Kudos and congrats to Ronni--I had not seen the Elder Storytelling Place until tonight. I just love it.
I read Holly Stevens' story this evening and was moved in a way that you too will be moved by her courage and caring. I thank Holly for sharing her wisdom, and Ronni for bringing these stories to us.
...
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
May 18, 2007
May 16, 2007
stand up
Dear Bitch,
No I will not stop blogging nice things about you. Do you know why? Moxie. Your guts that's why. Because you write your way vulnerable, bite into what's wrong and taste it, cryoutloud and seize on shag carpets in a fit of mortal so-human justice when Those People with their Armor-Alled posts come to this place and try to outshine our worn tattered leather souls.
Their shiny-protected-stronger-than-tortise-shell bullshit, in that know-it-all way they have, are no match for you. They will not show their wounds, their open oozing lesions because those wounds cannot be monetized. Because they may scare the Audience away by being who they are. And then what? No money no honey. Then what? No fans no plans. Oh dear!
Pretenders.
You stood there and said Hey Now, Waitaminute, when few other women would. Shelley did. Ronni did. Marianne did. Toby did. Even harder for the men to do: misyoongenentoitousetists!
Have you stopped beating your fucking CAT YET? WELL HAVE YOU?
Did you laugh? You-R-Evil.
That is why.
Why do you think? I know you know the scary places, not the scary places where people might come in your house or yard or workplace and off you, but THOSE scary places where you are your own intruder.
You heal my inner boogie man. What? You want I should go away? No way, sister.
Kiss me. I'm crazy.
----
No I will not stop blogging nice things about you. Do you know why? Moxie. Your guts that's why. Because you write your way vulnerable, bite into what's wrong and taste it, cryoutloud and seize on shag carpets in a fit of mortal so-human justice when Those People with their Armor-Alled posts come to this place and try to outshine our worn tattered leather souls.
Their shiny-protected-stronger-than-tortise-shell bullshit, in that know-it-all way they have, are no match for you. They will not show their wounds, their open oozing lesions because those wounds cannot be monetized. Because they may scare the Audience away by being who they are. And then what? No money no honey. Then what? No fans no plans. Oh dear!
Pretenders.
You stood there and said Hey Now, Waitaminute, when few other women would. Shelley did. Ronni did. Marianne did. Toby did. Even harder for the men to do: misyoongenentoitousetists!
Have you stopped beating your fucking CAT YET? WELL HAVE YOU?
Did you laugh? You-R-Evil.
That is why.
Why do you think? I know you know the scary places, not the scary places where people might come in your house or yard or workplace and off you, but THOSE scary places where you are your own intruder.
You heal my inner boogie man. What? You want I should go away? No way, sister.
Kiss me. I'm crazy.
----
April 09, 2007
Wordicide
Sitting here on a rented machine at Fed-Ex Kinkos on my way to meetings. Remembering what Kinkos used to be--a hum of machines and art-made-out-of-paper-in-process, a half dozen or so energetic 20-somethings feeding, collating, and boxing what was brought to them and handed over to be sanctified, all behind the counter, all by COB.
It was performance art meets business process management. It has always been my fallback job.
Sitting here today, I realize that Kinkos has become a self-service office copy-and-ship room. Two m3n in Fed-Ex polos, who I'd trust to get packages to my door fast, but not double-side-copy-collate-and-bind a family treasure or business must-haves-by-3-p.m.
Why am I on a rented PC off Highway 92?
I came here to commit wordicide.
To do myself in, before your eyes, so deeply questioning my own words, their meaning, the pieces of me that make them mean something when all you see here are pixels. Ready to blow it away.
The blogworld used to understand that human beings exist here in layers, traced back in time by archives, overlapping not just with one another, but with ourselves. I have always thought that the word "archive," and technical treatment of blog archives, severely minimize what this chronological trail of humanness is -- stretching out a half decade for some, a decade for others. My archives, they are not the library stacks of my blog. Together hey are who I have been and am. They collide and resolve. Or they don't.
In blogging, we do not get to be who we want, and we are Everything We Ever Were, at the same time. We are someone, no one, and everyone. We are the same and radically different. We are completely present and absolutely absent.
I've talked with long-time blog friends, and written here in the past, about the duality, triality, multi-ality of blogging. It is mind bending--how it can be everything, and simultaneously, nothing at all. Because we are here and we aren't. That is precisely what blogging is.
I have always operated within that context, not the one that constrains me like a straight-jacket today.
I have not hidden here. I have let you see my open wounds and have shown how cool one can look when it heals in the shape of an "S." Not so much a scar, more an sign. How many times? How many years?
My blog has no mission statement. It is neither a business nor my career. It is not a parody. It is not a reality show. It is not your sit-com. No, it is all of those things, and none.
So what stopped me? From the wordicide?
An IM intervention. A blip-bloop in the middle of Kinkos, on my way to meetings, a right-justified, 3x4 inch text box that said simply this: "Good morning. Just wanted to say, lovely writing there."
Just wanted to say, thank you.
...
It was performance art meets business process management. It has always been my fallback job.
Sitting here today, I realize that Kinkos has become a self-service office copy-and-ship room. Two m3n in Fed-Ex polos, who I'd trust to get packages to my door fast, but not double-side-copy-collate-and-bind a family treasure or business must-haves-by-3-p.m.
Why am I on a rented PC off Highway 92?
I came here to commit wordicide.
To do myself in, before your eyes, so deeply questioning my own words, their meaning, the pieces of me that make them mean something when all you see here are pixels. Ready to blow it away.
The blogworld used to understand that human beings exist here in layers, traced back in time by archives, overlapping not just with one another, but with ourselves. I have always thought that the word "archive," and technical treatment of blog archives, severely minimize what this chronological trail of humanness is -- stretching out a half decade for some, a decade for others. My archives, they are not the library stacks of my blog. Together hey are who I have been and am. They collide and resolve. Or they don't.
In blogging, we do not get to be who we want, and we are Everything We Ever Were, at the same time. We are someone, no one, and everyone. We are the same and radically different. We are completely present and absolutely absent.
I've talked with long-time blog friends, and written here in the past, about the duality, triality, multi-ality of blogging. It is mind bending--how it can be everything, and simultaneously, nothing at all. Because we are here and we aren't. That is precisely what blogging is.
I have always operated within that context, not the one that constrains me like a straight-jacket today.
I have not hidden here. I have let you see my open wounds and have shown how cool one can look when it heals in the shape of an "S." Not so much a scar, more an sign. How many times? How many years?
My blog has no mission statement. It is neither a business nor my career. It is not a parody. It is not a reality show. It is not your sit-com. No, it is all of those things, and none.
So what stopped me? From the wordicide?
An IM intervention. A blip-bloop in the middle of Kinkos, on my way to meetings, a right-justified, 3x4 inch text box that said simply this: "Good morning. Just wanted to say, lovely writing there."
Just wanted to say, thank you.
...
February 20, 2007
fine fine finslippy on four and a half
It's just too good.
Hey, can Four and a half have that cookie? That one you thought Four and a half wouldn’t notice, all wrapped up in the pantry? No, you say? That’s cool. See? Four and a half wants you to know he can wait—he’s got all the time in the world. Or maybe that cookie isn’t for him and never will be. No matter. Some other cookie will come by, some other time. And when that time comes, Four and a half will be there. For that cookie.
Sweet, sweet love,
Four and a half
put that in your twitter and follow it.
February 09, 2007
Writing the Personal, Writing Personally, And Who Are You Online?
Toby's got a cool discussion going on about the ins and outs of sharing the personal on a professionally-geared blog, and vice versa. We're continuing it tomorrow at SoCon.
Questions -- Can you write 'personally' without sharing details from your personal life? Can a professional blog be personal and professional too and still be 'weighty' enough to matter?
What are the risks of integraing or separating your "selve(s)" online. And what about other social spaces--profiles on myspace, orkut, friendster, facebook; professional connections on linkedin, 'personalities' on second life; photos on flickr; videos, podcasts and everything else Media 2.0? Are we becoming more dissociated or more integrated?
How much of you are you willing to share, how personal are you willing to get, and at what cost?
And what about gender -- are women willing to go where guys fear to tread in the personal department? Is it true that male bloggers tend to separate their professional writing from their more personal posts (men who come to mind: mike arrington's "techcrunch" vs "crunchnotes"; stowe boyd's /message vs ambivalence; and scoble's -- oh wait, I guess scoble blogs like a girl).
:-0
eh? eh?
Questions -- Can you write 'personally' without sharing details from your personal life? Can a professional blog be personal and professional too and still be 'weighty' enough to matter?
What are the risks of integraing or separating your "selve(s)" online. And what about other social spaces--profiles on myspace, orkut, friendster, facebook; professional connections on linkedin, 'personalities' on second life; photos on flickr; videos, podcasts and everything else Media 2.0? Are we becoming more dissociated or more integrated?
How much of you are you willing to share, how personal are you willing to get, and at what cost?
And what about gender -- are women willing to go where guys fear to tread in the personal department? Is it true that male bloggers tend to separate their professional writing from their more personal posts (men who come to mind: mike arrington's "techcrunch" vs "crunchnotes"; stowe boyd's /message vs ambivalence; and scoble's -- oh wait, I guess scoble blogs like a girl).
:-0
eh? eh?
February 01, 2007
no, in yours.
how far deep way in down around, just missing then flicking the sharp splinters on oak steps that wind, trace your face into the stairwell wall, up, look away, everywhere, sun crisped windows mandate happiness, confounded, smiling plaid-skirted suburban schoolgirls, mothersewn hems, how her knee socks climb to right there on her calf, never slip down, straight hair a ledge, in your eyes, it was never easy, laughter hesitates just before releasing--never full never fill never full, if you would have just once stopped.
Is it so different now, faces criss-cross, find eyes of another to fill empty sockets--you never blinked. why? far away far away not so far smoking on wet grass under the monkey bars, what was it 8 in the morning, sharing the stash.
Houston, you only thought you had a problem. what what what who who, if it's attention she's seeking, resolution is a curtain call, final bow.
In between sink under the water, no further, cold so much and up so far: burning, sparks, break through the glass membrane, how the night fire never engulfed their twigs, why not, that night, tonight he came near, came there. Emptiness is due north.
Children are marshmallows bonfires sticky cream sticks become winter coats, to gandmothers' house we go, seasons, not reasons, parkas piled on the guestroom bed, scarfs and mittens, layered in a freefall, feathers of our family bird.
Overtaken--always the scent, aunts uncles cousins, inhale, hold it, I climb underneath, loss is my blanket, safe I run, faster, to the swing sets, cold chains threaten to take my tongue, frigid blue sky my witness, flick, kick, stick, swing higher higher still, and when are you coming?
Bring the matches, baby I'm jonsing already, and how many scents are there, rearranging me, the first time, winded, a kidney punch, suck air in, how much can we hold before there's no more room, on the stairwell, everywhere, sun crisped, not knowing how to feel.
I will tell you; just ask.
Is it so different now, faces criss-cross, find eyes of another to fill empty sockets--you never blinked. why? far away far away not so far smoking on wet grass under the monkey bars, what was it 8 in the morning, sharing the stash.
Houston, you only thought you had a problem. what what what who who, if it's attention she's seeking, resolution is a curtain call, final bow.
In between sink under the water, no further, cold so much and up so far: burning, sparks, break through the glass membrane, how the night fire never engulfed their twigs, why not, that night, tonight he came near, came there. Emptiness is due north.
Children are marshmallows bonfires sticky cream sticks become winter coats, to gandmothers' house we go, seasons, not reasons, parkas piled on the guestroom bed, scarfs and mittens, layered in a freefall, feathers of our family bird.
Overtaken--always the scent, aunts uncles cousins, inhale, hold it, I climb underneath, loss is my blanket, safe I run, faster, to the swing sets, cold chains threaten to take my tongue, frigid blue sky my witness, flick, kick, stick, swing higher higher still, and when are you coming?
Bring the matches, baby I'm jonsing already, and how many scents are there, rearranging me, the first time, winded, a kidney punch, suck air in, how much can we hold before there's no more room, on the stairwell, everywhere, sun crisped, not knowing how to feel.
I will tell you; just ask.
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