holy cow. I made it. I crawled through USB ports today, wound in and around two keyboards, C, D, E, F, and I think a G drive on not one but two machines, got most of my personal files safely offloaded, not all to this sweet Presario which Mr. Rage bestowed upon me, but on george's dinosaur most are safe. Some made it over here before I screwed up and paid Macafee $34 for their piece of shit virus program, which seems to have done some messy things to this hardly-used notebook. So tomorrow I'll figure it out.
Tonight, just now actually, I finished moving files and did the take down of the Dell. She's packed away in my backpack with her power cable. Cell phone's next, as soon as I can find it, together with my little packet o-paperwork for HR and a W9 to fax (from old job to new client) while I'm at "work" tomorrow. Guess I can't really call it work. Guess I'll call it TOAST!
Thought I'd better post lest you all thought I fell into the motherboard, failing to individuate became one with it, melted into the circuitry or something. Sounds good, actually.
This keyboard is really nice. It's got that rolling push-back feel to it. You kind of glide. No clickty-clack. I don't feel like I'm doing anything except talking with my hands, which I do anyway.
Tired. That's one thing. Luckily I bought myself a day to get this all sorted out. So tomorrow I take my last drive in. Not much to be nostalgic about considering I drove in maybe five times this year. Still. Five years worth of drives--add them all up and it's something that merrits a sigh.
I'll be glad to get it done, glad to get back here and post from the other side. So many things to learn, not the least of which is where unemployment's located.
Unemployment--such an icky word. They should call it pre-enjoyed employment, something. Un.
Did pretty well last week with new clients. I tagged teamed with George on some tech writing and handled the PR/Marcomm side of another client. Cool.
So much to do, I'm overwhelmed. I guess tomorrow will bring me one less thing to do.
The end
The beginning
tomorrow.
P.S. Happy 5 Year Anniversary, Jeneane! Thank you for your tremendous contributions!
Gee, I couldn't think of a better way to spend it. ;-)
April 01, 2003
Relief...
Laptop on its way from Boulder to the ATL. The relief I feel is palpable. This must be worth a good round of bronchitis, feeling my defenses fall, any number of bugs from today's pediatrician visit at the ready.
Something about going into work tomorrow to hand back my baby--and yes, I have to--then to walk away knowing I didn't have a computer to start this new venture of mine with had me feeling that familiar defeated-before-I-start thing. Something about Dell's non-response put me in "my place." But now I can walk awa feeling pretty darn good. Someone I met through my writing a year ago thinks I just might make a go of it and is willing to put his laptop where his mouth is. That's pretty fucking cool, to say the least. And he's not just any someone. He's for real. But then, most of you know that. Suffice it to say, it's more than any corporation has bet on me. Ever.
So we'll see. In the mean time, the ethernet card he added before shipping it off will hopefully work fine with my DSL, and if all goes accordingly, I'll catch you all on my new puter later.
Best news of all, Jenna's doctor's appointment went very well. No strep, no mono. Bloodwork good. The doc thinks that the winter's two rounds of strep and constant virus lashings took it's toll on her, but that she's coming round. Thankful is what I am.
What an amazing day. I hardly know what to do with it. So I think I better go to bed before anything bad can happen. Three hours to go before tomorrow. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...
Through all of these last few days, I've managed to continue *not* writing about the war, which is a good thing I think. There are many who do it better and more passionately, from both pro and anti sides, than I can. It's not that I don't care, it's that it's too big. It's like watching a re-run of a re-run of a re-run and you know the ending five times over, and yet you can't change it. It's somehow outside of real time. You have no power to stick your hand in there and modify what's written, what's spoken, who lives, or who dies. Powerlessness.
So, I leave it to the experts and those people who truly believe their invovement matters in the course of these global events. I am glad they do. I wish I did.
If someone asks me how I would stop the conflict or how I would win the war, I would have the same answer: Coliseum War. That's right. Take the professionals--the leaders of the countries involved and the highly-skilled fighters within their ranks, put them in a coliseum, and let them fight it out to the end. Maybe it's like the World Series and they have a battle or two in each home country's venue. But contain it. Keep it out of the streets. Keep it out of the houses. Away from the children. Let leaders lead the charge. Let fighters fight. Webcast it or do pay-per-view. However you like.
That's about the only idea I have.
It's morning now and I forgot to post this.
Thank you all, and especially love to Monica for yet another rough time life has tossed her way. She's still standin'. Hang in, you.
Something about going into work tomorrow to hand back my baby--and yes, I have to--then to walk away knowing I didn't have a computer to start this new venture of mine with had me feeling that familiar defeated-before-I-start thing. Something about Dell's non-response put me in "my place." But now I can walk awa feeling pretty darn good. Someone I met through my writing a year ago thinks I just might make a go of it and is willing to put his laptop where his mouth is. That's pretty fucking cool, to say the least. And he's not just any someone. He's for real. But then, most of you know that. Suffice it to say, it's more than any corporation has bet on me. Ever.
So we'll see. In the mean time, the ethernet card he added before shipping it off will hopefully work fine with my DSL, and if all goes accordingly, I'll catch you all on my new puter later.
Best news of all, Jenna's doctor's appointment went very well. No strep, no mono. Bloodwork good. The doc thinks that the winter's two rounds of strep and constant virus lashings took it's toll on her, but that she's coming round. Thankful is what I am.
What an amazing day. I hardly know what to do with it. So I think I better go to bed before anything bad can happen. Three hours to go before tomorrow. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...
Through all of these last few days, I've managed to continue *not* writing about the war, which is a good thing I think. There are many who do it better and more passionately, from both pro and anti sides, than I can. It's not that I don't care, it's that it's too big. It's like watching a re-run of a re-run of a re-run and you know the ending five times over, and yet you can't change it. It's somehow outside of real time. You have no power to stick your hand in there and modify what's written, what's spoken, who lives, or who dies. Powerlessness.
So, I leave it to the experts and those people who truly believe their invovement matters in the course of these global events. I am glad they do. I wish I did.
If someone asks me how I would stop the conflict or how I would win the war, I would have the same answer: Coliseum War. That's right. Take the professionals--the leaders of the countries involved and the highly-skilled fighters within their ranks, put them in a coliseum, and let them fight it out to the end. Maybe it's like the World Series and they have a battle or two in each home country's venue. But contain it. Keep it out of the streets. Keep it out of the houses. Away from the children. Let leaders lead the charge. Let fighters fight. Webcast it or do pay-per-view. However you like.
That's about the only idea I have.
It's morning now and I forgot to post this.
Thank you all, and especially love to Monica for yet another rough time life has tossed her way. She's still standin'. Hang in, you.
March 31, 2003
It's a Bird, It's a Plane...
It's RageBoy to the rescue! Fighter of corporate injustice and defender of have-nots, RageBoy is sending a loaner laptop to Atlanta today. To say we're grateful would be an understatement. To say thank you, Uncle Rage, is the least we can do. After gushing my unworthiness and enjoying my six to ten minutes of guilt, I accepted the generous offer and will greet Mr. Fed-Ex at the curb tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile our Superhero is battling his own laptop problems--his new Mac gave out on him a couple of days ago. Can't recognize the modem, can't find the airport card, keeps rebooting. I think he's on his way back to the store with that one to see what the heck is up with that.
Tomorrow should be a most interesting day. Not only to have a laptop, but to have one with the RB Mojo workin on it.
Spark to flame...
Thanks again, RB.
Meanwhile our Superhero is battling his own laptop problems--his new Mac gave out on him a couple of days ago. Can't recognize the modem, can't find the airport card, keeps rebooting. I think he's on his way back to the store with that one to see what the heck is up with that.
Tomorrow should be a most interesting day. Not only to have a laptop, but to have one with the RB Mojo workin on it.
Spark to flame...
Thanks again, RB.
nothing
no response. not surprising. Thanks for all the comments--they have helped me, among other things, rescue my Outlook Express email files, which live deep down in some mostly hidden and unweildly path I never would have found on my own. If I had good credit (I don't - long story), I would have grabbed one already. Still thinking what to do.
Mac advocates have been the most vocal bunch. And they are making sense. I never thought I'd leave Mac the first time around. Maybe it's time to return. Now, to get approved for a damn loan or lease. Off today to look around in hopes of some kind of divine intervention. Otherwise, packing this puppy up tonight. After that, will blog when I can from dino the dinosaur--have client work to do on dino as well. Gonna be pushing him to the max. I wonder if he'll spark!
Will blog after I go shopping.
If anyone knows how to hack my credit score for the next couple of hours, you have my blessing. And thanks blogfriends.
Mac advocates have been the most vocal bunch. And they are making sense. I never thought I'd leave Mac the first time around. Maybe it's time to return. Now, to get approved for a damn loan or lease. Off today to look around in hopes of some kind of divine intervention. Otherwise, packing this puppy up tonight. After that, will blog when I can from dino the dinosaur--have client work to do on dino as well. Gonna be pushing him to the max. I wonder if he'll spark!
Will blog after I go shopping.
If anyone knows how to hack my credit score for the next couple of hours, you have my blessing. And thanks blogfriends.
March 29, 2003
Dear Dell
As a loyal Dell user, I have a little favor to ask.
For you, it's nothing really. For me--and the thousand or so people who read my weblog every week--it's pretty big. You see, last week I found out that my employment longitude is being quite dramatically altered--as in, instead of having a job, I don't. In some ways, this is good news. I can finally focus on my own consulting business, which already has three clients.
The problem with this change in job longitude is my Latitude. I have to give my Dell Latitude back to my former employer April 1st. It's going away. And, quite honestly, I'm devastated.
When I walk out the door of the firm where I've worked for the last five years, I have to leave behind my Dell. It will be re-circulated to someone else, and I'll be left without a computer to write from. To see for yourself that I can write, check out this weblog, and review some of my accomplishments for major brands like IBM (het-hem), Cingular, Nokia, AMS, and others here. Take a look at what others say about me here.
Now see, you probably think I'm hitting you up for a job, but nothing could be further from the truth!
(Unless, of course, you want to give me one.)
My business challenge, quite simply, is that I can't do what I do without my Dell.
I considered running away with her:
I've been creating on my Dell since before I began blogging. I blogged my first post with her back in 2001. She's online 24/7; she is my brain-station--the place where I think, the place where I invent, where I write, sometimes the only place I've been able to breathe. (It's been a tough year. I'll spare you the gory details.)
I'm not sure how much you know about weblogs and how they're fueling human connections, why they matter, why they should matter to Dell. I'm not sure if you know that weblogging is changing the way businesses--in fact made up of these blogging and blog-reading humans--interact with markets, or how businesses can participate as these micromarkets of shared interests and passions become more and more compelling (and the top-down elevator pitches of big business become less and less tolerable).
That's some of what I was trying to explain in The New York Times article [or pdf here] on Women and Weblogging, which featured me as the founder of the 100-member women's weblog, Blog Sisters. My core ideas didn't quite make it into that article, but the Times' coverage serves as an example of mainstream media trying to figure out how all of this works.
[Be sure to click the article. You see my Dell Latitude?! It's right in the picture. That's me, with my daughter by my side and the kitten over my shoulder.]
I can help you understand more about weblogs; you can help me keep writing.
All I need is a laptop so I can keep thinking and inventing and crafting and connecting here, just like I have been. I'm hoping you have a spare laptop you can send to this loyal Dell user in Atlanta.
I sure would appreciate it. And so would my readers.
Thank you in anticipation,
Jeneane Sessum
(www.sessum.com)
For you, it's nothing really. For me--and the thousand or so people who read my weblog every week--it's pretty big. You see, last week I found out that my employment longitude is being quite dramatically altered--as in, instead of having a job, I don't. In some ways, this is good news. I can finally focus on my own consulting business, which already has three clients.
The problem with this change in job longitude is my Latitude. I have to give my Dell Latitude back to my former employer April 1st. It's going away. And, quite honestly, I'm devastated.
She's old in computer lives--I've had her more than two years. But she's mine, and she is inextricably linked to my brain and my eyes and my fingers. This is where I write. This is my axe. And I have to give her back...I'm sure she'll never blog another post, never see a blogger window again unless it's by accident. She won't get emails that set her on fire. She'll be relegated to a cube under florescent lights with wisps of perfume and magnetic word games assaulting her with every keystroke.
When I walk out the door of the firm where I've worked for the last five years, I have to leave behind my Dell. It will be re-circulated to someone else, and I'll be left without a computer to write from. To see for yourself that I can write, check out this weblog, and review some of my accomplishments for major brands like IBM (het-hem), Cingular, Nokia, AMS, and others here. Take a look at what others say about me here.
Now see, you probably think I'm hitting you up for a job, but nothing could be further from the truth!
(Unless, of course, you want to give me one.)
My business challenge, quite simply, is that I can't do what I do without my Dell.
I considered running away with her:
Up into the North Georgia mountains, nothing but green buds unfolding in thick woods, nothing but red clay and open roads, and that smell with the window rolled down just enough, nothing but the ashes flicked out the window of the Escape, our escape, making our escape, drive until night, when the sky unwraps the stars for us and puts on the shock and awe show we deserve. And we'll keep going. Winding our way up into the mountains--can you feel it getting cooler--nice, and you can smell winter taking its leave, leaves dissolve into the ground still, dampened from the cold and rain they continue their journey home.
When we get to the cabin, don't say a word. It's what I've learned. Act like you're supposed to be somewhere, have something, take something, and its yours. Just let me handle it. If anyone asks, it's a weekend vacation, up to enjoy spring in bloom up that trail to the cabins no one bothers with. I'll carry you, you just relax. When we get there, I'll sweep away the dust from the old pine table, give you a nice place to rest for a while before we turn on.
I've been creating on my Dell since before I began blogging. I blogged my first post with her back in 2001. She's online 24/7; she is my brain-station--the place where I think, the place where I invent, where I write, sometimes the only place I've been able to breathe. (It's been a tough year. I'll spare you the gory details.)
I'm not sure how much you know about weblogs and how they're fueling human connections, why they matter, why they should matter to Dell. I'm not sure if you know that weblogging is changing the way businesses--in fact made up of these blogging and blog-reading humans--interact with markets, or how businesses can participate as these micromarkets of shared interests and passions become more and more compelling (and the top-down elevator pitches of big business become less and less tolerable).
That's some of what I was trying to explain in The New York Times article [or pdf here] on Women and Weblogging, which featured me as the founder of the 100-member women's weblog, Blog Sisters. My core ideas didn't quite make it into that article, but the Times' coverage serves as an example of mainstream media trying to figure out how all of this works.
[Be sure to click the article. You see my Dell Latitude?! It's right in the picture. That's me, with my daughter by my side and the kitten over my shoulder.]
I can help you understand more about weblogs; you can help me keep writing.
All I need is a laptop so I can keep thinking and inventing and crafting and connecting here, just like I have been. I'm hoping you have a spare laptop you can send to this loyal Dell user in Atlanta.
I sure would appreciate it. And so would my readers.
Thank you in anticipation,
Jeneane Sessum
(www.sessum.com)
blog sticker or sticker blog
Well just when you're feeling blue, a package comes in the mail from some-net-someone to cheer you up. In this case, it was from Srini at stickernation who saw that I had posted about him way back when and asked if I'd like a few stickers on the house. HOUSE being a now-more-sacred-than-ever thing for me-of-the-newly-become-consultant variety of worker, I said, "Hell, Yah."
George and I talked about what the heck sessum.com is. we never decided. but we came up with a clever little moniker that describes the music and word parts of "us," thus, Rhythm and Rhyme.
Srini's stickers are cool. Not big and over obvious like regular bumper stickers. More like hard-copy blog stickers with sticky backs, you know, for actually sticking to things. My camera didn't capture the best shot--they are that glossy kind of black on white that grabs your eye. But with the glare of overcast sun on my deck, I think you can see some trees in the reflection.
Anyhow, thanks Srini for making my day. We're off to stick em!
blues
I didn't run away with my laptop, made famous by the New York Times, although I'd still like to.
I approach her a little differently each day, knowing that in a few days she'll be in someone else's hands. No control over this one. Nothing I can do. I don't look at her the same way anymore, knowing she's not mine. I write here. Sure. But it's not the same. It's tentative. temporary. flat now. I'm noticing her flaws--the popcorn pieces stuck under the CTRL key, the crack in the frame of the screen, right on the "e," that makes the word "Latitude" look like "Lattitud." I don't know how, when that happened. I'd never even noticed it. Or the other specks of dirt and lint wedged in the corners of the mouse pad.
Never noticed before because she belonged to me. She was mine. She was perfect. Never hung on me. Never a problem, never a virus.
Just don't feel like writing. Maybe later. More research to do.
March 28, 2003
so, shit.
Son of a bitch. Job gone. Health insurance going. Life insurance, dental, vision, vacation, all gone in a flash. April 1 is my last day working at the global PR firm where I've worked for the last five years. To the day. I mean April Fools day was my hire date; five years later my fire date. Well, it's not exactly a layoff. They wanted me to stay, they say, but their actions spoke loudly. So I chose door number 2.
Coming face to face with what it means to have a primo job in this country--coming face to face by losing it--has inspired me. Not to be thankful to corporations, but in this solitary moment of looking back and forward I realize that I have been right. That everything is turning upside down--or more appropriately right-side up. So I guess I'll be working from here for a while. Here I'm free to make my own future. It's mine to screw up. It's mine to make bloom.
It's scary. I don't know if I can do it, have the energy to do it. But I have a couple of clients, already loyal, and think I can make a go as a consultant, writing from my couch, much like I've done for the last five years, but without the safety net of my employer. I'm old. I don't want to go back to a 9-5 gig. If I have to I have to, but what if I don't? What if I can make a go of this? What if I can put into practice all the things I've been preaching in blogland the last almost-two years? What if more and more of us start doing this? What kind of network could we *really* build this into?
So wish me luck. The moment's almost here. Yikes....
Coming face to face with what it means to have a primo job in this country--coming face to face by losing it--has inspired me. Not to be thankful to corporations, but in this solitary moment of looking back and forward I realize that I have been right. That everything is turning upside down--or more appropriately right-side up. So I guess I'll be working from here for a while. Here I'm free to make my own future. It's mine to screw up. It's mine to make bloom.
It's scary. I don't know if I can do it, have the energy to do it. But I have a couple of clients, already loyal, and think I can make a go as a consultant, writing from my couch, much like I've done for the last five years, but without the safety net of my employer. I'm old. I don't want to go back to a 9-5 gig. If I have to I have to, but what if I don't? What if I can make a go of this? What if I can put into practice all the things I've been preaching in blogland the last almost-two years? What if more and more of us start doing this? What kind of network could we *really* build this into?
So wish me luck. The moment's almost here. Yikes....
Please, Give Me a Sign....
As if I needed another one.
I typed in my blogger URL wrong when I looked up my blog tonight. Instead of allied.blogspot.com, I typed allied.blogpot.com.
Ed. note: hey wait a minute... any time you type in [someblog].blogpot.com you get this site. Am I the only one who didn't know?
Holy cow.
I typed in my blogger URL wrong when I looked up my blog tonight. Instead of allied.blogspot.com, I typed allied.blogpot.com.
Ed. note: hey wait a minute... any time you type in [someblog].blogpot.com you get this site. Am I the only one who didn't know?
Holy cow.
laptop separation anxiety: plan B
Okay. I went out and had a smoke. Now I'm thinking rationally. I have a plan... I have to tell it to her. I think she'll go for it.
Tomorrow, it's me and you. We pack up tonight--don't worry, I'll take care of everything. I have your food--the power supply fits in the pocket of my maroon backpack, just like it always has. We'll find a way to steal some connectivity along the way--I'm not gonna sweat the small stuff. So just get ready. You get some rest, right here, on the arm of the couch, while I get our stuff together. Watch a little TV; you won't like it much. It's boring compared to where we've been. But just stay with it until sleep mode kicks in. Trust me on this. I'll take care of the rest.
By midnight I'll be ready. Have my meds, my t-shirts and jeans, my folders, my phone--I'll have it all together. I'll get gas in the car on our way out of town. And we'll drive. Just you and me.
Up into the North Georgia mountains, nothing but green buds unfolding in thick woods, nothing but red clay and open roads, and that smell with the window rolled down just enough, nothing but the ashes flicked out the window of the Escape, our escape, making our escape, drive until night, when the sky unwraps the stars for us and puts on the shock and awe show we deserve. And we'll keep going. Winding our way up into the mountains--can you feel it getting cooler--nice, and you can smell winter taking its leave, leaves dissolve into the ground still, dampened from the cold and rain they continue their journey home.
When we get to the cabin, don't say a word. It's what I've learned. Act like you're supposed to be somewhere, have something, take something, and its yours. Just let me handle it. If anyone asks, it's a weekend vacation, up to enjoy spring in bloom up that trail to the cabins no one bothers with. I'll carry you, you just relax. When we get there, I'll sweep away the dust from the old pine table, give you a nice place to rest for a while before we turn on.
As soon as they can get away unnoticed, George and Jenna will meet us there. They have to go quietly, the next night or the night after. People will be looking for us. George can handle them. Leave the bills and the house, bring the dogs and the cat, some firewood, some stuff we need. Jenna will bring her toys--we'll hear her voice soon enough, leaping and jumping from the hearth to the chair--"I can FLY!" she'll chant from mid-air.
I think we can pull it off. What choice do we have? I'm not letting you go. Can't. Not yet. Too much of me in you, too many files, to many places and nooks and crannies filled with my words, voice, poetry, prose, loss, life--your keys welcome the shape of my fingers. Your screen welcomes my eyes. You are one of us.
See you at midnight.
Tomorrow, it's me and you. We pack up tonight--don't worry, I'll take care of everything. I have your food--the power supply fits in the pocket of my maroon backpack, just like it always has. We'll find a way to steal some connectivity along the way--I'm not gonna sweat the small stuff. So just get ready. You get some rest, right here, on the arm of the couch, while I get our stuff together. Watch a little TV; you won't like it much. It's boring compared to where we've been. But just stay with it until sleep mode kicks in. Trust me on this. I'll take care of the rest.
By midnight I'll be ready. Have my meds, my t-shirts and jeans, my folders, my phone--I'll have it all together. I'll get gas in the car on our way out of town. And we'll drive. Just you and me.
Up into the North Georgia mountains, nothing but green buds unfolding in thick woods, nothing but red clay and open roads, and that smell with the window rolled down just enough, nothing but the ashes flicked out the window of the Escape, our escape, making our escape, drive until night, when the sky unwraps the stars for us and puts on the shock and awe show we deserve. And we'll keep going. Winding our way up into the mountains--can you feel it getting cooler--nice, and you can smell winter taking its leave, leaves dissolve into the ground still, dampened from the cold and rain they continue their journey home.
When we get to the cabin, don't say a word. It's what I've learned. Act like you're supposed to be somewhere, have something, take something, and its yours. Just let me handle it. If anyone asks, it's a weekend vacation, up to enjoy spring in bloom up that trail to the cabins no one bothers with. I'll carry you, you just relax. When we get there, I'll sweep away the dust from the old pine table, give you a nice place to rest for a while before we turn on.
As soon as they can get away unnoticed, George and Jenna will meet us there. They have to go quietly, the next night or the night after. People will be looking for us. George can handle them. Leave the bills and the house, bring the dogs and the cat, some firewood, some stuff we need. Jenna will bring her toys--we'll hear her voice soon enough, leaping and jumping from the hearth to the chair--"I can FLY!" she'll chant from mid-air.
I think we can pull it off. What choice do we have? I'm not letting you go. Can't. Not yet. Too much of me in you, too many files, to many places and nooks and crannies filled with my words, voice, poetry, prose, loss, life--your keys welcome the shape of my fingers. Your screen welcomes my eyes. You are one of us.
See you at midnight.
oh no, laptop.
March continues its rampage. I called HR today and humbled myself to ask if there were any way I could keep my laptop--pay something for it or trade off some work--and they can't or won't or for whatever reason. This is what I was most afraid of. Losing my Dell.
She isn't much to look at. She's old in computer lives--I've had her over two years. But she's mine, and she is inextricably linked to my brain and my eyes and my fingers. This is where I write. This is my axe. And I have to give her back.
I told George last night, what if I can't work something out? What if I have to hand it back to them to turn over to some non-writer--it would be like you giving your favorite bass to some lame player and never getting it back. Oh god. What will they do to her. Not excel matrices of media names and ed cals! FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, anything but that. I'm sure she'll never blog another post, never see a blogger window again unless it's by accident. She won't get emails that set her on fire. She'll be relegated to a cube under florescent lights with whisps of perfume and magnetic word games assulting her with every keystroke.
I cried about it.
You probably think I'm kidding.
My hands and brain are shaped to it, the money has to go to health insurance and the like, and the only other working computer we have is a three-year-old generic PC I bought from work for $100 -- and that's about how fast it is too. That's the one patient George and Jenna work on.
What to do. What to do. I applied for amazon line of credit--maybe too honestly--didn't get it. I was thinking of switching to Mac--from whence I started perhaps I should return. I need help. Dying over here. My best friend has to go back to that place without me on April 1st. It's like taking your kitten to the pound. It's like cutting your brain in half.
Yes, there are people dying in Iraq, yes I feel blessed every minute for the health and well-being of my family, the house we thus-far have to live in, the talent I've been given, and the talent I've worked like crazy to develop; I'm thankful every minute for the understanding from my husband, for my sweet baby Jenna, for my friends, for this place. And yes, losing your laptop pales in comparison to all the other things people are going through.
But it's how I make a living and it's also where I live. And it hurts. And what's more, I really don't even know what to look into buying, why, where, how much. Ugh. Ugh Ugh.
Thankfully, at least through blogging, my personal endless notebook lives on the Web. Hey Hey they can't take that away from me. Nonetheless. I'm a little sad today as I wind down writing on my old friend.
She isn't much to look at. She's old in computer lives--I've had her over two years. But she's mine, and she is inextricably linked to my brain and my eyes and my fingers. This is where I write. This is my axe. And I have to give her back.
I told George last night, what if I can't work something out? What if I have to hand it back to them to turn over to some non-writer--it would be like you giving your favorite bass to some lame player and never getting it back. Oh god. What will they do to her. Not excel matrices of media names and ed cals! FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, anything but that. I'm sure she'll never blog another post, never see a blogger window again unless it's by accident. She won't get emails that set her on fire. She'll be relegated to a cube under florescent lights with whisps of perfume and magnetic word games assulting her with every keystroke.
I cried about it.
You probably think I'm kidding.
My hands and brain are shaped to it, the money has to go to health insurance and the like, and the only other working computer we have is a three-year-old generic PC I bought from work for $100 -- and that's about how fast it is too. That's the one patient George and Jenna work on.
What to do. What to do. I applied for amazon line of credit--maybe too honestly--didn't get it. I was thinking of switching to Mac--from whence I started perhaps I should return. I need help. Dying over here. My best friend has to go back to that place without me on April 1st. It's like taking your kitten to the pound. It's like cutting your brain in half.
Yes, there are people dying in Iraq, yes I feel blessed every minute for the health and well-being of my family, the house we thus-far have to live in, the talent I've been given, and the talent I've worked like crazy to develop; I'm thankful every minute for the understanding from my husband, for my sweet baby Jenna, for my friends, for this place. And yes, losing your laptop pales in comparison to all the other things people are going through.
But it's how I make a living and it's also where I live. And it hurts. And what's more, I really don't even know what to look into buying, why, where, how much. Ugh. Ugh Ugh.
Thankfully, at least through blogging, my personal endless notebook lives on the Web. Hey Hey they can't take that away from me. Nonetheless. I'm a little sad today as I wind down writing on my old friend.
March 27, 2003
Okay, anyone have any good news?
[note to self: check comment box frequently in hopes of finding some.]
more death stuff
The young man who helped me carry my things out of work last week, in passing, while we were on a completely different topic, mentioned that he'd never lost a loved one to death, that he had no idea how that would feel, that he couldn't put his head around what that would be like.
And it occurred to me, just then, with him juggling to fit my cardboard boxes on top of six changes of clothes for Jenna, five stuffed animals, and a couple of old happy meal boxes, that I've never not known what that feels like. As long as I can remember, that's been my default. We have two completely opposite defaults when it comes to loss.
Lots of cool realizations like this come to you while you're carrying your shit to your car after they tell you to go.
Thank God!
And it occurred to me, just then, with him juggling to fit my cardboard boxes on top of six changes of clothes for Jenna, five stuffed animals, and a couple of old happy meal boxes, that I've never not known what that feels like. As long as I can remember, that's been my default. We have two completely opposite defaults when it comes to loss.
Lots of cool realizations like this come to you while you're carrying your shit to your car after they tell you to go.
Thank God!
march madness
It took a lot out of me to write the stuff about my father and the me-child back on the 17th. March is a hard month for me. My father died on the 17th. My grandmother died on the 17th. Did I mention my grandfather died three weeks after my father--completely unexpected, a young man himself. Yes, well, a little hospital error. You know, like two doses of the same medicine because the first doctor to administer it never noted it. That was interesting. Funerals all around. To top it off, in the middle, is my mom's birthday. My mother has been through a lot. Her birthday was yesterday. We haven't spoken, except for brief brushes, for six months. It isn't what I wanted, but it is desparately what I need. I used to breathe for my mom, and know that she would willingly give her last breath for me. But I started losing my breath, and she got more and more of it, somehwere along the line.
And that in the long run is the problem. Someone lives, someone dies. Smothering. Choking. Too near too long. Always afraid that separating would mean death, hers or mine, and knowing that it still may. The death of something, someone. A lifelong fear for obvious reasons, and for not so obvious reasons. And also the birth, which, if you haven't noticed, I've been in the middle of for some number of months. Individuating the therapist calls it. It sounded immediately like something I need to do on a few dozen fronts. Talks of triangles as a powerful dynamic, relationships in threes, they're everywhere you know.
So I'm trying to get through March, on the other side of which I expect to find my voice again. I breathed a lot into my posts earlier this month. And I ran out of breath. Just then, I got the sock in the gut I should have expected, losing my job. And in the very real every day concrete world place, I don't officially leave my job til April 1. So there's a lot I'm holding back. Not details, you know. I won't talk about those. Can't. But for the first time I'll be posting here as a free agent, and I am so ready to roar. I can say whatever I want to whomever I want. I can remove my little disclaimer at the bottom. This place will really be mine.
Yes, it's always been mine, you're right. And no, I rarely pull back on saying what I want to say. That's true. I swear I smoke and I fight here without giving a shit about the fact that more than a few folks at work know where this place is. But there have been times, on what I'm guessing are a couple dozen or more posts, where I've self-edited based on my role at work. I've pulled up short. Had to. There are certain things unbecoming an agency chick, you see.
So hurry the fuck up, March. I'm sick of you're annoying, traumatizing ass, and if you don't roar on out of here like a lion, I'm gonna tear you off the calendar for the rest of my natural life.
Change the time, spring ahead, whatever needs to be done. Just hurry up, will ya?
And that in the long run is the problem. Someone lives, someone dies. Smothering. Choking. Too near too long. Always afraid that separating would mean death, hers or mine, and knowing that it still may. The death of something, someone. A lifelong fear for obvious reasons, and for not so obvious reasons. And also the birth, which, if you haven't noticed, I've been in the middle of for some number of months. Individuating the therapist calls it. It sounded immediately like something I need to do on a few dozen fronts. Talks of triangles as a powerful dynamic, relationships in threes, they're everywhere you know.
So I'm trying to get through March, on the other side of which I expect to find my voice again. I breathed a lot into my posts earlier this month. And I ran out of breath. Just then, I got the sock in the gut I should have expected, losing my job. And in the very real every day concrete world place, I don't officially leave my job til April 1. So there's a lot I'm holding back. Not details, you know. I won't talk about those. Can't. But for the first time I'll be posting here as a free agent, and I am so ready to roar. I can say whatever I want to whomever I want. I can remove my little disclaimer at the bottom. This place will really be mine.
Yes, it's always been mine, you're right. And no, I rarely pull back on saying what I want to say. That's true. I swear I smoke and I fight here without giving a shit about the fact that more than a few folks at work know where this place is. But there have been times, on what I'm guessing are a couple dozen or more posts, where I've self-edited based on my role at work. I've pulled up short. Had to. There are certain things unbecoming an agency chick, you see.
So hurry the fuck up, March. I'm sick of you're annoying, traumatizing ass, and if you don't roar on out of here like a lion, I'm gonna tear you off the calendar for the rest of my natural life.
Change the time, spring ahead, whatever needs to be done. Just hurry up, will ya?
dr again...
Well, we're taking Jenna to the docs again tomorrow--one we saw from some time back whom we liked. The two in between--not so great. Our family doctor is a good coverage guy but not an over-time problem solver. This is the pediatrician she's gone to who seemed to really connect with her. Wish us luck.
She's has had "that look" as you know, and today I greeted a blister on her tonsil, yellow, you know. Circles under the eyes. Hoping it's not strep for the THIRD time in a row, but more concerned that she's lost weight, not looking right. As a mom, I know something's off. And I'm not the kind who feels this often about her--usually I say, she's a Sessum--she'll be fine, because all of the children on George's side are rough and tumble tree climbing far falling kids. Sturdy stock. Not sickly, not to the drs much. She was pretty much the same way, give or take her asthma (which I have too), until a few months ago. Before the winter from Hell.
Send good thoughts. And also, the advice from electricliz about the mouthwash was tremendous. George got some last week for her. Now we do it twice a day--she swishes and rinses. I dillute it with a little water for her, so it's not so strong on her gums. It is STRONG mint though. Jenna first swished it and said, "This tastes like hypermint!" I was like "Hypermint? That is just what it tastes like. Cool word." She's already a branding pro like her mom.
I think the anticeptic mouthwash has helped beat back this round of whatever throat and related crud she has, because it's looking pretty much the same, not remarkably worse, and she hasn't had a fever this time.
If I could only get her to take chewable vitamins. We've tried Chucky and Barbie and Scooby. She hates all of them. Yesterday she says, "Mom, let me help you with the garbage bag--I can crush it just like Daddy!" And I see her looking guilty, you know. I look on the table, no vitamin. I watch her mouth, no chewing. I say, "Jenna, did you just slip your vitamin in the garbage?" She shakes her head no, but by the time she gets back to the table it tumbles out: "Well, OKAY. I did," she says smiling like an innocent angel. "Don't throw away your vitamin," I try. "You have to take it. It makes you feel better." And the usual reply: "But I HATE it!"
So we are off to use the good insurance while we have it and try to get to the bottom of this bug, germ, infestation or whatever it is.
Send good thoughts, and thank you.
She's has had "that look" as you know, and today I greeted a blister on her tonsil, yellow, you know. Circles under the eyes. Hoping it's not strep for the THIRD time in a row, but more concerned that she's lost weight, not looking right. As a mom, I know something's off. And I'm not the kind who feels this often about her--usually I say, she's a Sessum--she'll be fine, because all of the children on George's side are rough and tumble tree climbing far falling kids. Sturdy stock. Not sickly, not to the drs much. She was pretty much the same way, give or take her asthma (which I have too), until a few months ago. Before the winter from Hell.
Send good thoughts. And also, the advice from electricliz about the mouthwash was tremendous. George got some last week for her. Now we do it twice a day--she swishes and rinses. I dillute it with a little water for her, so it's not so strong on her gums. It is STRONG mint though. Jenna first swished it and said, "This tastes like hypermint!" I was like "Hypermint? That is just what it tastes like. Cool word." She's already a branding pro like her mom.
I think the anticeptic mouthwash has helped beat back this round of whatever throat and related crud she has, because it's looking pretty much the same, not remarkably worse, and she hasn't had a fever this time.
If I could only get her to take chewable vitamins. We've tried Chucky and Barbie and Scooby. She hates all of them. Yesterday she says, "Mom, let me help you with the garbage bag--I can crush it just like Daddy!" And I see her looking guilty, you know. I look on the table, no vitamin. I watch her mouth, no chewing. I say, "Jenna, did you just slip your vitamin in the garbage?" She shakes her head no, but by the time she gets back to the table it tumbles out: "Well, OKAY. I did," she says smiling like an innocent angel. "Don't throw away your vitamin," I try. "You have to take it. It makes you feel better." And the usual reply: "But I HATE it!"
So we are off to use the good insurance while we have it and try to get to the bottom of this bug, germ, infestation or whatever it is.
Send good thoughts, and thank you.
Dear Selene
I noticed tonight that your blog is acting funny. I hope blogger's down. Because I'm really concerned that you let this stupd know-nothing whom your esteemed and slightly psychotic father took a beating to behind the woodshed this evening seriously. I mean, I'm worried you took your blog down. Don't do that. Kay?
I don't want you to--you know why? Because you are interesting and you do have something to say and we need to hear it. And when you don't have something to say (that's us most of the time... shhh... don't tell the rest of the world... they just got to thinking we're kind of important...) you go ahead and say nothing. Or something. Or you post a picture. Or one word. Or whatever the hell you want.
That's why we--stinking what's-his-loser-face not included in the "us" in we--are here. Believe it or not, and you might not believe it because of the venomous fiddle-faddle (do they still say fiddle-faddle?) our wanabe blogger friend posted, we're just a group of people trying to make our way across this rocky planet a little bit easier, with a little more fun and a little more caring, than we would have if we stayed outside this web of voices we call Blogland.
You know why else I want to read you? Because you speak for me too. Because I wish I could have blogged when I was 13. Because my family life and my school life and my heart had me, shall we say, twisted up in knots when I was 13? Yeh, that works for me. Knotted up inside. And if I had been writing out loud then, I think I might have found my voice--myself--before I hit 40, before I had a daughter of my own, and I might even have come to understand and love myself sooner.
That's heavy, I know. And I'm waahaaay on the other side of 13 now. But there's something in this writing out loud thing. And it's something big. And you ARE important and strong and smart and funny enough to join us. And when you don't want to be smart or funny, we'll read you and talk back. And when you do want to engage us and jolt us, we'll be there then too.
Just don't go to your father's blog too often. He posts some, well, slightly objectionable material from time to time... But then, what would one expect?
All I know is that if I could be 13 again, I'd like to come back here. Online. And I'd like to know that I could withstand the garbage from brainless, spineless idiots. See it for what it is. Say, hey, I'm better than that. And I would have liked to learn to do that that through my words, my writing, my wit, my intellect sooner. Don't forget, I talked to you on the phone and read your blog, and then throw in your parents' genes, and well... just understand that I know you have some stuff to say.
It's risky here too. People will come along and push you around because 1) they're jealous, 2) they're stupid 3) they're stupid and jealous. It's kind of like real life that way. But it also gives you a chance to say NO. You can't do that to me. Screw you. And mean it.
Finding your voice does that for you. Practicing it here--that's what we're all doing. We're just practicing. We don't know a damn thing, and don't let that idiot imply that anyone here--him especially--does. We don't know what were up to. We're just doing. We're just making music by swapping links instead of parts, jamming with words instead of notes, rapping if you will. And we make mistakes and screw up. We pull posts and we even take our blogs down for a while.
But we come back talking. We come back with our voices even stronger than when we hushed up. And that, Mirage, is the point.
See you on the flip side? I'm betting I do sooner or later. ;-)
I don't want you to--you know why? Because you are interesting and you do have something to say and we need to hear it. And when you don't have something to say (that's us most of the time... shhh... don't tell the rest of the world... they just got to thinking we're kind of important...) you go ahead and say nothing. Or something. Or you post a picture. Or one word. Or whatever the hell you want.
That's why we--stinking what's-his-loser-face not included in the "us" in we--are here. Believe it or not, and you might not believe it because of the venomous fiddle-faddle (do they still say fiddle-faddle?) our wanabe blogger friend posted, we're just a group of people trying to make our way across this rocky planet a little bit easier, with a little more fun and a little more caring, than we would have if we stayed outside this web of voices we call Blogland.
You know why else I want to read you? Because you speak for me too. Because I wish I could have blogged when I was 13. Because my family life and my school life and my heart had me, shall we say, twisted up in knots when I was 13? Yeh, that works for me. Knotted up inside. And if I had been writing out loud then, I think I might have found my voice--myself--before I hit 40, before I had a daughter of my own, and I might even have come to understand and love myself sooner.
That's heavy, I know. And I'm waahaaay on the other side of 13 now. But there's something in this writing out loud thing. And it's something big. And you ARE important and strong and smart and funny enough to join us. And when you don't want to be smart or funny, we'll read you and talk back. And when you do want to engage us and jolt us, we'll be there then too.
Just don't go to your father's blog too often. He posts some, well, slightly objectionable material from time to time... But then, what would one expect?
All I know is that if I could be 13 again, I'd like to come back here. Online. And I'd like to know that I could withstand the garbage from brainless, spineless idiots. See it for what it is. Say, hey, I'm better than that. And I would have liked to learn to do that that through my words, my writing, my wit, my intellect sooner. Don't forget, I talked to you on the phone and read your blog, and then throw in your parents' genes, and well... just understand that I know you have some stuff to say.
It's risky here too. People will come along and push you around because 1) they're jealous, 2) they're stupid 3) they're stupid and jealous. It's kind of like real life that way. But it also gives you a chance to say NO. You can't do that to me. Screw you. And mean it.
Finding your voice does that for you. Practicing it here--that's what we're all doing. We're just practicing. We don't know a damn thing, and don't let that idiot imply that anyone here--him especially--does. We don't know what were up to. We're just doing. We're just making music by swapping links instead of parts, jamming with words instead of notes, rapping if you will. And we make mistakes and screw up. We pull posts and we even take our blogs down for a while.
But we come back talking. We come back with our voices even stronger than when we hushed up. And that, Mirage, is the point.
See you on the flip side? I'm betting I do sooner or later. ;-)
This isn't all that's on my mind...
So, has the snow melted away everywhere? What's the temp where you live? It was about 70 here today. Too hot too soon.
well, it's not really a layoff...
...because technically they didn't want me to go. They also made me an offer I couldn't not refuse. And so I feel like this:
This spiffy graphic comes from this article. While I relate to some of what the article says, I'll tell you this: as a telecommuter, job separation is a piece of cake. The stress issues don't come from a change in routine, because you're home, on the computer, and that *is* your routine. Unfortunately, I think that makes the jump to focusing on the hard financial realities that much quicker.
Since I'm already working for two clients, I'm doing the same thing I've always done. So far I haven't even had to go out and hard sell. Word of mouth is working. For now anyway.
So I guess I'm saying, to avoid the stress of layoffs, start telecommuting. It quickly disolves any illusion you have that your company is your family.
Which helps when they cut your nuts off.
sleep tight!
-the manglement
This spiffy graphic comes from this article. While I relate to some of what the article says, I'll tell you this: as a telecommuter, job separation is a piece of cake. The stress issues don't come from a change in routine, because you're home, on the computer, and that *is* your routine. Unfortunately, I think that makes the jump to focusing on the hard financial realities that much quicker.
Since I'm already working for two clients, I'm doing the same thing I've always done. So far I haven't even had to go out and hard sell. Word of mouth is working. For now anyway.
So I guess I'm saying, to avoid the stress of layoffs, start telecommuting. It quickly disolves any illusion you have that your company is your family.
Which helps when they cut your nuts off.
sleep tight!
-the manglement
March 26, 2003
the thing that makes me angry
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.
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)