talking live and unplugged

Funny thing about blogs and voice, I mean, that we don't have any spoken voice here, but we talk our asses off. Recently, I've had a chance to talk to three popular bloggers--Chris Locke, Elaine, and Halley Suitt by phone.

Why these three? I'm not sure, really. They were destined in some way, so much parallel thinking and talking that we might have exploded if we didn't start sharing some inflection and affection in real time.

In each case, my time on the phone with these friends has amazed me. What have we done here among the blogs? Are we jumpstarting friendships that would have existed anyway, had we lived in the same town, run into each other at a conference, worked at the same company?

Is it deeper than that? The shortest talk I've had with a blogger has lasted about 1/2 hour, the longest well over an hour.

Our talks are conversation on the fast track. Formalities gone, veils dropped, history already shared, why not dig right into the present moment? Why not get real, and real quick? Let's tell it like it is--why not? I already have and you like me so far. Rejection isn't much of a possibility, or you would have tuned out long ago.

And isn't that so nice.

As Halley and I talked, we tried to figure out why it is that we'd go to the matt willingly for any of our blogger friends, take hits that we wouldn't take for most of our offline friends. Why so passionate over some words in a template? Why do I feel like I've known these friends all my life?

I think it's based, in part anyway, on what we ourselves let go on our blogs. Since I've shared most of my life, even if compressed and scattered, here on allied, I feel that somehow you all have lived it with me. Co-conspirators indeed. You *were* there when my dad died in 1969, even if only for the re-lived version; I was there when Halley's dad died recently, even though I live 1,000 miles away; And Chris's heart? Talk about living it.

The bonds of blogs are growing tighter in a way I certainly never imagined. The roles we have played in one another's online lives have reached critical mass, and now we are beginning to see leakage into the RealWorld. I am watching, amazed, as I find myself in the middle of this powerful web, reaching into the RealWorld, as strong lines of silk weave back to and among my blog selves.

Digital jumpstarting analog.
A universe unfolding.

This call may be recorded for training purposes

THANK YOU for the comments on fixing this place up. I'm still having trouble on one thing--getting my permalinks to work. What am I doing wrong?? I tried starvosthewonderchicken's suggestion, but I guess I didn't do it right--OR is it something with my archive page (which I guess I still have to skin). Remind me not to do this again. Help?

new canvas

one note--please don't ignore my cry for help below. archive trouble post-skinning.

Now. Wow. I'm in a new house and I'm all disoriented. Same shit laying all over the place, but this new blogskin feels funny. I'm sure I lost a box or two in the move.

Canvas. Look at it this way, I tell myself, it's like a new canvas, a new palatte.

We'll see how long it lasts.
Not that I loved my other template. it was stale.

but still

how do I write on this canvas?
Short bursts?
Golby-sized posts?

This is not my beautiful font...

Well, I'll play around with this. Any opinions at all, leave them in the comment box assuming it works, or email me.

night ya'll.

Send Skin Help

Where the fuck have my archives gone?

Does anyone know? Okay--here's what I'd LIKE this new skin to do. Let me copy the table that says "archives," paste it beneath the long "stuff" table, and have all my archives hang out down there, lower right netherregion, til they get long enough to care about, by which time I should be hosting my own blog, like I could ever figure that out.

So, what code do I copy, where do I paste it, and how do I get my archives to show up in the table?

Have these colors made anyone actually puke yet? Please, I'd love to know. I may add a scoreboard.

I liked it til I started adding in all my clutter.

God I wish I could design.

Ah well, we all have our gifts, eh?

Thank you for obliging me.

I would so appreciate your generous assistance.

jjjjjjjj.

Today

blogskinning in progress.... eeeeeeeeeee!

staying power

There in the midst of it,
so alive and alone
words support like bone.

Mercy street – peter gabriel

To me, there is an amazing link between consistency of idea and brilliance. Those who invent ideas and nurture them, staying the course while the world swirls around them--up economies, down economies, political upheaval, terror attacks, you name it--all the while their teeth clenched around a message that is fundamentally important and undeniably consistent. An idea that is sustained over time. Resonance carried across markets. Brilliant.

Few in business do this. Especially marketing types. Most of us attach to the latest theory—from chasms and tornadoes, to markets of one, to permission and viruses. We marketing types live our lives this way, blowing in the wind, hoping for a soft landing on a cushy pile of money at just the right moment, with the idea de jour as our parachute.

And then there’s Chris Locke, a case study in brilliance (and maybe two or three fascinating neuroses). A search on google groups will show you that Chris Locke has been delivering the news on the net and business since the net met business.

Thank you, Jack Schofield, whose article Rebel without a Pause today in The Guardian did Chris Locke justice. Schofield captures much of the man, the spirit, and the mind that is Chris Locke. Applause from me to you, Jack. I care about the guy. And the message.

In the article, Schofield describes the staying power of EGR this way:

“It was often very funny, sometimes intensely moving, full of ideas, and beautifully written. It was, in short, the sort of thing no conventional publication would allow, but it couldn't be stopped on the web.”

As the message and the medium, so goes the man.

Go to Hell

This blog from journalism focused poynter.org is tracking the sex abuse crimes in the Catholic church. More coming on this topic to a weblog near you--soon. In the mean time, feast your eyes on some of these revelations from the last few days:

"Few of the 51 sexual abuse complaints against Metro Detroit priests released to prosecutors last week are likely to result in charges because the cases are too old, two prosecutors said Monday."

"A former altar boy sued the Vatican, the Archdiocese of Miami and two Roman Catholic priests on Monday, saying he was forced to participate in orgies with priests as a teen-ager 30 years ago."

"The Rev. Paul Shanley traveled to Thailand in March and spent as much as a month in a vacation spot infamous for its child-sex trade, likely meeting up with fellow priest and longtime companion John J. White, according to Thai immigration documents."

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I didn't put out in my last confession.

I've been waiting so long

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.