is losing my health insurance.
I am currently welcoming suggestions on good PPOs or other health insurance plans that take humans as well as corporations. I've looked into the Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia's plans and think that the PPO looks pretty good. I don't know how much it costs--only reviewed the stuff online. It looks far better than the HMO of Flex programs.
Dig this caveat though: "Pre-existing conditions are not covered for 12 months from the effective date of your contract. Naturally, there's no waiting period for new conditions that may occur after your contract effective date."
Does this mean that everything from the common cold to Jenna's asthma isn't covered for a year? Even if I don't lapse with the current plan? OYE!
Our current plan is Primary Select/Doc First (formerly commonwealth) -- part of the Beechstreet Network -- and the BCBS National PPO for hospitalizaton. The COBRA is $991 a month. Needless to say, I'm checking around for a more affordable plan. I hate to lose it though. Doctors love to see us coming. The plan is very good about paying and there doesn't seem to be a usual-and-customary-care limit for docs. They smile at us sometimes even.
All of this is to say, Thanks, Tom for helping out. And yes, I'm still on the face of the earth. For what that's worth.
March 26, 2003
March 25, 2003
You don't want to want to give them any credit...
But you do. When you get email from "Breaking News" and you know you've signed up to receive breaking news email alerts from CNN and others, you have to give the spammers their props for thinking it up.
The last two days I'm getting my Breaking News spam, today's delivering this startling development from the Middle East: GULF WAR II: the Art market in turmoil! "Keep connected to the art market to find out who the winners and the loosers are: Artists, works, sale places, key figures and trends, latest auction results, price levels and indexes…"
Thanks for saving my life. I almost ran for the duct tape.
Smart bastards.
The last two days I'm getting my Breaking News spam, today's delivering this startling development from the Middle East: GULF WAR II: the Art market in turmoil! "Keep connected to the art market to find out who the winners and the loosers are: Artists, works, sale places, key figures and trends, latest auction results, price levels and indexes…"
Thanks for saving my life. I almost ran for the duct tape.
Smart bastards.
busy bee
Been busy busy today getting some work underway for client number 2. Keep em coming. You know. So I'm staring at the pile of bills on the piano carefully sorting out which should go in pile A (never), B (doubtful), C (wishful), and D (soonish?). It's kind of like Monopoly bills instead of Monopoly money. None of it seems real. But it all works out after a beer or two. Yah, wish we had some in the house. Must be a suitable RX around here somewhere.
Man, I must be impressing you with my marketing know-how so far. I'm so hot I can't touch myself. sssssssss!
Excuse me, but our daughter is spinning herself into a frenzy, on her belly, in blurry circles around and around on the piano stool.
Disaster pending.
I'll be back.
Man, I must be impressing you with my marketing know-how so far. I'm so hot I can't touch myself. sssssssss!
Excuse me, but our daughter is spinning herself into a frenzy, on her belly, in blurry circles around and around on the piano stool.
Disaster pending.
I'll be back.
March 24, 2003
tick tock tick tock
So my last day at work is 4/1. That's five years *to the day* that I started with the company. Five years is a long time. I carried some stuff out today, with one faithful soldier by my side, helping me with the wheeley cart. I hadn't unpacked from the most recent office move, so packing wasn't a huge deal. Seeing the faces left behind was a pretty big deal, but I'd been working with them virtually for so long that it wasn't as sad as I expected it to be.
I come home, yahoo IM launches, and there they are. Their little smiley face icons are what I see them as every day; that and their telephone voices and emails--life as a teleworker kind of warps you that way. So I guess I feel like I haven't lost anything. Unless you count health insurance, life insurance, vision, dental, paid vacation, two-years left til sabbatical, my laptop (soon), and a prestigious big-agency brand to attach myself to.
oh dear.
That's a downer.
Up-up-up!!!
After all, I've been building a brand here since 2001. It's not glamorous; it doesn't have a detailed methodology or fancy stones in the lobby. It doesn't have a color printer. But other than that, not too much is missing. Well an Intranet. Or is that what we're building as we weave ideas, inventions, and work here among one another? (you know I think so.)
Time will tell. In the in-between, check out my online portfolio and testimonials up there on the right if you need my most esteemed creative assistance or regular ol' verbiage.
Pass it on.
We aim to please.
I come home, yahoo IM launches, and there they are. Their little smiley face icons are what I see them as every day; that and their telephone voices and emails--life as a teleworker kind of warps you that way. So I guess I feel like I haven't lost anything. Unless you count health insurance, life insurance, vision, dental, paid vacation, two-years left til sabbatical, my laptop (soon), and a prestigious big-agency brand to attach myself to.
oh dear.
That's a downer.
Up-up-up!!!
After all, I've been building a brand here since 2001. It's not glamorous; it doesn't have a detailed methodology or fancy stones in the lobby. It doesn't have a color printer. But other than that, not too much is missing. Well an Intranet. Or is that what we're building as we weave ideas, inventions, and work here among one another? (you know I think so.)
Time will tell. In the in-between, check out my online portfolio and testimonials up there on the right if you need my most esteemed creative assistance or regular ol' verbiage.
Pass it on.
We aim to please.
March 23, 2003
caring commerce
I checked her throat today. I know what's coming. The fever's there. The strawberry tongue. The tonsils that look like pre-historic rocks. And this time her asthma's got a jump on her. Strep? We'll see. That's my guess. Usually doesn't start off with breathing treatments, but this round is starting that way, whatever she's got. She just finished on the nebulizer, with the puffers, nasal spray, and with a nasal swab of zicam in hopes of it just being a virus.
Well, I guess we don't say "just" a virus anymore, do we?
And the only thing rolling round my head is fury. Fury that next week I lose my health insurance benefits that I've worked my ass off for the last five years to have. It's business. It's a down economy. We've explored other options. These are facts, but they're not truths. The facts don't upset me. I don't begrudge the facts anything. I can do business with facts. No hard feelings on the facts. And I mean that.
The truth, however, is that until human beings bypass these institutions, form their own networks, with caring inherent in the links among me and you and him and her and them, we're all one sad lot. I believe the move toward caring commerce is already happening. When I'm not tired, gearing up for child sick days bound to follow the next few days, I see it all very clearly. Staking my future on it, so to speak. But more about that another time. I do have more to say. Not now.
In the mean time, when I look at that sad little face with the circles under her eyes, the mask over her mouth and nose with steam bubbling through the plastic holes, I understand what somebody once meant when he said corproations aren't human, they have no heart.
Well, I guess we don't say "just" a virus anymore, do we?
And the only thing rolling round my head is fury. Fury that next week I lose my health insurance benefits that I've worked my ass off for the last five years to have. It's business. It's a down economy. We've explored other options. These are facts, but they're not truths. The facts don't upset me. I don't begrudge the facts anything. I can do business with facts. No hard feelings on the facts. And I mean that.
The truth, however, is that until human beings bypass these institutions, form their own networks, with caring inherent in the links among me and you and him and her and them, we're all one sad lot. I believe the move toward caring commerce is already happening. When I'm not tired, gearing up for child sick days bound to follow the next few days, I see it all very clearly. Staking my future on it, so to speak. But more about that another time. I do have more to say. Not now.
In the mean time, when I look at that sad little face with the circles under her eyes, the mask over her mouth and nose with steam bubbling through the plastic holes, I understand what somebody once meant when he said corproations aren't human, they have no heart.
March 22, 2003
HOLY SHIT!
we're at war? why didn't someone tell me?
In other news: 28 baby girls were found in suit cases aboard a bus in china. One died. They were going to be sold (to rich Americans who wouldn't dare adopt an extra-ethnic, black, or similarly melanin-heavy baby available right here). OOOPS! did I say that? I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure many girl children are fortunate to get out of China where it's not so good to be a girl.
"A report issued by UNICEF in 2001 said more than a quarter of a million women and children have been victims of trafficking in China in recent decades."
I'm sure I'm wrong about this. Americans aren't involved. Ignore me.
In other news, Congratulations! It's a virus!"
I feel all caught up on world events now. wshew.
In other news: 28 baby girls were found in suit cases aboard a bus in china. One died. They were going to be sold (to rich Americans who wouldn't dare adopt an extra-ethnic, black, or similarly melanin-heavy baby available right here). OOOPS! did I say that? I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure many girl children are fortunate to get out of China where it's not so good to be a girl.
"A report issued by UNICEF in 2001 said more than a quarter of a million women and children have been victims of trafficking in China in recent decades."
I'm sure I'm wrong about this. Americans aren't involved. Ignore me.
In other news, Congratulations! It's a virus!"
I feel all caught up on world events now. wshew.
i haven't written much
funny how your hits go down when you don't write anything. why? no one wants to come here and just sit and think? oh. no one told me. okay.
HI!
I'm alive.
I have much to talk about next week, but I'm saving it all up. Small matters to attend to first. The finer details. The things that make corporations spin. And we all must be careful, right? Yes. Careful. There is sueage to worry about, after all. Or is there? There's no such thing as bad PR. Don't they say that? I'm forgetting.
I refer myself, and you along for the ride, to past things I've said, which now, amazingly, I have a chance to live by.
We are always putting things in our mouth--we either put our foot in our mouth, or our money where our mouth is. Me? I'm aiming to put coins in between my toes and then stick them in my mouth. Silver is a natural remedy for many things. Guards against infection. Too bad our coins aren't made of silver anymore. I'll probably just gag. Puke. Something. There's always a silver lining, isn't there?
Okay, so to see where my head is:
Where I Do My Business
shhhhhh. i read cluetrain. don't tell.
This is what I've done until now
Google/Blogger and the Coming Upside-Downess
Blogging will change every traditional institution
I'm more HERE than THERE (boy, you can say that again)
Shhhh. I read gonzo marketing too
Tom stirs the pot (more time for me soon!)
And in the end / the love you take / is equal to the love / you make.
aaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaa.
HI!
I'm alive.
I have much to talk about next week, but I'm saving it all up. Small matters to attend to first. The finer details. The things that make corporations spin. And we all must be careful, right? Yes. Careful. There is sueage to worry about, after all. Or is there? There's no such thing as bad PR. Don't they say that? I'm forgetting.
I refer myself, and you along for the ride, to past things I've said, which now, amazingly, I have a chance to live by.
We are always putting things in our mouth--we either put our foot in our mouth, or our money where our mouth is. Me? I'm aiming to put coins in between my toes and then stick them in my mouth. Silver is a natural remedy for many things. Guards against infection. Too bad our coins aren't made of silver anymore. I'll probably just gag. Puke. Something. There's always a silver lining, isn't there?
Okay, so to see where my head is:
Where I Do My Business
shhhhhh. i read cluetrain. don't tell.
This is what I've done until now
Google/Blogger and the Coming Upside-Downess
Blogging will change every traditional institution
I'm more HERE than THERE (boy, you can say that again)
Shhhh. I read gonzo marketing too
Tom stirs the pot (more time for me soon!)
And in the end / the love you take / is equal to the love / you make.
aaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaa.
March 21, 2003
So much to say...
So little I can say... yet. Next week more.
So instead, I'll talk about the ambulance.
It's been to our neighbor's house three times in the last few days. Our neighbor has been battling the bottle for a long time. I was the first to call 911 on him when I found him one day close to meeting his end a year or two ago. He has done his best since--the best he can do. He's done rehab. It works for a while. But so far, it hasn't stuck.
It's not so much a shock to see the ambulance come anymore. I wrote a while back how when the air conditioner repairman came to his house one day, Jenna looked out the window and said, "Oh no! An ambulance again!"
Every time we hear the firetruck, see the ambulance, the police, we can't help but take a look out the window. And every time, he comes walking solidly down the front steps, sometimes with a duffle bag of clothes over his shoulder, smoking his last cigarette before making the ride to the hospital for detox.
The last two times it came for him, he wouldn't go. He'd come outside and declare his sobriety. We could tell he wouldn't be going with them. He'd convinced them he'd be fine. Besides, not much can be done when someone is resolved to stay at home and drink himself into oblivion.
But today was different. Today was for real. Today he couldn't walk out.
Today they came and brought him out on a stretcher. While his teenage daughter looked on. Today he wasn't smoking a cigarette. His head lolled this way and that as they bump-bump-bumped him down the front step, up the walk, and into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics stood talking to his father and his daughter, who'd been this route a dozen times before, but had never seen him carried out. Today, he didn't look so good.
Today his family looked tired but unphased--even smiling some. Repeated trauma has a way of doing that to you.
And did I mention?
The man who they carried away on the stretcher today, the one who was trying to drink himself to death, works here.
So instead, I'll talk about the ambulance.
It's been to our neighbor's house three times in the last few days. Our neighbor has been battling the bottle for a long time. I was the first to call 911 on him when I found him one day close to meeting his end a year or two ago. He has done his best since--the best he can do. He's done rehab. It works for a while. But so far, it hasn't stuck.
It's not so much a shock to see the ambulance come anymore. I wrote a while back how when the air conditioner repairman came to his house one day, Jenna looked out the window and said, "Oh no! An ambulance again!"
Every time we hear the firetruck, see the ambulance, the police, we can't help but take a look out the window. And every time, he comes walking solidly down the front steps, sometimes with a duffle bag of clothes over his shoulder, smoking his last cigarette before making the ride to the hospital for detox.
The last two times it came for him, he wouldn't go. He'd come outside and declare his sobriety. We could tell he wouldn't be going with them. He'd convinced them he'd be fine. Besides, not much can be done when someone is resolved to stay at home and drink himself into oblivion.
But today was different. Today was for real. Today he couldn't walk out.
Today they came and brought him out on a stretcher. While his teenage daughter looked on. Today he wasn't smoking a cigarette. His head lolled this way and that as they bump-bump-bumped him down the front step, up the walk, and into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics stood talking to his father and his daughter, who'd been this route a dozen times before, but had never seen him carried out. Today, he didn't look so good.
Today his family looked tired but unphased--even smiling some. Repeated trauma has a way of doing that to you.
And did I mention?
The man who they carried away on the stretcher today, the one who was trying to drink himself to death, works here.
Yes and No, Sweet Monica
But thank you for asking all the way from Brazil.
More when I can... hopefully later today.
March 18, 2003
I have a new hero today
Thanks to Michael O'Connor Clarke, who, I don't know, I guess reads Cricket reports in the Guardian. He found this little ditty of a human being at work writing on what's left of his dignity, nay, sanity, rather than covering cricket seriously, which, I'm gathering, is or has been his job. God bless him. And for the Indian Reply, equally CLUED, go read Sean Ingle. Thank you for the laughs, guys.
Imagine all the people...
I have had a headache for three days. micro-macro confusion. my heart is hurting. my head is hurting. I don't want to write about the war--if I ignore it, maybe it won't happen. This is the only place I can keep it from invading. This is the only real place where we have any power at all.
Go, no-go, can't care--can care about what I can influence, change, my heart, maybe this pounding headache, not what I can't change.
I had quite a bit of linkage to my post where I urged the two world leaders who were embroiled in this stalemate--neither one democratically elected, both of whom hold office not through the will of the people, but through their over-estimation of their intended destinies, both of whom turn deaf ears to the UN--to step down together. What a selfless act it would be on the part of both Bush and Saddam. To show they care about their people and the planet. Yeh, well, that's likely.
On the other hand, I'm not a warblogger, I'm not a peace blogger, I'm just a chick who writes. So when all hell breaks loose, and it probably will, I'll just be here tinkering away on my blog, the only place on earth where no one's allowed in unless I let them, where I make all the decisions, where the responsibility of what's said and done rests in my two hands.
I was thinking the other night, what if this--right here--the net--this non physical online world--is "Heaven" or "Paradise"? What if. What if this is the paradise where the lion and lamb lie down together, where our physical flaws disappear, our bodies are perfect, where we stop aging, where we can have eternal life. Here we can do no physical harm to one another, here lions and lambs coexist with only words as teeth--can't cut; here love is allowed to be and grow, here is a place where we will live on well after we're gone, if not forever. What if, in the end, we rise to find ourselves inside these screens, inside this place that has the potential to be, well, more perfect? Words as food, in abundance. Shade and sun and all we need.
What if this is the world where we start over? What if?
Yes, okay. I'll go take my meds now.
Go, no-go, can't care--can care about what I can influence, change, my heart, maybe this pounding headache, not what I can't change.
I had quite a bit of linkage to my post where I urged the two world leaders who were embroiled in this stalemate--neither one democratically elected, both of whom hold office not through the will of the people, but through their over-estimation of their intended destinies, both of whom turn deaf ears to the UN--to step down together. What a selfless act it would be on the part of both Bush and Saddam. To show they care about their people and the planet. Yeh, well, that's likely.
On the other hand, I'm not a warblogger, I'm not a peace blogger, I'm just a chick who writes. So when all hell breaks loose, and it probably will, I'll just be here tinkering away on my blog, the only place on earth where no one's allowed in unless I let them, where I make all the decisions, where the responsibility of what's said and done rests in my two hands.
I was thinking the other night, what if this--right here--the net--this non physical online world--is "Heaven" or "Paradise"? What if. What if this is the paradise where the lion and lamb lie down together, where our physical flaws disappear, our bodies are perfect, where we stop aging, where we can have eternal life. Here we can do no physical harm to one another, here lions and lambs coexist with only words as teeth--can't cut; here love is allowed to be and grow, here is a place where we will live on well after we're gone, if not forever. What if, in the end, we rise to find ourselves inside these screens, inside this place that has the potential to be, well, more perfect? Words as food, in abundance. Shade and sun and all we need.
What if this is the world where we start over? What if?
Yes, okay. I'll go take my meds now.
March 16, 2003
Child in Green
It's no wonder she loves her kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McClusky, so much. At 5, she is smart for her age, anxious to please, anxious to learn. Mrs. McClusky's classroom is a home away from home, and a welcome one, since things don't feel so right at home these days. Mrs. McClusky always has an extra smile, an extra pat on the arm, an extra "Wonderful!" for a job well done.
At home her family, her older brother and sister, her parents, especially her father, well, and her mother too, seem to have other things on their mind. They try to make time to play with her--barbies or baseball or swinging on the rope swing, or riding or brushing the tall palimino named Angel. But she has been spending more and more time away from home too. At her favorite aunt's house, at her grandma's, next door at Debbie Lubert's house.
Every day when she climbs the steps of the big yellow school bus, she knows Mrs. McClusky will be waiting with her big smile and cups full of crayons. In her seat on the bus, like always, next to Marvin Johnson, who at first she kisses secretly in the back of the bus, and then later not so secretly in the front of the bus, she feels the attention that's missing at home.
This day in Mrs. McClusky's class is St. Patrick's day. It is also the feast day of her mother, Patricia, a devout Catholic. Mrs. McClusky makes an announcement that brings a wide-eyed, five-year-old smile to her face: This St. Patrick's day the class is making get well cards for her father, who'd had a gallbladder operation. He hasn't been feeling well, and Mrs. McClusky senses some cheering up is in order.
As she explains to the children what a gallbladder is, Mrs. McClusky launches the whole kindergarten class into a frenzy of green construction paper, paste, markers, crayons, and stickers.
Each child contributes their own work of art to help speed her dad's recovery--and she can hardly wait to bring the surprise home and share it with her family, her dad. She knows he'll love it. Her best friend Debbie's card is her favorite, a clover of sorts, with awkward crayon letters that spell out: "Feel Better." Mrs. McClusky helps the children write the words.
She takes care to be sure each card is special.
By the end of the day, 28 little kindergarten cards are placed in a brown paper sack for her to take home. She doesn't dare open the bag on the bus, not even to show to Marvin. This is her special surprise.
When the bus pulls up in front of her driveway, she sees her aunt's car. WONDERFUL! She'll be able to show her favorite aunt the big surprise. She can already sense how thrilled Aunt Penny will be when she sees all of the St. Patrick's Day cards her friends have made for her dad.
She bounds in the house and straight up the stairs toward her parent's bedroom. She knows her dad will be there; he has been resting a lot since his operation.
Her mother is standing at the top of the steps, waiting--she can hardly stop long enough to say Hi Mom. The bag tight in her hand, she wants to see her dad right away, see the look on his face, the way his lips make that slow smile, as she shows him his surprise present.
But her mother stops her. There. On the landing. Puts both arms out. Catches her. Crouches down. Looks in her eyes. Says she can't go in the bedroom just yet.
something.
but what.
wrong.
oh.
no.
read her face.
something.
Her mom steers her to the bedroom she shares with her teenage sister. "Aunt Penny's in your room. She needs to talk to you for a few minutes," her mom says.
Okay.
what
else
can she
do
Her mother takes the bag. She doesn't want to let it go. The bag is damp and already tearing at the top, where she held on to it so tightly all the way home, her moist palms wrapped around it.
She walks to her room and sees her Aunt sitting on the twin bed, watches her pat a make-believe seat beside her.
She sits down, hears her aunt talking, telling her that sometimes God needs people to be with him in Heaven sooner than we would like.
And she knows.
In fact, she has known in reverse. The knowing goes backwards you see.
She knew when he got sick, could read it, his eyes, the pain, and then she began the act of unknowing, because that is what you do when you're five and your dad is dying of pancreatic cancer but no one tells you.
You know, and then you spend the time in between the knowing and the dying trying to unlearn, undo, live backwards.
This is why the news doesn't surprise her, why she doesn't cry. Even when her aunt asks her would she like to. No, she says. She really doesn't feel like it.
What she feels like saying is, "I knew this, but then I didn't, and now I do again. And now I start living forward."
And what she feels like doing is going outside to play. With Debbie.
When she leaves her bedroom to find her mother, her mom is waiting to hold her, and although her mother reassures her that she is there for her, she feels only one thing: the deathly quiet, the abscence of, the without, the air suddenly made of cut-out figures--air, then nothing, then air again.
That is what breathing is like after.
Where he once stood, the worn walkway in the carpet, the bathroom where she would hear him throwing up, in these places she sees his absence, stark in its brightness, white like a paper doll punched through thin air. She sees only the missing pieces.
Here then
Gone
And you have no choice, begin to live forward.
And it really is just like that.
At home her family, her older brother and sister, her parents, especially her father, well, and her mother too, seem to have other things on their mind. They try to make time to play with her--barbies or baseball or swinging on the rope swing, or riding or brushing the tall palimino named Angel. But she has been spending more and more time away from home too. At her favorite aunt's house, at her grandma's, next door at Debbie Lubert's house.
Every day when she climbs the steps of the big yellow school bus, she knows Mrs. McClusky will be waiting with her big smile and cups full of crayons. In her seat on the bus, like always, next to Marvin Johnson, who at first she kisses secretly in the back of the bus, and then later not so secretly in the front of the bus, she feels the attention that's missing at home.
This day in Mrs. McClusky's class is St. Patrick's day. It is also the feast day of her mother, Patricia, a devout Catholic. Mrs. McClusky makes an announcement that brings a wide-eyed, five-year-old smile to her face: This St. Patrick's day the class is making get well cards for her father, who'd had a gallbladder operation. He hasn't been feeling well, and Mrs. McClusky senses some cheering up is in order.
As she explains to the children what a gallbladder is, Mrs. McClusky launches the whole kindergarten class into a frenzy of green construction paper, paste, markers, crayons, and stickers.
Each child contributes their own work of art to help speed her dad's recovery--and she can hardly wait to bring the surprise home and share it with her family, her dad. She knows he'll love it. Her best friend Debbie's card is her favorite, a clover of sorts, with awkward crayon letters that spell out: "Feel Better." Mrs. McClusky helps the children write the words.
She takes care to be sure each card is special.
By the end of the day, 28 little kindergarten cards are placed in a brown paper sack for her to take home. She doesn't dare open the bag on the bus, not even to show to Marvin. This is her special surprise.
When the bus pulls up in front of her driveway, she sees her aunt's car. WONDERFUL! She'll be able to show her favorite aunt the big surprise. She can already sense how thrilled Aunt Penny will be when she sees all of the St. Patrick's Day cards her friends have made for her dad.
She bounds in the house and straight up the stairs toward her parent's bedroom. She knows her dad will be there; he has been resting a lot since his operation.
Her mother is standing at the top of the steps, waiting--she can hardly stop long enough to say Hi Mom. The bag tight in her hand, she wants to see her dad right away, see the look on his face, the way his lips make that slow smile, as she shows him his surprise present.
But her mother stops her. There. On the landing. Puts both arms out. Catches her. Crouches down. Looks in her eyes. Says she can't go in the bedroom just yet.
something.
but what.
wrong.
oh.
no.
read her face.
something.
Her mom steers her to the bedroom she shares with her teenage sister. "Aunt Penny's in your room. She needs to talk to you for a few minutes," her mom says.
Okay.
what
else
can she
do
Her mother takes the bag. She doesn't want to let it go. The bag is damp and already tearing at the top, where she held on to it so tightly all the way home, her moist palms wrapped around it.
She walks to her room and sees her Aunt sitting on the twin bed, watches her pat a make-believe seat beside her.
She sits down, hears her aunt talking, telling her that sometimes God needs people to be with him in Heaven sooner than we would like.
And she knows.
In fact, she has known in reverse. The knowing goes backwards you see.
She knew when he got sick, could read it, his eyes, the pain, and then she began the act of unknowing, because that is what you do when you're five and your dad is dying of pancreatic cancer but no one tells you.
You know, and then you spend the time in between the knowing and the dying trying to unlearn, undo, live backwards.
This is why the news doesn't surprise her, why she doesn't cry. Even when her aunt asks her would she like to. No, she says. She really doesn't feel like it.
What she feels like saying is, "I knew this, but then I didn't, and now I do again. And now I start living forward."
And what she feels like doing is going outside to play. With Debbie.
When she leaves her bedroom to find her mother, her mom is waiting to hold her, and although her mother reassures her that she is there for her, she feels only one thing: the deathly quiet, the abscence of, the without, the air suddenly made of cut-out figures--air, then nothing, then air again.
That is what breathing is like after.
Where he once stood, the worn walkway in the carpet, the bathroom where she would hear him throwing up, in these places she sees his absence, stark in its brightness, white like a paper doll punched through thin air. She sees only the missing pieces.
Here then
Gone
And you have no choice, begin to live forward.
And it really is just like that.
Father
Thick fingers on ivory keys,
soft slow voice, and the
the pain you
kept to yourself
it wasn't the rumors
tumors
that cut
but the truth.
What I remember is the way
it snapped your head
around when she
said it. What I remember
is what shattered
you
that day
you began
your dying.
If I could go back
what was I two, three?
If I could go back.
but I had no voice.
You no music
you no voice.
We are minds and hands
that make music and
words
and that is all
we ever had.
This place is where I play
for you, my voice
because I don't have
anywhere else.
you are what
keeps me
stepping down
into the familiar pain
and when I see
you there
hurt resembles
joy until
I can't tell them apart.
It isn't that you left
it's what you left us with
without you
To have eyes, vision,
somehow inverted
so young,
to see what isn't
miss what is
that is the curse
I take forward.
Everywhere I see
the spaces in
between,
and it never matters
how small or far apart.
This is where I find
you, where we meet
in between
wake and sleep
is why I like it there
when edges
become slides
and holes
become hills
and you
emerge
from
thin
air.
perspective flipping and entredeux
I was re-reading what I wrote about Helene Cixous and Entredeux. In part, she writes this about entredeux, the place in between:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted."
In the post below--subtexts--I was looking through familiar lenses, the ones that I wear much of the time, the ones that get mad at the realworld for interrupting my blogging. It's because I feel so much more alive when I'm writing than when I'm living.
I re-read Cixous on Entredeux just now, and my perspective did one of those flip-flop things, like when you stare at a line drawing of a cube until it re-configures itself. What if blogging, writing, is entredeux, the place between living and not living. Aren't so many of our posts "innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts"? I do see my blog as everything that makes up the course of my life interrupted. Yes. I thinik that's why so many of us are here. Well, I think it's why I'm here.
more later...
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted."
In the post below--subtexts--I was looking through familiar lenses, the ones that I wear much of the time, the ones that get mad at the realworld for interrupting my blogging. It's because I feel so much more alive when I'm writing than when I'm living.
I re-read Cixous on Entredeux just now, and my perspective did one of those flip-flop things, like when you stare at a line drawing of a cube until it re-configures itself. What if blogging, writing, is entredeux, the place between living and not living. Aren't so many of our posts "innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts"? I do see my blog as everything that makes up the course of my life interrupted. Yes. I thinik that's why so many of us are here. Well, I think it's why I'm here.
more later...
March 15, 2003
subtexts
Beneath blogging things move at a different pace, sometimes fast and sometimes painfully slow. It was Tom I think, somewhere, who discussed the ripeness of the space between posts, what we read in and out of that space, what it means and how we connect with one another inside the in between.
I googled his site, but couldn't find the post where he discussed this online/offline white space. Maybe I read his thoughts. Maybe we talked about it on the phone or in an email. Maybe it was another blogger. I don't know. That's the point.
As we become more than co-bloggers, as we nurture friendships through phone, packages, letters, emails, even comments--all this bing-banging around that happens between posts--subtexts then--we are becoming more than. Maybe it's not the blogging. Maybe it's the tween-blogging, the post-blogging.
In developing these online/offline friendships, some who haven't travelled that backroad--which leads to the dumpster behind the blogplaza where we share cigarettes and coffee and tears and laughs--this seems strange, odd, peculiar, even maybe cultish.
I say, you don't know. You're missing the in between.
I've absorbed some flack over the past year over this guy. I heard from more bloggers than I wanted to that I had been taken prisoner by a cult master, couldn't possibly mean what I said as I cheered him on through so many very beautiful and very ugly places, while in the mean time, I wrote about the fluidity of what we're doing here, how no single post defines who we are or what we feel into the future, which is what I find so compelling, the reason I keep on. It's the stringing together that matters. At the same time, he watched me bing-banging through some similar pretty ugly and beautiful places of my own, a story yet unfinished, restless hope keeping me company.
And in 12 months of subtext, I listened to him play the Baby Grand Blues, re-think the parts, the notes, try to figure the best melody for the story, the best cure for the melancholy, how the tune should resolve, or if it should. I added my parts and borrowed changes and riffs from him. This was the time between posts. It wasn't ripe enough to be written then. Now it is. And now he is.
So, here I am, thinking about the richness of what we've carved in offline tablets in between online posts--so many of us. As much a legacy as, more real than, and impossible to have come to without blogging.
I googled his site, but couldn't find the post where he discussed this online/offline white space. Maybe I read his thoughts. Maybe we talked about it on the phone or in an email. Maybe it was another blogger. I don't know. That's the point.
As we become more than co-bloggers, as we nurture friendships through phone, packages, letters, emails, even comments--all this bing-banging around that happens between posts--subtexts then--we are becoming more than. Maybe it's not the blogging. Maybe it's the tween-blogging, the post-blogging.
In developing these online/offline friendships, some who haven't travelled that backroad--which leads to the dumpster behind the blogplaza where we share cigarettes and coffee and tears and laughs--this seems strange, odd, peculiar, even maybe cultish.
I say, you don't know. You're missing the in between.
I've absorbed some flack over the past year over this guy. I heard from more bloggers than I wanted to that I had been taken prisoner by a cult master, couldn't possibly mean what I said as I cheered him on through so many very beautiful and very ugly places, while in the mean time, I wrote about the fluidity of what we're doing here, how no single post defines who we are or what we feel into the future, which is what I find so compelling, the reason I keep on. It's the stringing together that matters. At the same time, he watched me bing-banging through some similar pretty ugly and beautiful places of my own, a story yet unfinished, restless hope keeping me company.
And in 12 months of subtext, I listened to him play the Baby Grand Blues, re-think the parts, the notes, try to figure the best melody for the story, the best cure for the melancholy, how the tune should resolve, or if it should. I added my parts and borrowed changes and riffs from him. This was the time between posts. It wasn't ripe enough to be written then. Now it is. And now he is.
So, here I am, thinking about the richness of what we've carved in offline tablets in between online posts--so many of us. As much a legacy as, more real than, and impossible to have come to without blogging.
"A small strip of earth moved..."
Uncommon Tom discusses community and individuals, noting that something important emerges as we gather around our individual moments together. Nice.
March 14, 2003
cluetrain cult cliche and anti-isolationism
Shelley's got some lively discussion on community v individualism going on over at her place. Her posts link to a wealth of other posts which, if I let myself, and I can't, could lead to an entire day of cruising around the neighborhoods talking to folks sitting out on their virtual porch stoops.
As I understand it, Shelley doesn't feel that community is the most important part of what we're doing here. She does not believe that we wouldn't be here as individuals if not for the communities we bounce around in first and foremost. Shelley, tell me if any of that's wrong. What I'm sure of is that Shelley values her individuality first and foremost, and doesn't see herself attached initially at the community level. If anyone out here is an individual, it's Shelley, and that's a bet.
In my mind, the whole debate, however, is a catch 22. I hate those. You could spend many years stroking key after key wondering if you post something great and no one is there to read it, did you really post at all? Is it Individual first? Community first? Are they so tightly interdependent that you can't tell? It's obvious to me that the duality here is what is puzzling to people. Yes one can be both and neither at the same time. Yes we can be all and none at the same time. Actually, that place of duality is where you find "you" and we find "us." Welcome to the net. Welcome to hyperlinks.
That there's a debate at all seems almost ironic. Community gives rise to debate and resolution, no? And if not for individuals there wouldn't be more than one side to any issue, no? So, where do we go with this?
What did bug me about this round of discussion was the light in which Shelley casts "cluetrainers," setting up some pre-defined borders around people who share a passion about a particular book/idea/philosophy. In framing them as drones in some lockstep march to the cluetrain drum, she risks stripping these folks of their individuality, which is what she values so highly in herself.
More on this.
First, and you heard it here first, there is no "cluetrain community." Cluetrain = four voices that converged in one place discussing something fundamentally important, left the place and ideas for others to take and use as they saw fit, and we all moved forward in time. These men, the authors, also continued to live forward. Nothing ended with cluetrain. For many of us, cluetrain was and remains an important stop along the way of our understanding how the net and business can and can't get along.
I don't think the Cluetrain authors themselves represent a single community, any more than any of our individual blogs do. Their voices, their perspectives, their lenses differ:
Doc: Markets are Conversations. Get Clued. World of Ends.
Chris: Bottom up, not top down. Micromarkets. The solution is poetry.
David: Management Doesn't Get It. Small Pieces Loosely Joined. Ends and pieces and linkage.
Rick: _____________________
The voices that gave rise to cluetrain share a common love for the net, understanding that it has and is changing human beings and businesses, and that institutions like government, corporations, etc. can't stop it. Traditional power structures don't wield the same kind of power here. Is that belief alone the basis for community? Yes and no.
Personally, I travel in and out of a lot of communities, many completely unrelated, and I have friends in all of those places. I have war blogger blog friends, peace blogger blog friends, cluetrain blog friends, Harvard blog friends, Holistic blog friends, feminist blog friends, pro-life blog friends. I learn something as I weave my way in and out of all of these communities.
When either your staunch individualism or narrow community participation risks isolationism, then something's wrong.
Other than that, it's all open road folks.
Alright. I'm rambling. Too much to do. I have to run now.
Besides, I forgot to put my copy of Cluetrain in the southern most corner of my garage, like I do at 10:00 every morning, so that I can do a rain dance on pages 4-33 and wait for the mothership.
why she never comes?
As I understand it, Shelley doesn't feel that community is the most important part of what we're doing here. She does not believe that we wouldn't be here as individuals if not for the communities we bounce around in first and foremost. Shelley, tell me if any of that's wrong. What I'm sure of is that Shelley values her individuality first and foremost, and doesn't see herself attached initially at the community level. If anyone out here is an individual, it's Shelley, and that's a bet.
In my mind, the whole debate, however, is a catch 22. I hate those. You could spend many years stroking key after key wondering if you post something great and no one is there to read it, did you really post at all? Is it Individual first? Community first? Are they so tightly interdependent that you can't tell? It's obvious to me that the duality here is what is puzzling to people. Yes one can be both and neither at the same time. Yes we can be all and none at the same time. Actually, that place of duality is where you find "you" and we find "us." Welcome to the net. Welcome to hyperlinks.
That there's a debate at all seems almost ironic. Community gives rise to debate and resolution, no? And if not for individuals there wouldn't be more than one side to any issue, no? So, where do we go with this?
What did bug me about this round of discussion was the light in which Shelley casts "cluetrainers," setting up some pre-defined borders around people who share a passion about a particular book/idea/philosophy. In framing them as drones in some lockstep march to the cluetrain drum, she risks stripping these folks of their individuality, which is what she values so highly in herself.
First, and you heard it here first, there is no "cluetrain community." Cluetrain = four voices that converged in one place discussing something fundamentally important, left the place and ideas for others to take and use as they saw fit, and we all moved forward in time. These men, the authors, also continued to live forward. Nothing ended with cluetrain. For many of us, cluetrain was and remains an important stop along the way of our understanding how the net and business can and can't get along.
I don't think the Cluetrain authors themselves represent a single community, any more than any of our individual blogs do. Their voices, their perspectives, their lenses differ:
Doc: Markets are Conversations. Get Clued. World of Ends.
Chris: Bottom up, not top down. Micromarkets. The solution is poetry.
David: Management Doesn't Get It. Small Pieces Loosely Joined. Ends and pieces and linkage.
Rick: _____________________
The voices that gave rise to cluetrain share a common love for the net, understanding that it has and is changing human beings and businesses, and that institutions like government, corporations, etc. can't stop it. Traditional power structures don't wield the same kind of power here. Is that belief alone the basis for community? Yes and no.
Personally, I travel in and out of a lot of communities, many completely unrelated, and I have friends in all of those places. I have war blogger blog friends, peace blogger blog friends, cluetrain blog friends, Harvard blog friends, Holistic blog friends, feminist blog friends, pro-life blog friends. I learn something as I weave my way in and out of all of these communities.
When either your staunch individualism or narrow community participation risks isolationism, then something's wrong.
Other than that, it's all open road folks.
Alright. I'm rambling. Too much to do. I have to run now.
Besides, I forgot to put my copy of Cluetrain in the southern most corner of my garage, like I do at 10:00 every morning, so that I can do a rain dance on pages 4-33 and wait for the mothership.
why she never comes?
March 13, 2003
the death of an alpha male and the lives left behind
Halley gets to the heart of the alpha male series with a stirring and insightful post that brings her alpha male love full circle. Wshew.
March 12, 2003
March 11, 2003
stay alive; don't blog and drive...
This is one serious soccer mom. See how I keep my eyes on the road and take my own picture? Only bloggers can handle a camera (or is it a breath mint?) so well.
well, okay, not a soccer mom really. no one here plays soccer. yet.
a doctor mom. yes. that's it.
one serious doctor mom.
HONK!
con dolore
This is what it's like.
...it seems more important to say goodbye to this place. Acknowledge what happened here, honor it in some way. This is the only way I know. To try to say what it was, how it was, even if it's over. And it is. Roger that. Over and out.
Life and death and frailty, and trying so hard to build, to sculpt diamonds from coal and all the time the heart is coal, but you don't know that, you don't know that it could take hundreds of years and all the soot in the swamp to make it shine, and you don't know that no matter what you do, what movements what motions what sacrifices, it can never shine enough, can only dully reflect.
You can't know that, so you polish and polish and show them, "look how it shines--can you see yourself?" and they shine back at you, tell you "almost enough," to keep polishing, and you can't know that it will never ever be bright enough for them to see all the way through. They don't know, so how could you?
What can be mistaken for love usually is.
And then losing it and shattering, you're lying in a pool of your own muddy blood, what is left of it anyway, and finding yourself there, it's drowning or not.
Respect, RB.
...it seems more important to say goodbye to this place. Acknowledge what happened here, honor it in some way. This is the only way I know. To try to say what it was, how it was, even if it's over. And it is. Roger that. Over and out.
Life and death and frailty, and trying so hard to build, to sculpt diamonds from coal and all the time the heart is coal, but you don't know that, you don't know that it could take hundreds of years and all the soot in the swamp to make it shine, and you don't know that no matter what you do, what movements what motions what sacrifices, it can never shine enough, can only dully reflect.
You can't know that, so you polish and polish and show them, "look how it shines--can you see yourself?" and they shine back at you, tell you "almost enough," to keep polishing, and you can't know that it will never ever be bright enough for them to see all the way through. They don't know, so how could you?
What can be mistaken for love usually is.
And then losing it and shattering, you're lying in a pool of your own muddy blood, what is left of it anyway, and finding yourself there, it's drowning or not.
Respect, RB.
back to your regular scheduled blogging
I hate the news. I hate talking about the news. I hate that there is news. News sucks me in and makes me either 1) nervous or 2) mad. I don't want news anymore, I want olds. I want olds and only olds. I want to throw some 45s on the stereo, find some chocolate ice cubes in the freezer (am I the only one who remembers ice cubes, the chocolate frozen candy squares that I can't find anymore--someone please tell me where I can get these olds), put on my army pants (from the early 80s, when war seemed like something so old-fashioned that wouldn't have to deal with that messy shit again), and watch Soap. I'm sick of the news. I'm sick of the future. I'm going to go build a campfire in the past. Join me. If enough of us go there, there won't be any news to tell here, or anyone to tell it to.
with all the smarts and all the might and all the intelligence and all the power of the god these men believe has chosen them, there must be a way...
to get rid of one 180 lb. guy with less than 30,000 pounds of explosives.
I admit, I'm guessing on his weight.
And I'm no math wiz, but I figure that means they're using 166 pounds of bomb for every 1 pound of guy.
round here they call that overkill.
maybe it's me. I dunno.
I admit, I'm guessing on his weight.
And I'm no math wiz, but I figure that means they're using 166 pounds of bomb for every 1 pound of guy.
round here they call that overkill.
maybe it's me. I dunno.
Hey, I scooped Drudge
Not that I care, but dabbling around in the "news" part of weblogging as I do on rare occasion (and not as rare as I'd like), please note, dear readers, that I scooped Mr. Drudge today with a pointer to the story in the AJC about the superbomb test scheduled today in the Florida panhandle.
Here's the difference. Since Matt's site is an Internet news site, he and/or his fledgling journarazzi were most likely thinking, "Score! Check out this follow-up in the AJC about the superbomb--quick get the fucking link up." Or something similar. I'm only guessing.
Meanwhile, over here in blogdad, I was thinking about Tom (not in the panhandle, but close enough for jazz), George's mom, brother, niece and nephews, our accountant, Clarence Bell (in the panhandle), and, basically, ***human beings*** that might be in the vacinity of the boom.
Well, heck, we ain't that far away from it ourselves.
Then I was thinking of Bagdad, not so far away from Blogdad, and all the parallel people who try to work and live there.
Not really there, here:
Those folks who are actually are in the precise vicinity, better known as the target, for this superbomb. And I find myself wondering, what the hell you do to prepare for 30,000 pounds of high-power explosives?
Duct tape?
I think not.
Here's the difference. Since Matt's site is an Internet news site, he and/or his fledgling journarazzi were most likely thinking, "Score! Check out this follow-up in the AJC about the superbomb--quick get the fucking link up." Or something similar. I'm only guessing.
Meanwhile, over here in blogdad, I was thinking about Tom (not in the panhandle, but close enough for jazz), George's mom, brother, niece and nephews, our accountant, Clarence Bell (in the panhandle), and, basically, ***human beings*** that might be in the vacinity of the boom.
Well, heck, we ain't that far away from it ourselves.
Then I was thinking of Bagdad, not so far away from Blogdad, and all the parallel people who try to work and live there.
Not really there, here:
Those folks who are actually are in the precise vicinity, better known as the target, for this superbomb. And I find myself wondering, what the hell you do to prepare for 30,000 pounds of high-power explosives?
Duct tape?
I think not.
March 10, 2003
seeing eye to eye
I took jenna to a pediatric opthamologist today. Her pediatrician wanted us to take her just in case, to check some, well quite a few, grey flecks and dots in the white part of her eyes, which she hadn't seen in a child before.
Probably because she hasn't seen many extra-ethnic kids That's my new term these days, extra-cultural or extra-ethnic, even extra-racial, pick your term, and for the record I hate that there are terms at all, because that isn't how I see it or we see it, but we don't run the planet, and extra is much better than bi-anything because these kids aren't positive-negative, they are enriched with layers of heritage, culture, and genes, and at the end of the day, quite simply, they are most certainly the opposite of being inbred in most every single way.
So I said to George the other day, I think I'm use the word extra, because along with being extraordinary, it also conotes "more" and going outside of, connecting beyond, and of course, being on the edge, unique, and can also mean superior, and so screw them, this is what I can say if I want to, and even better it's like extranets, which of course is at the crux of what I think about most days when I'm not thinking about eye doctors and extra-ethnicity.
Speaking of culture and ethnicity, I want to tell you about the richness and oddity of this visit to the eye doctor today, but it was one of those all-senses kind of events that makes me wish my whole body was a blog so that I could soak in the experience and not forget to tell you anything.
Being more blob than blog this day, I will do my best.
It has to do with Harley Davidson, really. Hot bikes and cool chrome. Fast riding. And it has to do with none of that too.
Once I had Jenna seated in the kids theater, watching The Little Mermaid, at this geared-to-kids doctor's office, I went to sit in the adjacent waiting area with an assemblage of other adults and one young boy who was there with his Grandmother.
You see, she had driven him down from the North Georgia Mountains to the opthamologist.
This is what I learned as I sat down in the middle of a conversation, a loud one, between grandma and this petite, sweet, blonde black-belt belle karate expert, suited in her black belt outfit, enjoying a lively talk with grandma. Apparently these folks had come a long way, from separate parts of north Georgia, to see this doctor because he's good. (Which, it turned out, he is).
I watched the ping and pong of conversation about getting lost, about finding shortcuts, about finally arriving, and about how late they'd get home, I noted mostly that they both were both very loud.
Now if you've been to the North Georgia mountains, you would know that folks from there speak with heavy, country, southern drawls. These are the people whose accents, actually quite charming, are parodied on TV and in the movies in a none-too-kind a light. And I admit, I bought into the stereotype when I first moved here. I've found that more often than not, though, they'll fool you. They ain't so country as they seem, ya'll. And they're usually nicer than you expect, or even would like them to be.
My attention is immediately absorbed by the little boy, about 8, who is louder than grandma and a real corker. With red-brown hair, a face full of freckles, an Opie accent gone due south, and Dennis the Menace's personality, you get the picture.
I'm watching him as he's grabbing grandma's jowels and telling her, "Looky all the meat you got on yer throat, grandma--you're so cuuuute," and then her, knocking him across the chest back into his seat with a, "You want these folks to see you get your butt beat, I'm ready to oblige," and then the two of them laughing and pushing one another, this obviously being their rough, fun loving game, or something, one that I'd bet gets much rougher when junior really screws up and isn't in a room full of people.
I say to grandma, "Boy, he's not a shy one, is he?"
"No I wouldn't say so--It's because of his name."
"What's his name?"
"It's Harley. Harley with the middle name of Davidson. Harley Davidson."
"You kidding?"
"NO--really?" chimes in the black-belt belle.
"Yes m'am. His parent's couldn't afford to get a Harley, so they named him Harley Davidson."
"Well, I guess they got one after all," I say.
chuckle, chuckle, slap, shift, fun, smiles.
I'm digging this. Real people. Real life. Touch them--they don't bite.
Now's the time when the Vietnam Vet whose son is getting glasses comes and sits down with us. He happens to be black, and I'm wondering how the petite black belt belle--by now she's told us that she is in fact a black belt (as are her husband and three boys)--grandma harley, harley davidson, the vietnam vet and I are all going to hit it off. You have to understand, a glance around the room tells you one thing: We all comin from real different places.
And grandma harley's just gettin warmed up.
She wants to tell us about the BYOB dance party she went to on her birthday a couple weeks ago. And we all want to hear it. No, I'm serious.
Apparently the deal is, everyone meets at a big hall and brings their own booze; there's a live band, kids and adults, and they dance all night long. Costs $8 to get in ($16 for a couple, grandma tells me). Sounds like some kind of a barn raising from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to me, and I'm thinking, that's kind of charming. Well grandma explains that she had a bit too good of a time.
Harley Davidson chimes in, "She ain't supposed to drink cause of all the medicines she's on, but she drank that night!"
She shakes her head, "Yes I did, I took two of them shots--they call 'em tooters--and I felt such a nice buzz--I'd never had a drink in my life, and that buzz lasted ten minutes, and as soon as it was gone I said I wish I could get that back. Then I went home and read my Bible. I sure did."
The group laughs in unison, a couple of us shaking our heads.
"Well, it sounds like fun," I tell her
"You know, we're in a mixed room, or I'd tell ya'll a joke I got from that party. But somebody's probably deck me. I bet he [pointing to the Vietnam Vet, who, as I said, happens to be black] just as soon knock me out if I tell this one."
I'm thinking, okay. Here we go. Here's that southern thing where you get along fine and then someone has to demonstrate that you're not so foreign to them that they can't fit you in as the butt of a joke. In other words, I'm thinking here come's the racial joke.
I pipe up, "Well if he doesn't, I might."
"You? Really. Well here goes anyway..."
I look at the Vietnam Vet, giving a look that is one part "here we go" and one part "what a trip," and he smiles back, shakes his head. We wait.
"So the head of that party we went to, he says, 'Bea, you know what a man's favorite thing is on a Saturday Night?' And I say, 'No, what?' And he says: 'Tooters and Hooters!' Tooters and Hooters! I about fell over laughing. And now ya'll probably think I'm foul."
Tooters and Hooters? A booze joke? It dawns on me that she was concerned about being unladylike in mixed company, not about offending the varying color hues in the room.
In her own way, she was concerned about propriety. And I gave myself an internal kick for assuming she was coming from another place. Yeh, sure, up at the barn raising there may have been plenty of those kind of jokes too, but not this day. She had as good a talk with the vietnam vet as she did with the black belt belle as she did with me, and all of us together talked for close to an hour, laughing a good bit of the time, shaking our heads at grandma and harley davidson (which seemed to delight them) the rest of the time.
Whatever else she is, grandma harley's one of a kind.
"My husband's 22 years younger than I am," she says. "That's right, I'm 54 and I married me a 32 year old man who treats me right. I met him on a Tuesday and got a ring and proposed to him on Saturday, and that's when we got married."
Harley pipes in about grandpa's role in his life, "He's real nice to me too," which grandma seconds. "Don't you tell him that boy ain't his own grandson or you'll be in for some trouble."
Mostly we're sure we would be.
Harley starts to rev his motor some at this point, tired of waiting and used to being the family comedian, he's getting bored. He's telling us how much weight grandma's lost over the last two months, and she's telling us too, and then Harley starts grabbing grandma's sides, and she backhands him in the chest again, at which point they begin their joyful pushing and shoving all over again.
"He has ADHD, you know," grandma tells us.
Black Belt Belle says, "Well he's not really hyper--they're supposed to be hyper right?"
"That's because his medicine's just startin to wear off. That's what happens. Another hour and he'll be climbing the ceilings."
Harley's eyeballing the ceiling now and shaking his head. Yes, he'd like a rope to climb on up, so he could get up onto the ceiling tiles and get ready.
But instead the nurse comes out to the waiting area and calls his name to go back for his appointment.
I was sorry to see Harley and grandma go. I decided I was going to miss them both.
But I don't have to miss them. I have them here now, for good. And so do you.
More soon...
Probably because she hasn't seen many extra-ethnic kids That's my new term these days, extra-cultural or extra-ethnic, even extra-racial, pick your term, and for the record I hate that there are terms at all, because that isn't how I see it or we see it, but we don't run the planet, and extra is much better than bi-anything because these kids aren't positive-negative, they are enriched with layers of heritage, culture, and genes, and at the end of the day, quite simply, they are most certainly the opposite of being inbred in most every single way.
So I said to George the other day, I think I'm use the word extra, because along with being extraordinary, it also conotes "more" and going outside of, connecting beyond, and of course, being on the edge, unique, and can also mean superior, and so screw them, this is what I can say if I want to, and even better it's like extranets, which of course is at the crux of what I think about most days when I'm not thinking about eye doctors and extra-ethnicity.
Speaking of culture and ethnicity, I want to tell you about the richness and oddity of this visit to the eye doctor today, but it was one of those all-senses kind of events that makes me wish my whole body was a blog so that I could soak in the experience and not forget to tell you anything.
Being more blob than blog this day, I will do my best.
It has to do with Harley Davidson, really. Hot bikes and cool chrome. Fast riding. And it has to do with none of that too.
Once I had Jenna seated in the kids theater, watching The Little Mermaid, at this geared-to-kids doctor's office, I went to sit in the adjacent waiting area with an assemblage of other adults and one young boy who was there with his Grandmother.
You see, she had driven him down from the North Georgia Mountains to the opthamologist.
This is what I learned as I sat down in the middle of a conversation, a loud one, between grandma and this petite, sweet, blonde black-belt belle karate expert, suited in her black belt outfit, enjoying a lively talk with grandma. Apparently these folks had come a long way, from separate parts of north Georgia, to see this doctor because he's good. (Which, it turned out, he is).
I watched the ping and pong of conversation about getting lost, about finding shortcuts, about finally arriving, and about how late they'd get home, I noted mostly that they both were both very loud.
Now if you've been to the North Georgia mountains, you would know that folks from there speak with heavy, country, southern drawls. These are the people whose accents, actually quite charming, are parodied on TV and in the movies in a none-too-kind a light. And I admit, I bought into the stereotype when I first moved here. I've found that more often than not, though, they'll fool you. They ain't so country as they seem, ya'll. And they're usually nicer than you expect, or even would like them to be.
My attention is immediately absorbed by the little boy, about 8, who is louder than grandma and a real corker. With red-brown hair, a face full of freckles, an Opie accent gone due south, and Dennis the Menace's personality, you get the picture.
I'm watching him as he's grabbing grandma's jowels and telling her, "Looky all the meat you got on yer throat, grandma--you're so cuuuute," and then her, knocking him across the chest back into his seat with a, "You want these folks to see you get your butt beat, I'm ready to oblige," and then the two of them laughing and pushing one another, this obviously being their rough, fun loving game, or something, one that I'd bet gets much rougher when junior really screws up and isn't in a room full of people.
I say to grandma, "Boy, he's not a shy one, is he?"
"No I wouldn't say so--It's because of his name."
"What's his name?"
"It's Harley. Harley with the middle name of Davidson. Harley Davidson."
"You kidding?"
"NO--really?" chimes in the black-belt belle.
"Yes m'am. His parent's couldn't afford to get a Harley, so they named him Harley Davidson."
"Well, I guess they got one after all," I say.
chuckle, chuckle, slap, shift, fun, smiles.
I'm digging this. Real people. Real life. Touch them--they don't bite.
Now's the time when the Vietnam Vet whose son is getting glasses comes and sits down with us. He happens to be black, and I'm wondering how the petite black belt belle--by now she's told us that she is in fact a black belt (as are her husband and three boys)--grandma harley, harley davidson, the vietnam vet and I are all going to hit it off. You have to understand, a glance around the room tells you one thing: We all comin from real different places.
And grandma harley's just gettin warmed up.
She wants to tell us about the BYOB dance party she went to on her birthday a couple weeks ago. And we all want to hear it. No, I'm serious.
Apparently the deal is, everyone meets at a big hall and brings their own booze; there's a live band, kids and adults, and they dance all night long. Costs $8 to get in ($16 for a couple, grandma tells me). Sounds like some kind of a barn raising from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers to me, and I'm thinking, that's kind of charming. Well grandma explains that she had a bit too good of a time.
Harley Davidson chimes in, "She ain't supposed to drink cause of all the medicines she's on, but she drank that night!"
She shakes her head, "Yes I did, I took two of them shots--they call 'em tooters--and I felt such a nice buzz--I'd never had a drink in my life, and that buzz lasted ten minutes, and as soon as it was gone I said I wish I could get that back. Then I went home and read my Bible. I sure did."
The group laughs in unison, a couple of us shaking our heads.
"Well, it sounds like fun," I tell her
"You know, we're in a mixed room, or I'd tell ya'll a joke I got from that party. But somebody's probably deck me. I bet he [pointing to the Vietnam Vet, who, as I said, happens to be black] just as soon knock me out if I tell this one."
I'm thinking, okay. Here we go. Here's that southern thing where you get along fine and then someone has to demonstrate that you're not so foreign to them that they can't fit you in as the butt of a joke. In other words, I'm thinking here come's the racial joke.
I pipe up, "Well if he doesn't, I might."
"You? Really. Well here goes anyway..."
I look at the Vietnam Vet, giving a look that is one part "here we go" and one part "what a trip," and he smiles back, shakes his head. We wait.
"So the head of that party we went to, he says, 'Bea, you know what a man's favorite thing is on a Saturday Night?' And I say, 'No, what?' And he says: 'Tooters and Hooters!' Tooters and Hooters! I about fell over laughing. And now ya'll probably think I'm foul."
Tooters and Hooters? A booze joke? It dawns on me that she was concerned about being unladylike in mixed company, not about offending the varying color hues in the room.
In her own way, she was concerned about propriety. And I gave myself an internal kick for assuming she was coming from another place. Yeh, sure, up at the barn raising there may have been plenty of those kind of jokes too, but not this day. She had as good a talk with the vietnam vet as she did with the black belt belle as she did with me, and all of us together talked for close to an hour, laughing a good bit of the time, shaking our heads at grandma and harley davidson (which seemed to delight them) the rest of the time.
Whatever else she is, grandma harley's one of a kind.
"My husband's 22 years younger than I am," she says. "That's right, I'm 54 and I married me a 32 year old man who treats me right. I met him on a Tuesday and got a ring and proposed to him on Saturday, and that's when we got married."
Harley pipes in about grandpa's role in his life, "He's real nice to me too," which grandma seconds. "Don't you tell him that boy ain't his own grandson or you'll be in for some trouble."
Mostly we're sure we would be.
Harley starts to rev his motor some at this point, tired of waiting and used to being the family comedian, he's getting bored. He's telling us how much weight grandma's lost over the last two months, and she's telling us too, and then Harley starts grabbing grandma's sides, and she backhands him in the chest again, at which point they begin their joyful pushing and shoving all over again.
"He has ADHD, you know," grandma tells us.
Black Belt Belle says, "Well he's not really hyper--they're supposed to be hyper right?"
"That's because his medicine's just startin to wear off. That's what happens. Another hour and he'll be climbing the ceilings."
Harley's eyeballing the ceiling now and shaking his head. Yes, he'd like a rope to climb on up, so he could get up onto the ceiling tiles and get ready.
But instead the nurse comes out to the waiting area and calls his name to go back for his appointment.
I was sorry to see Harley and grandma go. I decided I was going to miss them both.
But I don't have to miss them. I have them here now, for good. And so do you.
More soon...
March 09, 2003
I was going for 5 in 5
My goal has been modestly reduced of late. I was merely trying to post five posts in five minutes, but I'm quite sure time has gotten away from me again. At least I got my five in. And now, I adjourn to the sleeping quarters.
good evening all.
play nice.
good evening all.
play nice.
cats are really good at killing snakes, and other nature discussions
I have more dead baby (and sometimes bigger) snakes in our driveway at this house than in any other place I've lived. Where do these things come from? I know where they go to--the cats. Cats seem mesmerized by snakes. They'll play with them for hours. Sometimes the snake will still have enough energy enough to slither away when the cats lie down to take a rest. But mostly, the cats bother the snake to death.
It's really kind of gross.
One evening I was on the phone with a blogger friend. A damn armidillo comes walking up my neighbor's lawn--do we have those here? I swear it looked like armor on it, not like your run of the mill opossum. Then five seconds later an owl comes swooping by me headed for the neighbor's house. I say, "What is this, Mutual of Fucking Omaha?" (old people will remember--do they still have Wild Kingdom on?)
Anyway, it's been like that around here lately. Some kind of bottom up revolt happening on the part of the belly crawlers and other predators.
the answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind...
It's really kind of gross.
One evening I was on the phone with a blogger friend. A damn armidillo comes walking up my neighbor's lawn--do we have those here? I swear it looked like armor on it, not like your run of the mill opossum. Then five seconds later an owl comes swooping by me headed for the neighbor's house. I say, "What is this, Mutual of Fucking Omaha?" (old people will remember--do they still have Wild Kingdom on?)
Anyway, it's been like that around here lately. Some kind of bottom up revolt happening on the part of the belly crawlers and other predators.
the answer my friend, is blowin' in the wind...
Do you see what I see?
Every time I see the new Wachovia logo around town, I think of Halley.
No, hear me out.
Does this not look like a woman lying on her side in a green (and blue--the middle piece) bathing suit? (or should I say suitt?)
Halley, have you been moonlighting as a graphic designer? Victoria's Secret meets Financial Services? It has Halley written all over it.
If not, then what the fuck is it?
(p.s, yah, I'm stealing their bandwidth. wish it had some cash attached to it.)
And speaking of which, if we all like really really wanted to cause problems with a site, say, a site that some of us really didn't like, not that I would ever do this or even think that way, but would bandwidth stealing be a good way to do it? Say if a hord of bloggers were to link directly to a remote image on said targeted site, would we be heard? I'm just curious. You know. Scientific research stuff.
No, hear me out.
Does this not look like a woman lying on her side in a green (and blue--the middle piece) bathing suit? (or should I say suitt?)
Halley, have you been moonlighting as a graphic designer? Victoria's Secret meets Financial Services? It has Halley written all over it.
If not, then what the fuck is it?
(p.s, yah, I'm stealing their bandwidth. wish it had some cash attached to it.)
And speaking of which, if we all like really really wanted to cause problems with a site, say, a site that some of us really didn't like, not that I would ever do this or even think that way, but would bandwidth stealing be a good way to do it? Say if a hord of bloggers were to link directly to a remote image on said targeted site, would we be heard? I'm just curious. You know. Scientific research stuff.
oh silent night
Jenna's asleep. George is sick, so he's asleep. Everywhere everyone's sleeping, and I'll be next.
This is the quietest time. This is my favorite time. I know my family is safe. Getting healthy. Getting rested. A place for every one and every one in their places. The animals are fed. No cable, so no TV for months now except for GPTV which comes in enough for Jenna to see the kids shows in the morning. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the disk drive in the dining room.
ahhhhhhhhhhh. listen. can you hear the quiet?
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. nice.
This is the quietest time. This is my favorite time. I know my family is safe. Getting healthy. Getting rested. A place for every one and every one in their places. The animals are fed. No cable, so no TV for months now except for GPTV which comes in enough for Jenna to see the kids shows in the morning. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the disk drive in the dining room.
ahhhhhhhhhhh. listen. can you hear the quiet?
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. nice.
i should be making a to-do list OR SHAKE Revisited.
because it's gotten that overwhelming. all the shit I need to do but am not doing. i would make it here, but it would scare me, some of what is in my to-do list, to share it with you, which makes me feel like I'm not telling you everything. And so I'm not. And then thinking what I do share, knowing that there's much more below here, that should scare you too. Does me.
Jonathon's pitching curves over there and you have to be quick to catch on. He waits for no man. He pointed to this a couple days ago on Gonzo Engaged and it made my heart stop because SHAKE was the one that got me. And you know you're speaking at the same time, about the same thing, the same way, with the same kind when you find that kind and then find out that the same thing got that someone else. Really.
It's Jonathon's fault. Everything is. What's not his is Marek's.
That's why I have to pull out some of SHAKE here. Because as she says, 24, maybe more of us, are here and most of us all got SHAKED at the same time.
So SHAKE.
And now this, I would think. Not the endless tapestry of complexity unbound, but just stupid ordinary confusion. Embarrassing. Not knowing how to hold one's hands. Like posing for an awkward photograph when you're already in a bad mood. Leave me alone. Shall I hold my face like this? Or this? And nothing felt right, and nothing felt true. No surer hell.
So I drank.
Name your poison.
You're beginning to suspect this is all a bit too random. Or long ago suspected it and now you're not taking no wooden nickels from nobody. You're ready for anything, you've seen it all. You love your kids, you hate your life. No wait. You love your life, you hate your kids. You've even considered Scientology. Or joining the Psychic Friends network.
In short, in fact, in flagrante delicto: you're at the end of your fucking rope. Admit it.
Repent. Forgiveness is yours.
Everyone looks up at the stars and wonders. Everyone remembers falling in love. It's corny and you don't like to admit it, but there it is. It's true for your most hardened killers. It's true for your most chichi ennui-ridden webhead hipster neophiliacs.
...yeah? And then what? Then you give yourself absolution. You forgive yourself for being human, for being confused, for not knowing the right answer. You weep for your life. For having been so shut off and hard hearted. You get down on your hands and knees and kiss the fucking earth for having you one more day is what you do.
And when in doubt, rock like a motherfucker.
This is where I figured out about rock and roll, or whatever you call it that does that. And a whole lot else, I guess, though it's only just now sinking in, now that that world is dead as a burned out supernova ten million light years somewhere back behind yesterday. And the thing would sorta build up as the night wore on, the band getting hotter, the lovers getting hotter, the hall getting a whole lot hotter, until you were dancing your ass off, sweating like a motherfucker, stoned, exhausted and you didn't care anymore, and then the band would know they had you and they'd kick it over the edge, driving the beat like a blinded animal, the lead guitar suddenly sliding up from tasty to insistent to full-throttle roadhouse and just when you thought that was the top, the horns would come in, a whole line of them wailing blasting blowing the fucking roof off and they'd cook like that for so long you could not believe it, as it defied the very laws of God and man, shredded the fabric of space and time, and you'd find yourself shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" like a goddam madman just like everybody else, and that wall of sound, of crazy joyous noise, was all the reason you needed, all the reason you'd ever likely get, and everybody knew it. Which was the whole point. The heart and soul of rock and roll. And all the rest of it. If you didn't get it then, you never would.
That, my dear blog friends and enemas, is what it means to get it. It's not about telling, it's about letting the music/drug/words/poetry/net/love/sex/cat/kids/name-your-passion/ kick the guts out of our middle and onto the walls and ceilings, and its messy and joyous. It's nasty and georgeous. And that's how it tells its own tale.
When I found out, a couple days ago, that Jonathon got it from SHAKE like I got it from SHAKE then I knew we got the same thing the same way to the same beat, the same sock in the gut, the same way.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Curvin' ya J-man.
Jonathon's pitching curves over there and you have to be quick to catch on. He waits for no man. He pointed to this a couple days ago on Gonzo Engaged and it made my heart stop because SHAKE was the one that got me. And you know you're speaking at the same time, about the same thing, the same way, with the same kind when you find that kind and then find out that the same thing got that someone else. Really.
It's Jonathon's fault. Everything is. What's not his is Marek's.
That's why I have to pull out some of SHAKE here. Because as she says, 24, maybe more of us, are here and most of us all got SHAKED at the same time.
So SHAKE.
And now this, I would think. Not the endless tapestry of complexity unbound, but just stupid ordinary confusion. Embarrassing. Not knowing how to hold one's hands. Like posing for an awkward photograph when you're already in a bad mood. Leave me alone. Shall I hold my face like this? Or this? And nothing felt right, and nothing felt true. No surer hell.
So I drank.
Name your poison.
You're beginning to suspect this is all a bit too random. Or long ago suspected it and now you're not taking no wooden nickels from nobody. You're ready for anything, you've seen it all. You love your kids, you hate your life. No wait. You love your life, you hate your kids. You've even considered Scientology. Or joining the Psychic Friends network.
In short, in fact, in flagrante delicto: you're at the end of your fucking rope. Admit it.
Repent. Forgiveness is yours.
Everyone looks up at the stars and wonders. Everyone remembers falling in love. It's corny and you don't like to admit it, but there it is. It's true for your most hardened killers. It's true for your most chichi ennui-ridden webhead hipster neophiliacs.
...yeah? And then what? Then you give yourself absolution. You forgive yourself for being human, for being confused, for not knowing the right answer. You weep for your life. For having been so shut off and hard hearted. You get down on your hands and knees and kiss the fucking earth for having you one more day is what you do.
And when in doubt, rock like a motherfucker.
This is where I figured out about rock and roll, or whatever you call it that does that. And a whole lot else, I guess, though it's only just now sinking in, now that that world is dead as a burned out supernova ten million light years somewhere back behind yesterday. And the thing would sorta build up as the night wore on, the band getting hotter, the lovers getting hotter, the hall getting a whole lot hotter, until you were dancing your ass off, sweating like a motherfucker, stoned, exhausted and you didn't care anymore, and then the band would know they had you and they'd kick it over the edge, driving the beat like a blinded animal, the lead guitar suddenly sliding up from tasty to insistent to full-throttle roadhouse and just when you thought that was the top, the horns would come in, a whole line of them wailing blasting blowing the fucking roof off and they'd cook like that for so long you could not believe it, as it defied the very laws of God and man, shredded the fabric of space and time, and you'd find yourself shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" like a goddam madman just like everybody else, and that wall of sound, of crazy joyous noise, was all the reason you needed, all the reason you'd ever likely get, and everybody knew it. Which was the whole point. The heart and soul of rock and roll. And all the rest of it. If you didn't get it then, you never would.
That, my dear blog friends and enemas, is what it means to get it. It's not about telling, it's about letting the music/drug/words/poetry/net/love/sex/cat/kids/name-your-passion/ kick the guts out of our middle and onto the walls and ceilings, and its messy and joyous. It's nasty and georgeous. And that's how it tells its own tale.
When I found out, a couple days ago, that Jonathon got it from SHAKE like I got it from SHAKE then I knew we got the same thing the same way to the same beat, the same sock in the gut, the same way.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Curvin' ya J-man.
The artist formerly known as RageBoy
C-Lo goes Condo. Oh yah, and he needs help moving. This is where having blogger friends doesn't come in so handy. (She opens Outlook, clicks create message, "Hey RB, one, two, three, LIFT!" Send.)
Hey, buddy, are ya standing up?
Verse
Somewhere, at the foot of an ice-topped mountain, the hibernating bear stirs inside his tight bunker of boulders. As he comes to, he comes to something, to a season, maybe to a reason or to none at all. This is him coming to and coming from, in spite of her/him/her/them/ and even who and whom.
This is where he comes to in front of us. You can't find that any place else. Because this is where he went under.
Chorus
At an earlier time. In another place. A mirror for Mommy. Say hello to the nice people, Honey. Spin and twirl little girl. A flash of anger, and I took it. Both barrels.
And after it all, you are left with what they gave you in the first place.
Refrain
C-Lo, sweet cheerio.
And with all of this stirring conversation about blind folk, did ya stop to think that RB just gave you a name that says you can't see up high? How you gonna pack the canned salmon?
bada-bing.
Hey, buddy, are ya standing up?
Verse
Somewhere, at the foot of an ice-topped mountain, the hibernating bear stirs inside his tight bunker of boulders. As he comes to, he comes to something, to a season, maybe to a reason or to none at all. This is him coming to and coming from, in spite of her/him/her/them/ and even who and whom.
This is where he comes to in front of us. You can't find that any place else. Because this is where he went under.
Chorus
At an earlier time. In another place. A mirror for Mommy. Say hello to the nice people, Honey. Spin and twirl little girl. A flash of anger, and I took it. Both barrels.
And after it all, you are left with what they gave you in the first place.
Refrain
C-Lo, sweet cheerio.
And with all of this stirring conversation about blind folk, did ya stop to think that RB just gave you a name that says you can't see up high? How you gonna pack the canned salmon?
bada-bing.
world of ends--it's an article, not a movement.
I've been watching the hubbub over world of ends for the last couple of days. I mostly said what I thought over in Shelley's comments.
I view World of Ends as what the authors essentially called it: an article. I like that Doc and Dave didn't pedal it to Wired--they certainly could have and will likely get coverage there and in other pubs regardless. It was classy of them, blooglicious even, to put it up in the public domain with a facility that lets others comment on it and steal as they wish.
While I wasn't a recipient on the now legendary email to folks who got first dibs on checking the site out (although I was probably the first reader to add a link to the site to a global corporate Intranet), my understanding is that the good doctors at Searls & Weinberger, Inc. were primarily trying to answer questions they get all the time. These must range anywhere from, "What's the Internet for?" to "Why should I give a damn?"
As a forum for them to give their personal responses to common questions about the Internet, and then let others weigh in, I think it's relevant. I'm not moved to make the leap that it is anything beyond that. Do I wish I'd get a similar response--well, any response--when I say the Internet is schizophrenic, which, in my opinion is as important? Yeh. But hey.
My only nit with the article is that is was pretty heavy on the top-down end. For an article talking about the importance of fringes and ends, it had a punditish tone and important-people sidebar links. I would have liked these good guys of the net to have added a drill-down layer for each point giving real world, real-time examples of goods and bads from *this* world of folk (not just the Lessigs and Isenbergs). Take it down a level, get dirty, show you can roll around in the grass. It's as important that people like Doc and Dave talk about us as it is that we talk about them. We circle and reinforce one another, and help keep each other real.
They did give us a facility to do this, however. The site has a welcome Quick Topic comment area which is where you'll find the real crux of the content. The comments there, and on slashdot, and other places, which Doc has added links to, are a fitting underbelly to the site. (Idea: Doc, add these links to the site itself, not just your weblog).
In fact, the World Ends thread on slashdot, to me, was most indicative of the Internet and why we're all here. I don't think I need to explain why. Something to do with joy.
These offshoot voices, our voices, are the real conclusion to the article, which, if it's on target, should have no conclusion at all.
I view World of Ends as what the authors essentially called it: an article. I like that Doc and Dave didn't pedal it to Wired--they certainly could have and will likely get coverage there and in other pubs regardless. It was classy of them, blooglicious even, to put it up in the public domain with a facility that lets others comment on it and steal as they wish.
While I wasn't a recipient on the now legendary email to folks who got first dibs on checking the site out (although I was probably the first reader to add a link to the site to a global corporate Intranet), my understanding is that the good doctors at Searls & Weinberger, Inc. were primarily trying to answer questions they get all the time. These must range anywhere from, "What's the Internet for?" to "Why should I give a damn?"
As a forum for them to give their personal responses to common questions about the Internet, and then let others weigh in, I think it's relevant. I'm not moved to make the leap that it is anything beyond that. Do I wish I'd get a similar response--well, any response--when I say the Internet is schizophrenic, which, in my opinion is as important? Yeh. But hey.
My only nit with the article is that is was pretty heavy on the top-down end. For an article talking about the importance of fringes and ends, it had a punditish tone and important-people sidebar links. I would have liked these good guys of the net to have added a drill-down layer for each point giving real world, real-time examples of goods and bads from *this* world of folk (not just the Lessigs and Isenbergs). Take it down a level, get dirty, show you can roll around in the grass. It's as important that people like Doc and Dave talk about us as it is that we talk about them. We circle and reinforce one another, and help keep each other real.
They did give us a facility to do this, however. The site has a welcome Quick Topic comment area which is where you'll find the real crux of the content. The comments there, and on slashdot, and other places, which Doc has added links to, are a fitting underbelly to the site. (Idea: Doc, add these links to the site itself, not just your weblog).
In fact, the World Ends thread on slashdot, to me, was most indicative of the Internet and why we're all here. I don't think I need to explain why. Something to do with joy.
These offshoot voices, our voices, are the real conclusion to the article, which, if it's on target, should have no conclusion at all.
If I could pick anything in the world I'd like more of, besides money...
It would be either sleep or health. I think they're related. Pretty sure of it. I bet if I picked sleep, health would take care of itself. Or vice versa.
Yes, that would be my pick.
Maybe in about 13 years, if I live that long.
Yes, that would be my pick.
Maybe in about 13 years, if I live that long.
Pretty Day
I think Spring is finally here. In the 60s, sunny, smells like spring.
Jenna looks kind of out of place in her snowman nightgown.
Jenna looks kind of out of place in her snowman nightgown.
does everyone's house look like this?
don't answer that. I know. Mine is just a chaotic disaster. Most people dine in their dining rooms. In ours, the dining room table is pushed up against the wall, instead of a flower vase and placemats it holds a PC, inkjet printer, any number of CDs and printer cartridges. Two chairs have grown to three or four, pulled around the makeshift desk, where Jenna and George do their computer work. The chandalier (believe me, nothing special) hangs in the middle of the room, and without a table under it, it smacks george in the forehead every couple of days.
The living room is worse. Much worse. My DSL cable is now strewn across the floor in between (and this is real time) a box top from an old lunchables, jenna's over turned yellow chair, a box of crayons upside down, five shoes, an arm of stuffed animals, a computer desk, barbie, tigger, an activity pad, and a popsicle stick. And that's just the floor.
Okay, this is depressing me.
I'm stopping with the living room.
The living room is worse. Much worse. My DSL cable is now strewn across the floor in between (and this is real time) a box top from an old lunchables, jenna's over turned yellow chair, a box of crayons upside down, five shoes, an arm of stuffed animals, a computer desk, barbie, tigger, an activity pad, and a popsicle stick. And that's just the floor.
Okay, this is depressing me.
I'm stopping with the living room.
The dog almost ate the cat
This morning Jenna got up before us and decided to play a game--let the goofy dog in to play "tag" with the cat. I drifted in and out of slumber as I heard odd noises downstairs. It sounded chaotic, but it always does when she gets up. It wasn't until I heard Bando woofing up a storm that I thought I should investigate. He and Jenna were on top of the leather couch when I got there, the kitten hiding in the crevice between the couch and the stereo speaker. Bando, for his part, was poised to grab a mouth full of kittie. He's a gentle soul but thinks with his paws and mouth. Something about boxer mixes.
"Jenna, what are you doing?"
"We were playing king of the mountain."
"Where's the cat?"
Pointing, "Down there."
"Why is Bando in here?"
"He wanted to come in and play. We were just playing tag. He sure is a silly one."
"Get him off the couch. Get you off the couch."
And as they jumped down and ran up the stairs, the cat flew out of his hiding place after them. I think they really were playing tag.
"Jenna, what are you doing?"
"We were playing king of the mountain."
"Where's the cat?"
Pointing, "Down there."
"Why is Bando in here?"
"He wanted to come in and play. We were just playing tag. He sure is a silly one."
"Get him off the couch. Get you off the couch."
And as they jumped down and ran up the stairs, the cat flew out of his hiding place after them. I think they really were playing tag.
One more time with feeling...
The Internet is Bi-Polar. It is a tragedy and comedy all at once; it's dark and it's light, fiction and non-fiction all at once. It's everything that has ever been written and nothing all at the same time. It is poetry and prose at once, elevating and degrading, uplifting and depressing, brilliant and stupid. The net is as much about splitting as it is joining.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.
March 08, 2003
The Net needs a DSM Code
I was telling RB earlier this week how my t-mobile sidekick has put a few new wrinkles in how I use the net. I mean, not just in the obvious ways, like how I can post from the road or get email anyplace/where. But in subtle ways too.
The sidekick changes how I feel, how I move, how I lie down, how I go to sleep--and also how I travel online and where I go. One example: Most nights instead of picking up a book in bed, I now pick up my sidekick.
It's important to me that I hold the sidekick with two hands, just like a book, that I lean back on my pillows, pull the covers up, keep the sidekick in front of my face, about the same distance away from my eyes as a book, and that on more than one occasion I've stumbled around the next morning only to find the sidekick under the bed, just where my books used to land after having fallen fast asleep with them in hand.
Now I curl up with my favorite blogs just as I once did my favorite novel or latest selfish-help book.
So I'm telling him this, and says: "The Web as the endless book."
As usual, I start thinking of what that means to me, and I think yes! Through my sidekick, through anything small and convenient and transportable enough to read and digest in page-by-page fasion with two hands. yes.
Picking up the net when I pick up my sidekick is like picking up the endless book.
But why? Is it the sidekick specifically? Is it me? Is it my level of familiarity with the net? Is it even a diagnosable condition at all?
I don't know, but I will tell you my particular symptoms:
When I reach through my laptop window and touch the net, I'm having conversations, I'm writing with abandon, I'm commenting, I'm laughing, I'm linking to and fro. This is where I really engage.
When I'm in desktop mode, I'm working. I'm searching google. I'm researching, I'm printing, and in between I'm posting, but mostly I search there.
When I approach the net from my sidekick, it is my endless book.
It's my single binding with pages penned by a hundred of my favorite authors, whose stories are separate and interrelated all at once.
So what does all of this mean?
The net is Bi-Polar. It is a tragedy and comedy all at once; it's dark and it's light, fiction and non-fiction all at once. It's everything that has ever been written and nothing all at the same time. It is poetry and prose at once, elevating and degrading, uplifting and depressing. The net is as much about splitting as it is joining.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.
Some thoughts for sleeptime reading... the sidekick is charged--see ya upstairs.
The sidekick changes how I feel, how I move, how I lie down, how I go to sleep--and also how I travel online and where I go. One example: Most nights instead of picking up a book in bed, I now pick up my sidekick.
It's important to me that I hold the sidekick with two hands, just like a book, that I lean back on my pillows, pull the covers up, keep the sidekick in front of my face, about the same distance away from my eyes as a book, and that on more than one occasion I've stumbled around the next morning only to find the sidekick under the bed, just where my books used to land after having fallen fast asleep with them in hand.
Now I curl up with my favorite blogs just as I once did my favorite novel or latest selfish-help book.
So I'm telling him this, and says: "The Web as the endless book."
As usual, I start thinking of what that means to me, and I think yes! Through my sidekick, through anything small and convenient and transportable enough to read and digest in page-by-page fasion with two hands. yes.
Picking up the net when I pick up my sidekick is like picking up the endless book.
But why? Is it the sidekick specifically? Is it me? Is it my level of familiarity with the net? Is it even a diagnosable condition at all?
I don't know, but I will tell you my particular symptoms:
When I reach through my laptop window and touch the net, I'm having conversations, I'm writing with abandon, I'm commenting, I'm laughing, I'm linking to and fro. This is where I really engage.
When I'm in desktop mode, I'm working. I'm searching google. I'm researching, I'm printing, and in between I'm posting, but mostly I search there.
When I approach the net from my sidekick, it is my endless book.
It's my single binding with pages penned by a hundred of my favorite authors, whose stories are separate and interrelated all at once.
So what does all of this mean?
The net is Bi-Polar. It is a tragedy and comedy all at once; it's dark and it's light, fiction and non-fiction all at once. It's everything that has ever been written and nothing all at the same time. It is poetry and prose at once, elevating and degrading, uplifting and depressing. The net is as much about splitting as it is joining.
And if the net is an agreement, it is as much about disorder as it is protocol. It is as much about the schizophrenia of me, myself, and I (and him and her and them and us) as it is about the handshake with the network. It's as much about how you arrive as what you do there, and as much about what you do after you've been as it is what you did while you were there.
Some thoughts for sleeptime reading... the sidekick is charged--see ya upstairs.
March 07, 2003
World of Ends?
I really want to get to World of Ends to see what Doc and David have come up with. From what I've read about the site, I'm assuming I'm going to get really excited and rush off to add the link to my company's Intranet must-reads. Unfortunately, the site must be soaked with traffic 'cause it's down, leaving me, well, at a dead end.
When it comes up, will someone please email me?
Oh, and here:
Broadway's officially quiet.
[[LATER that same night: OKAY! I got there--cool! It's a nice common-language, quotable article on why the net should still interest businesses, who have pretty much shunned anything that starts with a W, N, or I since the bust. 20K in hits and growing, somewhere to point the suits--Hey, it can't hurt.]]
When it comes up, will someone please email me?
Oh, and here:
Broadway's officially quiet.
[[LATER that same night: OKAY! I got there--cool! It's a nice common-language, quotable article on why the net should still interest businesses, who have pretty much shunned anything that starts with a W, N, or I since the bust. 20K in hits and growing, somewhere to point the suits--Hey, it can't hurt.]]
George Calls for a Music-Out
George Sessum knows the insanity of the music business first hand. I know it second hand. Everyone, clap your hands. Okay now stop. Listen. Shhhh. Nothing.
That's how it's going to sound on Broadway tonight, as the pit orchestras go on strike. George tells us in this post that threats to cut broadway ensembles from 25 to 7 weren't warmly received by broadway musicians, a rare subset of working musicians who can eek out a decent living.
SEVEN? Wooo. I'd like to see that performance. My school musicals had larger pit bands.
So tonight the Broadway musicians strike--and as George says, this is a risky proposition: "We can be replaced now more than ever by machines. Don't think producers won't figure out a way to have canned music for Broadway. They did this in Vegas..."
Instead, he suggests another solution:
Maybe there should be a musicless week and I mean:
NO Radio
NO MTV
NO Live Music ANYwhere
NO Pre-Recorded Music of any kind
Computer generated midi music [no samples] is allowed because it doesn't have a heartbeat. I guarantee total insanity and chaos within 48hours.
Hey, I'm in.
That's how it's going to sound on Broadway tonight, as the pit orchestras go on strike. George tells us in this post that threats to cut broadway ensembles from 25 to 7 weren't warmly received by broadway musicians, a rare subset of working musicians who can eek out a decent living.
SEVEN? Wooo. I'd like to see that performance. My school musicals had larger pit bands.
So tonight the Broadway musicians strike--and as George says, this is a risky proposition: "We can be replaced now more than ever by machines. Don't think producers won't figure out a way to have canned music for Broadway. They did this in Vegas..."
Instead, he suggests another solution:
Maybe there should be a musicless week and I mean:
NO Radio
NO MTV
NO Live Music ANYwhere
NO Pre-Recorded Music of any kind
Computer generated midi music [no samples] is allowed because it doesn't have a heartbeat. I guarantee total insanity and chaos within 48hours.
Hey, I'm in.
THE WINNER in the "Worth Waiting For" Category.....
...is one Chris Locke (AKA "Uncle Rage" around these parts), who has written this rip-roaring testimonial for my praise page. Breaking all the rules for the template he encouraged me to steal, this multi-paragraph tribute made my day.
For anyone wondering, yes he is back, in fact never left, and Gary, he says, "Hey." Marek, he says, "Hey Hey." He also promises to make note of Denise's new blog design very soon, as soon as everyone else has already commented, much as with my testimonials page.
And now, please join me in basking in this Clockean praise...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I recently bought a Hallmark greeting card that asks,"Weren't robots supposed to be doing all the crap jobs by now?" And in smaller type at the bottom: "What happened?"
Whaddya mean "what happened?"? Take a look at the hackneyed, cliche ridden prose in today's so-called corporate communications. If that stuff isn't written by robots, it might as well be, for all the warmth and intelligence it conveys. NOT. It remains a mystery why so many companies still tend to think of communicating with their markets as a "crap job." It's not. Though approaching this core function with such an attitude assures that the results will constitute a very expensive crap shot.
Gregory Bateson once described information as any difference that makes a difference. There are plenty of people -- even some robots -- that can string words together into sentences. Jeaneane Sessum, on the other hand, can write. And yes, Virginia, there is a difference. Jeneane can write Eskimos into iceboxes, then write them out again. She may be the only person I know who can tell a stranger about rock and roll -- as she demonstrates nearly every day on her weblog. If you're not quite sure what all this means, she'll even 'splain it to you, Stranger. You'll be dancing your ass off in no time!
If your aim is to genuinely inform your markets about what you're up to and why anyone should give a damn, hire Jeneane. You can't go wrong. That's assuming, of course, that you are up to something worth giving a damn about. If not, hire robots. They're cheaper and they don't seem to mind writing crap. Jeneane does mind. Although she has many laudable communication skills, suffering fools gladly is not high among them.
Aside from that, she's a very nice person and doesn't (usually) bite.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Okay--I gotta run. I will attempt to write some eskimos into and out of iceboxes later today. (No offense intended to Eskimos or Intuits, but some offense intended for Frigidaire for poor page design and really high prises. Okay, maybe not offense. Envy maybe.)
....LATER THAT SAME DAY... I was thinking, since I haven't had a chance to add this jewel to my actual testimonials page yet, I should add the proper credits for C-Lo, just as I have for other contributors. Most bloggers know who he is, but for those hard of surfing, the official blurb says this...
Named in the 2001 Financial Times Group survey as one of the "top 50 business thinkers in the world," Chris Locke is author of Gonzo Marketing: Winning Through Worst Practices and The Bombast Transcripts, and co-author of the best selling Cluetrain Manifesto. He is president of Entropy Web Consulting, and editor/publisher of the widely acclaimed and justly infamous webzine Entropy Gradient Reversals.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I'm thinking if we put our heads together, we could come up with a pretty good unofficial bio too....
For anyone wondering, yes he is back, in fact never left, and Gary, he says, "Hey." Marek, he says, "Hey Hey." He also promises to make note of Denise's new blog design very soon, as soon as everyone else has already commented, much as with my testimonials page.
And now, please join me in basking in this Clockean praise...
I recently bought a Hallmark greeting card that asks,"Weren't robots supposed to be doing all the crap jobs by now?" And in smaller type at the bottom: "What happened?"
Whaddya mean "what happened?"? Take a look at the hackneyed, cliche ridden prose in today's so-called corporate communications. If that stuff isn't written by robots, it might as well be, for all the warmth and intelligence it conveys. NOT. It remains a mystery why so many companies still tend to think of communicating with their markets as a "crap job." It's not. Though approaching this core function with such an attitude assures that the results will constitute a very expensive crap shot.
Gregory Bateson once described information as any difference that makes a difference. There are plenty of people -- even some robots -- that can string words together into sentences. Jeaneane Sessum, on the other hand, can write. And yes, Virginia, there is a difference. Jeneane can write Eskimos into iceboxes, then write them out again. She may be the only person I know who can tell a stranger about rock and roll -- as she demonstrates nearly every day on her weblog. If you're not quite sure what all this means, she'll even 'splain it to you, Stranger. You'll be dancing your ass off in no time!
If your aim is to genuinely inform your markets about what you're up to and why anyone should give a damn, hire Jeneane. You can't go wrong. That's assuming, of course, that you are up to something worth giving a damn about. If not, hire robots. They're cheaper and they don't seem to mind writing crap. Jeneane does mind. Although she has many laudable communication skills, suffering fools gladly is not high among them.
Aside from that, she's a very nice person and doesn't (usually) bite.
Okay--I gotta run. I will attempt to write some eskimos into and out of iceboxes later today. (No offense intended to Eskimos or Intuits, but some offense intended for Frigidaire for poor page design and really high prises. Okay, maybe not offense. Envy maybe.)
....LATER THAT SAME DAY... I was thinking, since I haven't had a chance to add this jewel to my actual testimonials page yet, I should add the proper credits for C-Lo, just as I have for other contributors. Most bloggers know who he is, but for those hard of surfing, the official blurb says this...
Named in the 2001 Financial Times Group survey as one of the "top 50 business thinkers in the world," Chris Locke is author of Gonzo Marketing: Winning Through Worst Practices and The Bombast Transcripts, and co-author of the best selling Cluetrain Manifesto. He is president of Entropy Web Consulting, and editor/publisher of the widely acclaimed and justly infamous webzine Entropy Gradient Reversals.
Chris is a noted industry speaker, having keynoted for organizations such as Accenture (nee Anderson Consulting), the Direct Marketing Association, e- Business Expo, Dresdner Kleinwort Wasserstein, First Union Bank, Gartner Group, Key3Media, Peoplesoft, The Public Relations Society of America, SAP, Sun Microsystems, Devine Interventures, and Swiss Re. (See details at Washington Speakers Bureau)
Now based in Boulder, Colorado, Locke has worked for Fujitsu, Ricoh, the Japanese government's "Fifth Generation" artificial intelligence project, Carnegie Mellon University's Robotics Institute, CMP Publications, Mecklermedia, MCI, and IBM. He has written extensively for publications such as Forbes, The Industry Standard, Information Week, Harvard Business Review, Publish, Wired, and Release 1.0. His professional work has been covered by Advertising Age, Business Week, The Economist, Fast Company, Fortune, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Wired, and many others.
He has never recanted anything.
I'm thinking if we put our heads together, we could come up with a pretty good unofficial bio too....
March 06, 2003
stomp, stomp off to bed...
"...gotta get my time down....... gotta get my time down. gonna need a stopwatch. ... gotta break 45 next time...."
30 in 30--er... 60
You know, some of my "rush" posts - my attempt at posting 30 posts in 30 minutes (which turned out to be an hour) aren't bad. If you want the full monte on how my mind works, start with the very first one and work your way up.
enjoy.
or get scared.
good night.
enjoy.
or get scared.
good night.
The Thirtieth Is the Charm
What this little excercise has taught me:
Posting 30 posts in 30 minutes is hard. SO hard in fact that it took me EXACTLY twice as long as I thought it would to get 30 posts in.
What seemed like 30 minutes was actually an hour.
I have therefore uncovered a scientific truth:
Every two minutes spent blogging = a minute in the real world
or
It takes twice as long to blog as it does to live.
or
Do I have it all backwards?
Posting 30 posts in 30 minutes is hard. SO hard in fact that it took me EXACTLY twice as long as I thought it would to get 30 posts in.
What seemed like 30 minutes was actually an hour.
I have therefore uncovered a scientific truth:
Every two minutes spent blogging = a minute in the real world
or
It takes twice as long to blog as it does to live.
or
Do I have it all backwards?
I think it HAS to be close to 30
Good evening fellow bloggers and blog readers. This evening I decided to wake myself, if no one else, up and try to post 30 posts in 30 minutes. I won't know how I did until I push Publish, and even then, with the way Blogger's been acting, there's no telling. But let's give it the old college try and see how I did.....
AH WAIT--I'm one short. AH HA! As I figured, Blogger didn't handle it quite well and this little post is still open.
On to the next.
AH WAIT--I'm one short. AH HA! As I figured, Blogger didn't handle it quite well and this little post is still open.
On to the next.
March 05, 2003
I think I'm over time
No way to tell unless I publish, and I'm not publishing yet...
It just occured to me--will some of these posts end up in the archives, never to have been read at all? THAT would be a flipping shame!
We don't have cable anymore and I'm glad. I played some videos from Jenna we had taped back when we had the soft-porn--OH, I mean Disney--channel. For crying out loud--don't get lulled into thinking that Disney's got any good messages flying into your kids' eyes and ears these days folks. A networked designed to raise "CONSUMERS" and bratty mouthy ones at that. No, it's not self-confidence on these shows and commercials. It's self-centered narcisistic role models intricately designed as to seem harmless to parents after three to six viewings and to be irresistible to kids after a commercial and a half, and if needed, one entire episode of Lizzy Maguire's belly button.
Drop Disney before it's too late.
It just occured to me--will some of these posts end up in the archives, never to have been read at all? THAT would be a flipping shame!
We don't have cable anymore and I'm glad. I played some videos from Jenna we had taped back when we had the soft-porn--OH, I mean Disney--channel. For crying out loud--don't get lulled into thinking that Disney's got any good messages flying into your kids' eyes and ears these days folks. A networked designed to raise "CONSUMERS" and bratty mouthy ones at that. No, it's not self-confidence on these shows and commercials. It's self-centered narcisistic role models intricately designed as to seem harmless to parents after three to six viewings and to be irresistible to kids after a commercial and a half, and if needed, one entire episode of Lizzy Maguire's belly button.
Drop Disney before it's too late.
George told Jenna Mr. Rogers Died
You know, when Mr. Rogers died last week, I let my brain run around for a goodly amount of time on if to tell Jenna, how to tell Jenna, what to do or say if it made her sad, how to approach it in a way that wouldn't scar her--have her waiting for Elmo to die next week, the Olsen twins to die the week after. How to explain why the man's still on TV if he's dead? Too much. I decided to ignore it.
Little did I know a very natural conversation took place in my absense. I know that because I drove Jenna to school today and she mentioned off the cuff, "Kelsey knew that Mr. Rogers died too. She heard it on the news."
I said, "Oh, you know that Mr. Rogers died?"
"Yep. Daddy told me the other day. Kelsey knew too. That's sad."
Then she asked me if I'd turn on her favorite Earth Wind and Fire CD, and soon she was singing along with her favorite track (number 6), and the non event was pretty much just that.
Guess we know our hangups when our kids show us.
Little did I know a very natural conversation took place in my absense. I know that because I drove Jenna to school today and she mentioned off the cuff, "Kelsey knew that Mr. Rogers died too. She heard it on the news."
I said, "Oh, you know that Mr. Rogers died?"
"Yep. Daddy told me the other day. Kelsey knew too. That's sad."
Then she asked me if I'd turn on her favorite Earth Wind and Fire CD, and soon she was singing along with her favorite track (number 6), and the non event was pretty much just that.
Guess we know our hangups when our kids show us.
the first
the only thing smart about raging cow is that it was the first, and so, is getting lots of lips flapping (or keys stroking). Which, in and of itself, is a home run.
i tried to tell people. no one would listen.
(strike up the violins)
i tried to tell people. no one would listen.
(strike up the violins)
nope, but close
halley was talking about blogs as startups the other day. She's close. In my mind, no, the *network* (community, web, whatever you want to call it) of *bloggers* is an organization. Loosely joined for now, but not for long. It's happening.
It's already done started up. Baby, it's happening. We be in growth mode. Pre-IPO (Insane Power Order) - i.e., the lunatics are in charge of the asylum.
It's already done started up. Baby, it's happening. We be in growth mode. Pre-IPO (Insane Power Order) - i.e., the lunatics are in charge of the asylum.
Two Classes
Guess what? You know how you've been told the world is made up of two classes--"The Haves and the Have Nots"?
One day, coming soon to a world near you: "The Know and the Know-Nots."
Count on it.
Film at 11.
One day, coming soon to a world near you: "The Know and the Know-Nots."
Count on it.
Film at 11.
This is really hard
trying to post 30 posts in 30 minutes is really hard. (hee hee--that one was easy.)
more about the farm
Sometimes the horses would get loose. That's the thing with horses: Fencing. Keeping up a fence in those days meant almost weekly repairs. If you forgot, the horses reminded you. Most often by galloping away down Atlantic Avenue headed to who knows where. Ancient instinct telling them, RUN, FIND THE REST OF THE HERD! Only thing is, the herd was now station wagons and trucks. But they didn't care.
I was five and no one believed me when I'd tell them the horses were loose. I was at the kitchen table one day, the only one who looked up in time to see three horses trotting past the picture window.
"MOM! The horses are loose!"
It stinks being ignored as a kid. I saw the looks, "she's trying to get our attention again."
Okay fine. Don't believe me.
Four minutes later the phone would ring--"OH, OH DEAR, we'll be right there!"
And off my sister and parents would go after the loose horses, leaving me in the kitchen at the window waiting for the rest of the action.
I was five and no one believed me when I'd tell them the horses were loose. I was at the kitchen table one day, the only one who looked up in time to see three horses trotting past the picture window.
"MOM! The horses are loose!"
It stinks being ignored as a kid. I saw the looks, "she's trying to get our attention again."
Okay fine. Don't believe me.
Four minutes later the phone would ring--"OH, OH DEAR, we'll be right there!"
And off my sister and parents would go after the loose horses, leaving me in the kitchen at the window waiting for the rest of the action.
what else I liked about the farm
The big thick rope that hung from the top beams of the barn was the best thing about living on our farm. We could climb up on top of the hay loft, grab the rope, and swing forever. We had to be careful not to let go when we were above the trap door though. Once my brother did and bounced down the steps to the concrete below where the horse's stalls were. My mother would always tell me not to let go when the rope was swinging toward the trap door. Once I saw my brother disappear down its mouth, I never did let go. I think I'm still on that rope.
snakes
So on our farm we had snakes. BIG honkin snakes. Not little garter snakes, but big big big long long fat fat snakes. That's a special breed that grows on farms. The snakes liked our farm very much because we had oodles of big boulders in the pasture, and because our barn had a stone foundation. Any time you wanted to freak my sister out, she's phobic about snakes you know, anyway, all we had to do was push the boulders around, and out they'd come. Four or five at a time, like boa constrictors etching their names in the tall grass.
My sister would scream and then go motionless. True phobia, I learned very young, is something like paralysis. Then my brother would come with his shovel to our rescue and chop the snakes in half.
Farm life was really cool.
My sister would scream and then go motionless. True phobia, I learned very young, is something like paralysis. Then my brother would come with his shovel to our rescue and chop the snakes in half.
Farm life was really cool.
nose bleeds
From the time I was born until after puberty I suffered from severe nosebleeds. Me and my brother both had the problem. I ended up in the ER several times having my nose cauterized, them wondering what's up with this kid with the nosebleeds. They thought maybe I was a hemopheliac, but I wasn't. Turned out that my brother and I both have very very fine blood vessels in our noses that made something as ordinary as, say, sitting in math class a catastrophic event. It's so embarassing to be a kid who has to run out of class holding a bloody kleenex when three seconds before you were cheerily answering, "46!"
cha cha
When I was four I had a pony named Cha Cha that no one could ride. She was so mean spirited we had to hire a jockey from the racetrack in Canadaigua to ride her. I tried several times to ride my pony. I stopped after she threw me into the poison ivy patch. A bloody nose was one thing, but poison ivy was no fun at all. That little pony was a pain in the butt.
Blunt Girl
when I was pregnant, I said whatever I thought at any given moment. It wasn't on purpose, mind you; I think it was hormonal. I didn't realize what I had said and to whom until well after delivery. It's the same hormone that lets you think it's okay to nurse in public, or around your family, or neighbors. There's some hormone that kicks in--I think they call it the "what the fuck do I have to lose" hormone. Because you're losing the life you knew to this new life coming forth, and so, suddenly, there's really nothing left of the old life, and you have no idea who you're supposed to care about, suck up to, be careful around, be nice to in this new world you're entering. The result is that you say whatever you want to whomever you want whenever you want.
it was a great way to live.
it scared the people I worked with.
that was the most fun of all.
it was a great way to live.
it scared the people I worked with.
that was the most fun of all.
rain in spain
falls mainly in my yard. it's a torrential downpour tonight. don't feel bad for me. the northeast is still burried and frozen. i used to live there. I know. I don't remember much. On purpose. Come to Atlanta. The weather's nice. Not many jobs left, well yes, sure there are, but we want to keep them all for ourselves. So stay where you are, on second thought.
Speaking of which
I don't understand how Technorati does its cipherin'. inbound blogs, inbound links, i still don't get it. how do I lose and gain from day to day. where's the grand total live? why don't I ever make blogger's blogs of note? all of this bugs me.
technohuh?
I'm gonna drive technorati crazy with this. hey, look, a gazillion fucking posts in a row. who's your link babe now? HUH??? Who needs focus when you can type like the wind.
non sequitur moment
Today was progress in a month full of illness. I went to the grocery store today and got some lunchables for Jenna, some drinkable yogurt -- her favorite -- and the Schwans man came, our favorite.
Did the chimney always have that many stones on it?
Did the chimney always have that many stones on it?
Is this how halley does it?
Sometimes halley breezes through like sixty posts in three seconds. I've always wondered how she does it. This is my time to play, tonight. I'm trying to post 30 posts in 30 minutes, and make some of them actually enjoyable. The only problem is, I didn't figure a smoke break into the equation. That's okay, I'll write extra fast next post. Halley, where'd the juicy stuff go? Halley writes that she's being stalked. The stalker should be afraid of Halley. Very afraid.
no one stalks me. that's okay. I don't want to be stalked. George won't let me.
Should I be making fun of this? See when you decide to try to post 30 posts in 30 minutes, you don't have time to tidy up thoughts that you really shouldn't have in the first place. Perhaps we should all go through life this way.
no one stalks me. that's okay. I don't want to be stalked. George won't let me.
Should I be making fun of this? See when you decide to try to post 30 posts in 30 minutes, you don't have time to tidy up thoughts that you really shouldn't have in the first place. Perhaps we should all go through life this way.
We really should be reading
google bought blogger and then everybody--well, I--started writing writing writing, I was going to write it into a good thing. And I still am, but I'm going to take some time out tomorrow to READ people. I forgot to be reading. We're not remembering to READ like we should. Reading each other is what keeps us going when times are tough, which, well, these times are, pretty much, yah, I guess they really suck, and Malcolm's convinced me they're about as bad as times get, and Farrago's thinking of going and Shelley's over there perseverating about something.
oh fuck it, never mind.
oh fuck it, never mind.
redneck simile moment
she was as pretty as a shiny new pickup with chrome wheels, oversized tires and a truck-bed cover on her backend.
metaphor moment.
sixteen three by fours stood straight up against the north side of the barn, waiting for the slightest wind or the brush of a farm boy's hand to set the whole stack falling like a box of opened toothpicks from the top shelf.
no, you first
you first.
no, you first.
no, you.
no, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
no, you go first.
no, you first.
no, you first.
no, you first!
no, you!
uh-uh, you first.
no way, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
not me, you.
no, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
NO, you!
No way, you!
no, you first.
no, you first.
okay, is anybody still reading these things?
no, you first.
no, you.
no, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
no, you go first.
no, you first.
no, you first.
no, you first!
no, you!
uh-uh, you first.
no way, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
not me, you.
no, you.
no, you first.
no, you first.
NO, you!
No way, you!
no, you first.
no, you first.
okay, is anybody still reading these things?
need a logo/title thingy for stir
if anyone's interested in playing around with graphics today, we could use a logo thingy for stir.
thank you.
i think jenna's going to go to school today. i think she's getting better. I'm afraid to type these words in black and white. afraid they are capable of erasing reality. please hold good thoughts. this kid (and other asthma kids like her) have had one sick winter.
thank you.
i think jenna's going to go to school today. i think she's getting better. I'm afraid to type these words in black and white. afraid they are capable of erasing reality. please hold good thoughts. this kid (and other asthma kids like her) have had one sick winter.
March 04, 2003
i don't know what it means
sessum.com.
thanks to Farrago for the design assistance and moral support. And she better not go away...
thanks to Farrago for the design assistance and moral support. And she better not go away...
I'm sounding a bit unwell, aren't I...
Off to get strep baby's bath and bedtime happening. I think I need to call it a day after that.
Hold down the fort.
Hold down the fort.
I'm still amazed
I remain amazed that doctors aren't doing what the lawyers are doing in blogland. Why are so many skitish--is it the lawsuit potential? Shoot, there are plenty of lawyers out here who could help them out in a pinch! Besides, a simple disclaimer would solve all that--no?
Am I missing it, or are our professional MDs suspiciously missing from this world?
I hate insurance companies and every medical facility who claims to hate insurance companies and uses them as a scapegoat to define policies that enable these facilities to treat only the very wealthy.
Hey, medical world--and all its affiliates--you suck.
Get me any madder and I'm going to start a blog and name names. Try me.
Am I missing it, or are our professional MDs suspiciously missing from this world?
I hate insurance companies and every medical facility who claims to hate insurance companies and uses them as a scapegoat to define policies that enable these facilities to treat only the very wealthy.
Hey, medical world--and all its affiliates--you suck.
Get me any madder and I'm going to start a blog and name names. Try me.
10 Blog Things I Don't Like
I don't like emoticons in blogs. Most of the time. ;-)
I don't like entire blogs devoted to re-posting what other people post without some value ad--I dunno, pop-ups of the original posters with interactive boxing figures that can punch back and forth or something.
I don't like when Shelley tapes a "Do Not Disturb" sign to her blog.
I don't like it when people don't post for a month and then post like crazy and get me all going and stuff and then they stop again.
I don't like that Mike Sanders put me back on his blogroll or that he spelled my last name wrong.
I don't like too many links in one post. I get confused. Too many is more than four or five.
I don't like teeny tiny fonts.
I don't like the the blogs as journalism conundrum.
I don't like when Blogger's down.
I don't like that this doesn't pay. Pay me. Sorry, to clarify, that this doesn't pay *me*.
Coming soon, 10 Blog Things I Do Like.
Stop it. Don't get so excited.
I don't like entire blogs devoted to re-posting what other people post without some value ad--I dunno, pop-ups of the original posters with interactive boxing figures that can punch back and forth or something.
I don't like when Shelley tapes a "Do Not Disturb" sign to her blog.
I don't like it when people don't post for a month and then post like crazy and get me all going and stuff and then they stop again.
I don't like that Mike Sanders put me back on his blogroll or that he spelled my last name wrong.
I don't like too many links in one post. I get confused. Too many is more than four or five.
I don't like teeny tiny fonts.
I don't like the the blogs as journalism conundrum.
I don't like when Blogger's down.
I don't like that this doesn't pay. Pay me. Sorry, to clarify, that this doesn't pay *me*.
Coming soon, 10 Blog Things I Do Like.
Stop it. Don't get so excited.
sicky sticky world
Jenna has been home sick for what seems like 6,000 years. Today I took her to ballet to burn off some asthmatic energy. While she was in her tap class, I watched the baby ballet class, which she was in last year. I found myself crying. Gone. I'll never have it again. Too big. Too tough to absorb. It has to do with being a woman. She grows, I shrink. She voices, I grow weary.
George has the bug too. Finally got him to see the doc, and he has antibiotics.
A sad, depressed bunch of shut ins. And worst of all, I have no time to write. Blog posts fly through my head all day. And then the breathing treatments, and then dinner, and then the medicines, and then the mess, oh yes, and work.
in a word, ugh.
Five minutes ago I had painted in my mind what business will look like in five years. I was going to tell you what I saw, how what we think is bad is actually good, and what we think is good is very bad news indeed, about how if the net has taught us one thing, it has taught us how networks work; I was going to talk about about how small pockets of once-redundant workers are slowly but surely constructing sophisticated roadways among their virtual homes and talents, functioning in many respects like a web across knowledge bases and out to customers--no not an extranet--this is human talent assembling across neighborhoods and buildings, people who owe allegience to no one but themselves (another lesson they've learned); they are practical and organized and nimble and cheap. They are, and this is the good news, unstopable.
but more about that another time--my chicken is burning.
George has the bug too. Finally got him to see the doc, and he has antibiotics.
A sad, depressed bunch of shut ins. And worst of all, I have no time to write. Blog posts fly through my head all day. And then the breathing treatments, and then dinner, and then the medicines, and then the mess, oh yes, and work.
in a word, ugh.
Five minutes ago I had painted in my mind what business will look like in five years. I was going to tell you what I saw, how what we think is bad is actually good, and what we think is good is very bad news indeed, about how if the net has taught us one thing, it has taught us how networks work; I was going to talk about about how small pockets of once-redundant workers are slowly but surely constructing sophisticated roadways among their virtual homes and talents, functioning in many respects like a web across knowledge bases and out to customers--no not an extranet--this is human talent assembling across neighborhoods and buildings, people who owe allegience to no one but themselves (another lesson they've learned); they are practical and organized and nimble and cheap. They are, and this is the good news, unstopable.
but more about that another time--my chicken is burning.
March 03, 2003
it ain't all about text
Finding voice through the backdoor--arriving at voice through imagery. You know, Voice isn't all words. Voice isn't all about text. Sometimes I search google because I'm feeling a certain way--I'm not looking for sites or blogs or healthcare pages. I go straight to the Images tab to see if something finds me there. Tonight that happened.
I searched up "Dark" and found this image:
With the image is voice:
If you have never glimpsed [the darkness], or have forgotten the terribleness of that view, how can you even think to judge those who have lashed out against others, or themselves, in a seemingly mad act of violence or destructiveness?....
The difficult task is not to judge, but to help. Not to condemn, but to reach out. ... And not the least, to remind ... there is Light that is apart from the darkness, which does not judge, does not condemn, does not patronize and lecture, and in which mistakes are forgiven, wounds are healed, and once-forgotten joy can be rediscovered and understood again.
Search and you shall receive.
I searched up "Dark" and found this image:
With the image is voice:
If you have never glimpsed [the darkness], or have forgotten the terribleness of that view, how can you even think to judge those who have lashed out against others, or themselves, in a seemingly mad act of violence or destructiveness?....
The difficult task is not to judge, but to help. Not to condemn, but to reach out. ... And not the least, to remind ... there is Light that is apart from the darkness, which does not judge, does not condemn, does not patronize and lecture, and in which mistakes are forgiven, wounds are healed, and once-forgotten joy can be rediscovered and understood again.
Search and you shall receive.
Tom thinks I'm onto something
In trying to sum up why what we're doing is important, you know, that gyration we all go through time and time again, the new entertainment of metablogging, I posted this in a comment, which tom calls out on Stir.
I think it bears repeating by me, up a level, in a post on my blog. So here:
I have promised to make some VIPS a list of articles and blogs that will somehow wrap the largeness of all of this into a single email. So far I haven't been able to do it. The importance of it, really, is that human voices--nobodies, really--are resonating farther and longer through this medium than the power structures of institutions like corporations, big media, government, religion... It's the bottom up thing that's important. I'm not saying we'll TAKE OVER any of those institutions, but we will penetrate and change them.
try explaining that to someone who wants to know what a blog is. yeh.
It all really goes back to this, which, even he who is the man with the star has said may not be exactly "there" as an idea yet. But I think, as he described it to me more than a year ago, when most people reading this weren't even blogging yet, it is more than there. It's here.
I think it bears repeating by me, up a level, in a post on my blog. So here:
I have promised to make some VIPS a list of articles and blogs that will somehow wrap the largeness of all of this into a single email. So far I haven't been able to do it. The importance of it, really, is that human voices--nobodies, really--are resonating farther and longer through this medium than the power structures of institutions like corporations, big media, government, religion... It's the bottom up thing that's important. I'm not saying we'll TAKE OVER any of those institutions, but we will penetrate and change them.
try explaining that to someone who wants to know what a blog is. yeh.
It all really goes back to this, which, even he who is the man with the star has said may not be exactly "there" as an idea yet. But I think, as he described it to me more than a year ago, when most people reading this weren't even blogging yet, it is more than there. It's here.
My new club
I know them now by sight. At the grocery store, at the pharmacy, in the driver's seat of their SUVs. They are the women whose jaw muscles are lax--their stares are fixed straight ahead, some kind of zombie determination propelling them through the day, no other reason than to get to the end of it.
These are strep moms. I am one now too.
This is Jenna's second round with strep throat in the last month. This means it is the second or third trip to the doctor's or urgent care in as many weeks. More antibiotics, more new toothbrushes, more nebulizer treatments, more motrin, more soup, more sprite, more popsicles, more videos, more crayons, more thermometers, more bed changes, more luke warm baths, more energetic rebounds, more trying to keep the animals out of the house, more unrest, more sleep-interrupted nights, more triaminic, more throat spray, more lip balm, more kleenex, more phone calls, more trying to work somewhere in between it all, more guilt.
I'm not alone. I see them. Sometimes I talk to them. Like last night at 9:30 at Eckerds. I saw her sitting in the chair by the pharmacy--remembered her from urgent care a couple hours earlier. I say hi. She says, Hi, I remember you. I say, I remember you too--how is your son? She says, Strep. I say, my daughter too. She says he is on round 3 with it, that he gets it so often the doctors want to remove his tonsils. I shiver for her, and wonder when our doctor will lay that one on us--no thank you.
I tell her I'm tired. She says, I know, me too. She is probably ten years older than me, but our faces look just the same. The condition is timeless, ageless. You can be 20, 30, 40, 50 and look just like us. Jaw muscles too tired to show expression. Mouth sagging in an unattractive frown. Downturned lips. Heavy eyebrows. Dark circles under our eyes.
Strep moms. There's no mistaking us.
These are strep moms. I am one now too.
This is Jenna's second round with strep throat in the last month. This means it is the second or third trip to the doctor's or urgent care in as many weeks. More antibiotics, more new toothbrushes, more nebulizer treatments, more motrin, more soup, more sprite, more popsicles, more videos, more crayons, more thermometers, more bed changes, more luke warm baths, more energetic rebounds, more trying to keep the animals out of the house, more unrest, more sleep-interrupted nights, more triaminic, more throat spray, more lip balm, more kleenex, more phone calls, more trying to work somewhere in between it all, more guilt.
I'm not alone. I see them. Sometimes I talk to them. Like last night at 9:30 at Eckerds. I saw her sitting in the chair by the pharmacy--remembered her from urgent care a couple hours earlier. I say hi. She says, Hi, I remember you. I say, I remember you too--how is your son? She says, Strep. I say, my daughter too. She says he is on round 3 with it, that he gets it so often the doctors want to remove his tonsils. I shiver for her, and wonder when our doctor will lay that one on us--no thank you.
I tell her I'm tired. She says, I know, me too. She is probably ten years older than me, but our faces look just the same. The condition is timeless, ageless. You can be 20, 30, 40, 50 and look just like us. Jaw muscles too tired to show expression. Mouth sagging in an unattractive frown. Downturned lips. Heavy eyebrows. Dark circles under our eyes.
Strep moms. There's no mistaking us.
March 02, 2003
blogging and the two-way mirror
we're nothing if not flashers and shoplifters waiting to get caught. we raise our shades daring the world to look in. we kind of hope they don't. we mostly hope they do.
A few bloggers have written that people who read them say that they're "brave" to reveal themselves this way. And they are. We are.
This week I got a new boss. The boss and I haven't worked together before, and so I thought I'd give her a crash course in who I am. I sent her the link to my credentials which links to all the places I live online, including my home here. She may be reading this. Now. If so, Hi. This is where everything's happening. Don't let it scare you.
Six months ago I wouldn't have done it. I had a boss I'd known forever, and I still didn't show him this place. I wasn't ready to raise the shade all the way. Sure, now and then I enjoyed the thrill of popping it up for a day or so, but then mostly hoped no one would be looking, except George and and my very best blog friends.
Then google bought blogger. Suddenly I'm getting emails from folks who don't live out here. They say, "Hey, that blogging thing is big." And they're reading more blogs, including mine. Probably yours too. Every now and then a friend mentions on the phone, "Oh I know that--I saw it on your blog," and I get that little rush of confusion, wondering what I wrote, about what or whom, certainly not having this particular friend in mind as part of the cast of characters who read me.
Things are picking up. They are looking in. Velocity.
The two-way mirror of blogging is us going about our business out here, and growing numbers of regular people--our friends, family, colleagues--looking in on us. The ones who don't comment. The ones you might get an inkling have come by from looking at your referrer log.
A little disconcerting.
Some bloggers have drawn their shades or moved online households because the risk of showing themselves is too great--isn't worth it, isn't practical. Their careers rely on the very power structures set up to silence them, and they can't afford--not yet anyway--the potential backlash from eyes of weight looking in on them.
Even now, I close my shade sometimes. I pull back and hunker down. And that's fine. Maybe the time will come when it's okay to let the trick-glass slip away, and all of our windows open onto one another. Maybe not.
But this day I'm okay with saying, yes, I write online, in fact, I'm rather more here than there, and so are most of the smart people I know.
So look if you like. And if you don't like it, pull your own shade down. Because no one but me can stop me from moving into the light.
A few bloggers have written that people who read them say that they're "brave" to reveal themselves this way. And they are. We are.
This week I got a new boss. The boss and I haven't worked together before, and so I thought I'd give her a crash course in who I am. I sent her the link to my credentials which links to all the places I live online, including my home here. She may be reading this. Now. If so, Hi. This is where everything's happening. Don't let it scare you.
Six months ago I wouldn't have done it. I had a boss I'd known forever, and I still didn't show him this place. I wasn't ready to raise the shade all the way. Sure, now and then I enjoyed the thrill of popping it up for a day or so, but then mostly hoped no one would be looking, except George and and my very best blog friends.
Then google bought blogger. Suddenly I'm getting emails from folks who don't live out here. They say, "Hey, that blogging thing is big." And they're reading more blogs, including mine. Probably yours too. Every now and then a friend mentions on the phone, "Oh I know that--I saw it on your blog," and I get that little rush of confusion, wondering what I wrote, about what or whom, certainly not having this particular friend in mind as part of the cast of characters who read me.
Things are picking up. They are looking in. Velocity.
The two-way mirror of blogging is us going about our business out here, and growing numbers of regular people--our friends, family, colleagues--looking in on us. The ones who don't comment. The ones you might get an inkling have come by from looking at your referrer log.
A little disconcerting.
Some bloggers have drawn their shades or moved online households because the risk of showing themselves is too great--isn't worth it, isn't practical. Their careers rely on the very power structures set up to silence them, and they can't afford--not yet anyway--the potential backlash from eyes of weight looking in on them.
Even now, I close my shade sometimes. I pull back and hunker down. And that's fine. Maybe the time will come when it's okay to let the trick-glass slip away, and all of our windows open onto one another. Maybe not.
But this day I'm okay with saying, yes, I write online, in fact, I'm rather more here than there, and so are most of the smart people I know.
So look if you like. And if you don't like it, pull your own shade down. Because no one but me can stop me from moving into the light.
sunday morning with the sessums
me being coy and cute: "When's that party we're supposed to go to? I'm ready to shake my money maker!"
george, shaking his hand above his head: "What, your medula?"
us: "bla ha haha haha!"
me: "I'm gonna blog it."
george: "No, I am."
us: "bla hahahah ha!"
george, shaking his hand above his head: "What, your medula?"
us: "bla ha haha haha!"
me: "I'm gonna blog it."
george: "No, I am."
us: "bla hahahah ha!"
Denise's Got a Brand New Bag
Denise Howell, smart crafty lady and law blogger supreme, has a new look over on Bag and Baggage. Cool-ness!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)