blue light special

You already know, and now you do if you didn’t, that I decided to leave the house today. To be by myself, by myself. Some romantic notion of watching people happen. Get a little sunshine. Clear my head, which is a storehouse for confusion just now.

The K-Mart near my house is getting ready to close. I’m no fan of K-Mart, wasn’t even when I worked there, back in Rochester, during summer breaks. But a sale is a sale. And 70 percent off is a *sale*.

K-Mart and I go way back. I started working there at 17, on the register, five days a week for minimum wage, a nickel over if you stuck with it a month.

I probably would have stayed on the register for four summers, earning money for school in a job that to me was beyond boring, except for management’s realization that I had an uncanny eye for shoplifters. Takes one to know one I guess. I mean, I don’t shoplift now, and I didn’t then. But I had in the past. And a lot.

I think I was about 12 when I went pro, which lasted a couple of years. Those were easier days, no scanners or detectors. You had two way mirrors, and you had store detectives. Neither a match for me. Innocent brown eyes and a too-sweet smile, I had the perfect cover. It was never very hard for me to slip one shirt under another in a fitting room, books down the back of my pants, candy up the sleeve, or makeup in zippered pockets. A mood ring here, a magazine there.

Shoplifting is the art of distraction. Left hand reaches for a bottle of shampoo, lean a little closer, read the label, right hand slips the eyeliner up the coat sleeve. (This was upstate New York. You always had a coat on.)

But don’t think badly of me. This was just a phase. You had phases too, right? Looking for attention was what I always heard from adults who talked about kids who shoplifted, often in front of me, while I blinked in dismay. I said, “Wow, kids do that?” but I thought, “I’m not looking for attention. I’m looking for a really cool shirt.”

My regular hoist was cigarettes. A pack a day for me and my friends in the summer time. We’d split them with our gang behind the school. I was always the go-getter. The one they trusted to get the job done. And I always did.

We used to call it “getting.” Did you “get” anything today? That was the code word, our clever little way of saying we didn’t buy it. We gonna go “get” some?

My favorite hoist was Betty Crocker frosting. Heather and I would hit Star Market mid afternoon, wind our way through the aisles to the boxed mixes and frostings, almost drooling. Vanilla was our favorite.

“Oh look, they have those aluminum foil baking pans my mom told us to get.” (Can up the sleeve. quick as lightning.)

“No, remember? She told us to get the other kind. I don’t see them here.”

Stay for a while. Not in any hurry. Not like we’re doing anything wrong here. Then we’d wander over across the parking lot, behind the big department store, slip out the goods, sit on the slab by the doors no one used, pop the top, and dig in, one finger full at a time.

The crux of the problem with pre-teen me and shoplifting was that I never got caught. Ever. Not by the stores. Not by my mother. I was very, very good at it. So good, that when I got my job at K-Mart years later, working summers, fully reformed by then, I could spot a thief a mile away.

Management discovered my particular talent during one of my first shifts as door greeter, a job I took seriously because it was so much better than working the register. On this particular day, early in my K-Mart career, I called a code 7 ½ three times. That’s the code for shoplifting. Calling a 7 ½ meant that an army of shoe clerks and auto shop goons would come running, chase down the poor son of a bitch who was just trying to hoist some extra batteries, well, in this case a TV, and wrestle him to the ground. Vigilante justice at it’s finest. Once they hauled the guy to his feet, they’d take the poor sap to the back room and badger him for a bit before calling the cops.

They didn't treat the old ladies that way, and yes, old ladies steal too. They'd just make them cry.

So this particular day--the day I was discovered--I caught three thieves and saved the store $320. A TV, an old lady with some sewing stuff, and a high school kid with a penchant for clothes. Witness, the birth of a K-Mart legend.

The job had its perks. Not only was I off the register, but I got passes for the snack bar whenever I caught someone—eat free on K-Mart for every shoplifter you stop. It was all the incentive I needed, given that I was broke.

With my initial success, the head of security asked me would I like to spend some more time as door greeter. I thought about it. It beat working the register. They stared at me, waiting for my answer. Probably wondered if I was psychic or something. What could I say? I spent 4 years on the job—I know what to look for?

So I said, sure.

By the end of two weeks I’d caught 8 shoplifters. The head of security took me aside.

“We usually don’t do this, but if you want to stay on the door instead of the register, you can. You got a knack for it.”

I think I can admit this. I was flattered.

I had my good days and my bad days. But most days I caught someone trying to take something they shouldn’t. The one I remember best was the guy who strolled toward the door with a bag in his hand—receipt visible—he’d obviously just bought some stuff. But there was something off about him. I did my usual scan. Something stuck. His motorcycle helmet in his hand, about three yards from the door, he looked over my way. He put the bag inside his helmet, and I knew.

He was 6 foot 3 at least, and about the toughest looking biker I had ever seen. But I had a job to do. This was K-Mart. I was on the door. Duty called.

I walked up to him and did my thing.

“Can I see inside your helmet, please?”

He smiled. Eye to eye, I knew I had him. He was the most gentle and polite thief I would ever catch in all my time on that job. He stepped aside with me. Lifted the bag. And there was the stash. A watch, a cassette, and something else I don’t remember. He stood so close to me we were almost touching as I called the 7 ½ to the front of the store. The guys came running, ready to rumble, K-mart vests flapping in the wind. Pulled up short. Stared at me and my new friend.

“He had this,” I showed them.

The head of security stared at him. Stared at me. Thinking to himself, how did she have the balls to walk up to this one?

“Okay, come with us,” he said. And the gentle thief did. No fuss, no muss.

He was the only guy I ever saw them let go without calling the cops. Turns out he’d gotten out of Attica two weeks prior. They decided to give him a break. If they had called on him, he would have been back in for some extra long time.

“Thanks," I said. "He was the nicest one I ever caught.”

By the end of my second summer there, they offered me a full-time job as door greeter, a position they were creating just for me.

“But I’m in college,” I said.

“Well, that’s something you need to think about. I’m just sayin, we never offered the job to anyone before. If you want it, it’s yours.”

I didn’t take it. I think you maybe guessed that by now. But I did have a stellar career there, maybe making up for all the shit I stole as a kid. We do our penance our own way. That job was mine. My own little way of giving back to the retail industry, so to speak.

But this post wasn’t supposed to be about my job at K-Mart; it was supposed to be about my trip to K-Mart today. And it seems about as good a time as any to stop this post and start a Part 2. Later. Once I do my motherly duties for the night.

goin out

I'm venturing out for a while today to be by myself. Huh? Ya. Sister has the kid. A worldwide corporate newsletter waiting for me to write it. Do I need any better reason to go?

For me, working from home is an amazing arrangement. The best of both worlds. The pay and benefits of corporate life sans the politics and distractions. But it has ripple effects too. Sometimes, three or four days go by before I notice that I haven't gone anywhere. There's the obligitory drive to my daughter's school and back. I'm only half-conscious then, being it's 8 in the morning and I haven't inhaled enough coffee to make me feel undead. So I'm not sure that counts. Maybe I get 1/2 point for that. Hey, I'll take what I can get.

I mean, I go outside and everything. Don't start getting worried about me. I just forget to leave. Or maybe I'm not sure it's worth going.

For those who already have me diagnosed, it's not agoraphobia that keeps me inside my self-enforced perimeter. Ya, I could adopt that little DSM code in a minute, without trying even hard, just add it on to my others, but that's not what this is. I'm not afraid to leave. I'm more unwilling to.

My simple reality is, I don't miss the world when I'm not in it.

When webvan (god rest their souls) started working the Atlanta territory, I thought the net had made a present just for me. I'd order our groceries, pick my delivery day and time, and do the happy dance when the truck pulled up. Anyone else still get sad when they see a blue bin? Webvan brought the world to me. And it was the world I picked by hand.

Those were days, for me at least, before blogging, but they were also the days when I surrendered a big part of my life to the Internet. My work life began taking place exclusively over the net in 1997. And a lot of the rest of my life went with it. Now with blogging, many of my friends and extended family live in Blogaria, where cab fare's always free; it's a two second ride--boot up, browser open. World awaits me.

So there's not much reason to go. Out, I mean.

But today I'm going anyway. Because the world's still here, and there are people with flesh, bones, and smiles out there. Maybe wanting to talk. Maybe they even blog. Or maybe they'll be like most Atlantans, out because they have to be. Buying something or eating something. That's what people do when they go out here. And it's mandatory here that you buy everything you possibly can, and even what you can't. I think they deport you to Alabama if you fail to live up to your quota in that regard.

So, anyhow, I'm going. I'll let you know what I find out there.

And now, for an important news bulletin

If you're worried about the latest wave of news that says the current administration knew the terror attacks on America were coming, don't be. There are far more important matters of national security to deal with. Kent, you have lost your mind. Bless you.

sweet world

Look inside your mind
See the darkness creeping out
I can see the softness there
Where the sunshine is gliding in
Fill your mind with love
Find the world of future glory

-genesis, where the sour turns to sweet

New morning, windows open, sunlight filtering in, and I think about a place I’d like to build for us. A real place, a magical place that nurtures the ebb and flow of bloggers, our dreams, a place of potions and remedies, a healing place, a place we could all come, give, take, then go—or maybe never leave.

And who would come there? We would start it off, me, George and Jenna, because we have always been expecting a better world, and Diva and Bando would come too. They are sweet dogs, unselfish and loyal, and amazing to observe, old matriarch Diva, crabby yet patient with her slobbering, unrelated son. And I’ll bathe them before we go to this place. Because, as Jenna says, “they smell so stinky.”

And we’ll set up house in a huge compound on the edge of the woods, near the pond thick with life, where you can watch the fish jumping for flies at night. Once we clean out the cobwebs, and set up an expanse of space for families and friends, others will come.

There will be no walls, your space is your own, and invisible, flexible boundaries are disarmed by creativity and a knowing so big it overcomes every problem, worry, heartache; there is no such thing as loss in this place.

Halley and her family will come, and her son will be my son, and my daughter, hers. And Chris will come, but not the neighborhood cat that sneaks into his apartment. He can bring others, in heart and in hand, and he will bring RageBoy, and in this place, RageBoy will have the space he needs, the comfort he needs, and the Italian restaurant won’t be so far away; Everywhere there are people with hearts open.

Doc will come with his lot, and he will bring us balance, and we him. And AKMA and his brood will come, and his fellow Blog U colleages too, and Golby, and Gary, and theirs. And Anita will come, and Andrea, and Esta. Other Blog Sisters will visit, some will stay.

Shelley will come for a time, and burn so brightly, then leave us with that light until she returns.

David will stay behind, and visit sometimes, and he will be our liaison to the rest of the world, knowing, without being there, just what this place is for. Telling the others, “It can be so.”

Small pieces now joined.

And Elaine will come, she can bring her mom, we’ll have a special place for her, comfortable enough, close, yet far enough, and a caregiver for her so Elaine can rest her soul some. And Tom Shugart and his, and Frank Paynter, Tom Matrullo, Steve MacLaughlin, and, my god, of course Marek.

In this place, there is all the bandwidth we ever need, and all of the books of human kind, notes from other bloggers in the margins. And we learn and absorb from one another, as we engage, we grow. Your mind is mine, and mine yours, spiraling further out.

Denise has a law library all to herself, protects us and enriches us with wisdom and wit.

Technology supports us, without overwhelming us, because we have the woods.

We have Macs and PCs and color printers and faxes, and a powerful network, a spot for convergence of ideas, where they germinate and grow organically, without interference, because left on their own for a while, good ideas do this. And here, day is night, and night is day, one sky, thought is unending.

We have all of the notebooks and pencils and pens, and paper and paints we need. We paint the walls with murals, the children help, they mix colors no one has ever seen, and everywhere you look, something is blooming.

There is music, coming to and from George and Tom and Eric and others, but there is no music business, and art is allowed to happen, and for once matter most. The music chases us and become us, playing mates with blogging, sound marries voice, beautiful babies everywhere.

The children are playing now, by the big rocks just up over the hill. We can see them from every window, and we know they are safe. There is no danger here.

Frank Paynter has fashioned a wooden swing for them, it hangs from a willow by the picnic table. I see them now—Chris and Doc are having coffee at the table, writing notes, looking up long enough to see the children laughing as they play King of the Hill on the tallest boulder. There are no band-aids here, because there is no hurt.

Kent is happiest sitting at the edge of the pond, wondering how the fish move so quickly, blogging wirelessly as they feed on the grass at the bank.

Our world is unbroken. The union of mind/soul/spirit/sky/earth/fire inside this place can fix the world, and we set out to do just that. No politics, no leader, only a singularity of heart. The world looks in on us, every once in a while, when David lets them know what we’re doing. He’s careful to let on just enough.

As we invent and create and blog, the power of this one human mind, one human kind, begins to trickle into the world, and everything it touches shines. Outsiders succumb to the sharp glare of our ideas, they stop resisting and let us in. Let us deep within. And we transform them.

We transform them.

As news of our power to heal grows, even corporations take notice, and in exchange for our ideas, converged knowledge, they fund and help sustain our community. They aren’t allowed to visit us. They cannot send anything inward, they are only allowed to capture what we send out. David is there, to make sure they do right by us. And if they don’t, we cut their circuit. We appreciate their sustenance, but don’t need their gifts.

It is the end of the day, my first day in this world, and I am at peace, a peace I never knew.

My soul and heart are rested, mended, my mind on fire.

This is the place where I feel most alive.

Locke Locks In On Blogging

There's a wonderful interview with Chris Locke on Marketplace Morning Report that hit the airwaves this morning, tickling the ears and brains of some 2,000,000 listeners (yup, I said two million).

You can listen to the RealAudio stream here or go to the marketplace.org homepage and click on "The Best of Today's Morning Report."

Chris may not tell you, but I will, that Tess Vigeland was so jazzed about the blogging topic that she got the segment extended from something like two minutes to a full six or seven minutes.

The best thing about this is that Chris Locke is one of our own. Tireless champion of the net and weblogs. If you're tired of non-bloggers talking about what we do, go take a listen to Chris and drink up the good news. While you're at it, blog the hell out of this.

stop trying (and get real)

RageBoy takes Mike Sanders to task about his latest generalizations and misobservations. I'm glad to see those I respect popping a vein over this guy. What Mike's doing is destructive, for all the reasons I mentioned here and then some. Not least of all is his binary (thank you AKMA) notion of "Truth." Thank you RageBoy for that much deserved ass whippin'.

it's all about the phonalogue

I mentioned in this post that I’d started talking realtime, over the phone, to some of my blogger friends. Haven’t gotten to everyone yet; the list is long. The calls unfolded in assorted ways, but each one has been rich in meaning and a familiarity that has me a little shaken. Buzzed. Flying high even. Six cups of coffee buzzed-high. Words to ideas back to Words again, the spoken takes wing from the written, and back again.

I’ve said it this way before:

“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. I already have, and you like me so far.”

I think there’s a story in this, that some of us are compelled to take blogging off the screen and back around to one-on-one conversation, hypercharging an old medium with a new context for interaction.

How many others have back circuited their blogging relationships to the telephone? Have you called another blogger? Feel like sharing your story? Let me know if I can use your name, blog, and experiences for something I'm writing – for publication here or elsewhere. And I'll keep you posted on any progress. Deal? Leave comments or send to ewriter@bellsouth.net.

On the horizon, a blogger con-call? Why not. It ain't blogcon, but it has promise. Takin’ the party to the party line.

so fucking timely

One of the beautiful things about blogs is their timeliness--especially compared to traditional media. No editors to run things through. No fact checking to be done. No interviews needed, because bloggers are living and blogging in the moment, on the scene. Everywhere someone is blogging. Evidence, Shelley Powers was the first to report on the San Fran earthquake yesterday, because, well, it shook her apartment. Congrats to Shelley for scooping major news outlets.

Halley Suitt Interviews David Weinberger

Great post on Halley's blog today in which she interviews David about SPLJ. One excerpt from David:

"Business is anal-perfective. It's incapable of admitting that its products aren't perfect even though we all know that. Marketing just naturally assumes we want to see idealized images, and we have learned not to trust those images. But slickness on the Web feels out of place."

He took the words right outta my mouth. Again.

this morning I...

Dropped off my darling at her school. Went to the post office to mail some important bills (late), slipped them in the mail box, then remembered they had no stamps. Asked inside what to do. they said to wait; they'll come back to your house soon. Launched an investigation into the package I spent $32 to mail to china two weeks ago, which has disappeared in chinese customs or somewhere along the way. Felt glad I hadn't put anything even more personal in the box. Wrote a survey results document for work; filled out billing and project forms for work; started a byline article for work; noodled on old writing projects that are late and stale. Called orkin to make sure the termite bond on our house was paid. Read weblogs--akma, joho, matrullo, my own. Wrote emails. Started writing this. Ate a turkey sandwhich. Wondered why the squirrels keep eating my house. Ate a salad. Turned on TV and turned it off again. Did more work for work. Wished i had better food in the house.

Does it get any duller than this?

he's at it again

Tom Matrullo posts a wonderful response to Sanders' latest name-calling escapade, in which he tries to oversimplify the elegant insight of AKMA on the complexity of the problems in the middle east. Tom's friendly and direct response to Mike's latest attack (and they are, in my opinion, attacks) was a thing of beauty. Me? I chose on 4/21 (post-blogskining, that link isn't working) to put it another way, asking Mike to remove me from his blogroll. Because I think what he is doing is wrong. I'm not sure why Mike blogs--most of what he does is twist the meaning of what others say and respond to that "new" meaning in a way furthers his personal blogging agenda, generating links, whether it's through Tiger Woods' girlfriend or the Arab-Israeli conflict. Not to say he doesn't care deeply about Israel. I would not question his personal dedication to his cause. It's just the way he's going about it that's preverse.

I've stated what I think is wrong with that blog before, but will state it again:

-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. [oooh, but it does get you linked.--ed.]

-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.

I

ache

CNN - Upsell? Like Hell!

I don't know about you, but when I've had something online for a long time, I really don't like to be told I have to pay for it. New features? Yeh, I usually ante up. But not for something you used to give me--something that doesn't really cost you anything extra. Especially news. Haven't we learned our little lessons there?

Well, morbid curiosity led me to click on the Lion bites the zookeeper's arm off story at cnn.com just now.

Not too much information there. The zookeeper had been showing her family around. Big lion with big teeth severed her arm at the elbow. She's in serious condition. The lion's future is uncertain. Very sad. Indeed.

So sad that I really wanted to see the video of it. So, like I've done a hundred times before, I click the video link. And I get this little beauty. Huh? I can't see the video unless I pay? Hello? No free trial for me either. I know what free trials mean--mean's it's gonna cost me once I get used to it.

But the best part is, go to properties and see what the web smarties at CNN named the file - "cnn_upsell.html". Isn't that precious? And all this time I thought they were doing it to provide "more video at a higher quality than ever before."

Transparent. Bullshit. Keep your video, CNN.

I'll read it on the blogs next time.

journey

Tired. raw, nerves exposed, ready-set-hurt-me, take me down, don't take me down. Vulnerable, aching, wondering, open spaces, expansive, engulf me. Take my soul, don't take my soul, Leave me, keep me, caught in the current, sinking, fingertips break the surface, one last grasp at nothing, hopeless, helpless, the freedom of loss, the agony, my own loss, loss of self. If I go and come back, who will I find? she, me, empty still? Truth, lies, blindsided, rewind the movie, slowly, watch again, still don't see. Flying now, soaring, exploring, unending sky rolled in clouds, taste, sweet cream, not my dream. Until.

those who can do AND teach

A mini blogtank so to speak has sprung up to take care of AKMA's blog. This is the most beautiful thing I've seen out here in a while. Not only is Dorothea Salo taking care of business at AKMA's place, but she's TEACHING how to do it by blogging her remake. Others have started pitching in--Jonathon Delacour and Mark Pilgrim among them--and it's turned into a U Blog University deal. Wow. Crap. Consider the implications. Our kids attending AKMA's university located on a blog that Dorothea built. Ya baby!

Um, in case you guys haven't noticed, I tried to skin this thing, and it could use a little help--especially the archives page, which looks exactly like it did before, because I have no idea what to do. But that's okay. I can wait. Someone mentioned spare change. I can come up with spare change. Keep it in mind. There's other functionality I'd like, but have no idea how to make work.

In the mean time, I'll read along and try to learn something.

the reign of estrogen

Women going it alone. They now amaze me. I'm in my second month of single-motherhood-for-the-moment, with George in Hong Kong, and I have a new appreciation for women who are thrust into the single-mother game. Especially women who are mothers of daughters. For really scientific reasons (so says me).

Look, the absence of testosterone in a household, combined with an overabundance of estrogen, is just not a good thing. I've seen it in companies I've worked for. Those places where the first meeting in the morning means two or three women crying, or at least one of them walking out in a fit of rage, punctuating their departure with a slammed door.

Women-dominated companies, like women dominated households, have some special challenges, and you can call me crazy all you want, but the truth of the matter is the truth of the matter. Ying to yang, man to woman, father to daughter, mother to son, these are incredibly important relationships. And when one part of the equation is out of balance, everyone in the vacinity of a hurling Barbie Doll pays the price.

I'm convinced that estrogen needs testosterone to bounce against. Without it, the power of estrogen takes over, turns you into someone you really don't recognize. Mirror mirror, where did my man-half go? The changes in my daugther--and her relationship with me--over the last month are nothing short of scary. Since when did I live with a teenager? I thought she was four. And yesterday, when she tried to take a chunk out of my arm with her teeth, I realized, yes, she still is four. She's just part of this estrogen storm that has taken over our house.

Is it that she wouldn't dare with her father home? Maybe. But to me, it feels very physical, a real imbalance, a gush of energy with nothing to soak it up, spilling everywhere, until she storms upstairs, yells, "FINE THEN!" and slams her door. Always making sure to open it and add, "I'm NEVER speaking to you AGAIN."

So single mothers, you get my personal "How in the hell do you do it" award. No trophy or anything. Just amazement.

Come home soon, Papa.

the belch heard round the world

More convergence of realworld and online ties today. My family--daughter, husband, and me--spoke for the first time over the net, him in Hong Kong, us here in Georgia, thanks to Yahoo IM's Talk feature. He finally found a cybercafe barely quiet enough to hear us, and my laptop finally cooperated.

The result was an amazing (to me) family dialogue taking place on opposite sides of the world as we lived our lives in our normal abnormal way. Different from the phone? Yeh, it felt different. Some twisted kind of speaker phone is the best analogy. Maybe because I realized that, out of a PC on an Island in Asia, my daugher's belch rang out loud and clear, for all to hear.

"Daddy, did ya hear my burp? Did ya daddy?"

"Yes, sweetie. I heard your burp."

What's not to love about that?

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.

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.

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?

Spill

Feels like
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.' "

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?

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?

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?

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."

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.

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?

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.

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.

Alphonse Dimino, Part Deux

And now he is here with me.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.