponsorship and underwriting model, which I still believe will--if we all stay strong--feed micromarketeers in the near future. Perhaps team blogs are a precursor to some sort of loosely joined organization. (No, I haven't received the book yet, but I've joined the blog already!)
Think of how easy and smart it would be for companies to throw us some work over on RGE. They might leave us a post in some yet-to-be-made blog request box "Need help communicating from our audiences inward, from the bottom up--we want a web site that talks like people talk--you guys have any ideas?" Then we launch a private team blog off of RGE, add the client to that blog with the specialists from RGE that are the best at solving that particular problem, and the conversation moves forward. Ideas, applications, web sites, collateral all spawn from that. Of course, the client pays to join the private team blog, and for everything we do to put our ideas into action. cha-ching.
These bloggernizations won't look much like today's companies. We won't sit in cubes. We sometimes won't wear clothes at all. The team members may have never even met. Or spoken. We will remain connected on a deeper level, one where conversations take the place of staff meetings, and water cooler discussions take place on our individual blogs, linking as we drink. We will care deeply about one another. No one will need to be fired, though they may be encouraged to start a team blog of a different flavor. Our paychecks won't be signed by our bosses; they'll be earned from our ideas.
It's a work world I think makes a lot of sense. Anyone listening?
March 06, 2002
creature of resolution
I've always been of a mind that anything can be fixed--unless it's a fatal disease, and even then, sometimes you beat the odds. Maybe it's that 4-0 looming just a couple months away, or maybe it's the fact that my extended family is trying to do me in, or maybe it's that St. Patty's day is right around the corner--that hated day my dad died despite my sack full of get well cards from my kindergarten class--or maybe it's my mom's birthday coming up a week after that, or maybe it's that I'm overworked and absolutely broke, or maybe it's all of these things. The point is, I'm getting the sneaky suspicion that more things than I ever knew can't be fixed.
Why didn't anyone ever tell me that there is no resolution to some problems? That the best you can do is go along all broken? Someone could have left me a blog comment to clue me in. Really now.
But no, I yell into the canyon--"Hello? Can this be fixed?" And all I get back is, "Hello? Can this be fixed?" That's no kind of answer.
It's about family you thought you knew all your life, and then one day, enough crap is shoveled on top of you, that this movie starts playing backward. And as the movie runs in reverse, you see these scenes you never saw the first time around. I'm not sure what I was doing that I missed them the first time around. Out getting popcorn? In the ladies room? No, I was there, because I see my child self, perplexed but resilient. Adapting. Growing. But not growing up.
SLAM, fist to table.
SLAM, fist to table.
It wasn't the movie I thought it was.
Falling up stairs.
Dishes crashing.
And I'm not sure now that it will ever have a happy ending.
Why didn't anyone ever tell me that there is no resolution to some problems? That the best you can do is go along all broken? Someone could have left me a blog comment to clue me in. Really now.
But no, I yell into the canyon--"Hello? Can this be fixed?" And all I get back is, "Hello? Can this be fixed?" That's no kind of answer.
It's about family you thought you knew all your life, and then one day, enough crap is shoveled on top of you, that this movie starts playing backward. And as the movie runs in reverse, you see these scenes you never saw the first time around. I'm not sure what I was doing that I missed them the first time around. Out getting popcorn? In the ladies room? No, I was there, because I see my child self, perplexed but resilient. Adapting. Growing. But not growing up.
SLAM, fist to table.
SLAM, fist to table.
It wasn't the movie I thought it was.
Falling up stairs.
Dishes crashing.
And I'm not sure now that it will ever have a happy ending.
March 05, 2002
Power to the Loosely Joined People
Today, David Weinberger discusses his upcoming keynote at an Instant Messaging conference (Do they really have conferences about IM that you travel to and stuff? Why don't they just type to eachother?) David invites commentary (he's always been a smart guy) to bullet-test his ideas, which I think are great. Among them: "While the persistence of IM messages is quite low, the persistence of IM groups is quite high. In other words: buddy lists rule. We need to make more of buddy lists. First, we need a way to move threads among all the different conversation forms (and he sites the threads ML initiative)."
This is all true, and as we join together in these small (and growing) conversations, I don't know how IM will scale, or if it should. To me, it's not a technology that should connect one to many. It's a technology that's best at connecting one to a couple or few. If IM is, as Tom Matrullo says today, "more like typing through a telephone; it can be intense and tends to grab all my attention," then it is perhaps akin to the "three-way" or "conference call" phone features many of us use today.
But David's premise that IM at home is a lot like IM at work strikes me differently. I am someone who uses IM both at home and at work, and they are different beasts to be sure. While I welcome IM interruptions at home, because it is a lot like a phone call from one of my friends that I'm happy to receive, I'm not always so glad to get "brrrringed" by my clients, who tend to look at IM as our online umbilical cord. One of the first questions I get in working with a new client is, "What's your IM screen name so I can add you to my buddy list?!" (the exclamation point is purposeful--they ask the question with glee.) Because I'm online virtually round the clock, this is like giving them my home phone number (which I also do), except that I can close my IM and they don't know I'm online then, just like I sometimes don't answer my calls.
For me, IM in the work world has become less like chatting and more like an air raid siren--red alert, incoming incoming! I need help putting out a fire. Which is all fine--that's what we're paid for. But it's definitely not like my home IM experience.
The day my client figured out how to talk at me through yahoo messenger, and I mean literally talk to me, I really got the jitters. I sat peacefully playing with my daughter in the living room, when my laptop, from its usual member-of-the-family spot on the couch, yelled at me. "Jeneane! Can you hear me? Are you there? I need some help." Huh? My daughter, who's four, was undaunted. "Make your computer talk again, mommy!"
So, although the occasional IM with my aunts is a blast and all the playful fun David talks about in his premise, to me IM at work--while it bridges distance and time and that is great for business--isn't always so much fun. It makes me feel more like a responsibility-laden adult then an adolescent. In fact, it kind of gives me agita.
"brrrrrrrring!"
This is all true, and as we join together in these small (and growing) conversations, I don't know how IM will scale, or if it should. To me, it's not a technology that should connect one to many. It's a technology that's best at connecting one to a couple or few. If IM is, as Tom Matrullo says today, "more like typing through a telephone; it can be intense and tends to grab all my attention," then it is perhaps akin to the "three-way" or "conference call" phone features many of us use today.
But David's premise that IM at home is a lot like IM at work strikes me differently. I am someone who uses IM both at home and at work, and they are different beasts to be sure. While I welcome IM interruptions at home, because it is a lot like a phone call from one of my friends that I'm happy to receive, I'm not always so glad to get "brrrringed" by my clients, who tend to look at IM as our online umbilical cord. One of the first questions I get in working with a new client is, "What's your IM screen name so I can add you to my buddy list?!" (the exclamation point is purposeful--they ask the question with glee.) Because I'm online virtually round the clock, this is like giving them my home phone number (which I also do), except that I can close my IM and they don't know I'm online then, just like I sometimes don't answer my calls.
For me, IM in the work world has become less like chatting and more like an air raid siren--red alert, incoming incoming! I need help putting out a fire. Which is all fine--that's what we're paid for. But it's definitely not like my home IM experience.
The day my client figured out how to talk at me through yahoo messenger, and I mean literally talk to me, I really got the jitters. I sat peacefully playing with my daughter in the living room, when my laptop, from its usual member-of-the-family spot on the couch, yelled at me. "Jeneane! Can you hear me? Are you there? I need some help." Huh? My daughter, who's four, was undaunted. "Make your computer talk again, mommy!"
So, although the occasional IM with my aunts is a blast and all the playful fun David talks about in his premise, to me IM at work--while it bridges distance and time and that is great for business--isn't always so much fun. It makes me feel more like a responsibility-laden adult then an adolescent. In fact, it kind of gives me agita.
"brrrrrrrring!"
AKMA Almost Lets It Fly
and in the process, coins a newer, gentler term: "flopnozzle." I wonder if daypop will let that one in? Perhaps AKMA will become the family-friendly filter for RageBoy. There may be some money in that one day. Look at AOL.
March 04, 2002
March 03, 2002
Oath of the Cult of Cluetrain
The typical first step for cultists throughout history is the taking of an oath. For Cluetrain enthusiasts, who have of late been labeled cult members, the time to put up or shut up is now. Are you man enough? Are you ready to take the oath?
Well, I am, and that's why, like any connected chick, I turned to google to find us a good one. Luckily, the Swiss Imperial Navy has a long-standing oath. (I’m assuming from days of olde, although I was too tired to search back on the history.)
What I like about this little oath is that it’s simple, powerful, and it maps directly to Cluetrain and the most vilified Cluetrain defender, RageBoy. It also maps nicely to the online universe we are creating among all of the blog constellations, which are growing in number and luminance even as I blog this.
Without further delay, here is the Cluetrain oath. (After the oath, I’ve provided a little “key” to the words I changed in updating it for Cluetrain purposes).
Put on your Nikes and say it loud and strong, People of the Earth!
Oath of the Cult of Cluetrain
Sworn by a mystery cult surrounding the warlike deity RageBoy, especially popular among Corporate Outcasts
I, _________, as a citizen of the Internet and ordained a soldier of Cluetrain, do hereby swear, now and forever, to serve and defend the Net and all of her citizens; I swear not to rest while there is evil in the universe; and I swear above all to serve the sacred and fundamental ideals of Humanity. I swear these things on the holy altar of RageBoy, the Bringer of Victory and the Defender of the Home, RageBoy the Wrathful, and RageBoy the Just, in the presence of my sworn comrades and the God Himself.
Mapping from original Cult of the Swiss Imperial Navy:
Bellator=RageBoy
Exped Forces=Corporate Outcasts
Swiss Imperial Navy =Cluetrain
Greater Swiss Empire=Internet
Empire of Switzerland=Net
I expect complete compliance in taking this oath, or I'll send Bellator after you.
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