I've long been anti-aggregator because I think it disturbs the eyeball-to-brain-to-blog-to-comments-to-brain-to-post flow which I think is at the core of good blogging. Then Shelley clued me in to bloglines. Sheesh. Color me a convert.
Pretty nifty and well integrated within the blogging experience. Gimme a week. I'll report back. And let me know if the lil' subscribe button over there on the left works, kay?
November 11, 2003
November 10, 2003
Authentic Dog*
I think it's risky business when people own dogs they don't license.
Dog licenses are necessary for several reasons, not the least of which is that to get a license, your dog has to be vacinated against rabies, and this practice reduces the incidence of rabies and the associated health problems the disease poses to other animals and to humans. Many wild animals can carry rabies, and leaving a pet--especially a large dog that roams--unvaccinated and unregistered is simply irresponsible.
It is with some hesitation that I point to Frank Paynter's dog, Fang, as an example of an accident waiting to happen.
Fang remains unlicensed and has not been vaccinated. At the same time, Frank has posted about how prone Fang is to roaming, and about how unpredictable Fang can become on occasion.
What if Fang were to happen upon a child collecting pine cones in the woods? What if Fang, having recently killed a rabid raccoon, bit the child? That child would then have to undergo a round of very painful treatments, and just as devastating for Frank, Fang would have to be destroyed.
That is why I am urging Frank to have Fang vaccinated and to get him properly licensed in his township. I also urge the Towns and Counties across the U.S. to do a better job enforcing the laws that are already on the books. They should be following through and fining the scofflaws who refuse to license their dogs.
I'm sorry, Frank, but sometimes an intervention is required.
*
Dedicated to shelley.
Dog licenses are necessary for several reasons, not the least of which is that to get a license, your dog has to be vacinated against rabies, and this practice reduces the incidence of rabies and the associated health problems the disease poses to other animals and to humans. Many wild animals can carry rabies, and leaving a pet--especially a large dog that roams--unvaccinated and unregistered is simply irresponsible.
It is with some hesitation that I point to Frank Paynter's dog, Fang, as an example of an accident waiting to happen.
Fang remains unlicensed and has not been vaccinated. At the same time, Frank has posted about how prone Fang is to roaming, and about how unpredictable Fang can become on occasion.
What if Fang were to happen upon a child collecting pine cones in the woods? What if Fang, having recently killed a rabid raccoon, bit the child? That child would then have to undergo a round of very painful treatments, and just as devastating for Frank, Fang would have to be destroyed.
That is why I am urging Frank to have Fang vaccinated and to get him properly licensed in his township. I also urge the Towns and Counties across the U.S. to do a better job enforcing the laws that are already on the books. They should be following through and fining the scofflaws who refuse to license their dogs.
I'm sorry, Frank, but sometimes an intervention is required.
*
Dedicated to shelley.
further reflections on meeting bloggers in person.
no two bloggers are alike.
all bloggers are alike.
I thought everyone knew me.
Everyone does not know me.
I thought I knew everyone.
I don't know anyone.
Allied sounds weird when said outloud as part of my identity, as in, Jeneane Sessum of Allied.
I don't know whether to pronounce it UHlied or AHlied or AAHlied or even Allaheyed.
I gave little thought to my blog's name when I picked it in 2001.
I think maybe I should have.
Blogspot is viewed by some as the low-rent district.
I'm glad I live in the low rent district.
More people know Blog Sisters than Allied.
I'm glad more people know Blog Sisters than Allied.
What the fuck does Allied mean?
I don't know.
I thought a blog gathering is where everyone hugs and weeps with joy to finally meet siblings separated at birth.
Not all bloggers weep.
Not all bloggers hug.
Not all bloggers were separated at birth.
That's probably a good thing.
Some bloggers are very serious about blogging.
Some bloggers are not very serious about blogging.
I sometimes giggle when I see bloggers handling money.
There is no good reason for this.
all bloggers are alike.
I thought everyone knew me.
Everyone does not know me.
I thought I knew everyone.
I don't know anyone.
Allied sounds weird when said outloud as part of my identity, as in, Jeneane Sessum of Allied.
I don't know whether to pronounce it UHlied or AHlied or AAHlied or even Allaheyed.
I gave little thought to my blog's name when I picked it in 2001.
I think maybe I should have.
Blogspot is viewed by some as the low-rent district.
I'm glad I live in the low rent district.
More people know Blog Sisters than Allied.
I'm glad more people know Blog Sisters than Allied.
What the fuck does Allied mean?
I don't know.
I thought a blog gathering is where everyone hugs and weeps with joy to finally meet siblings separated at birth.
Not all bloggers weep.
Not all bloggers hug.
Not all bloggers were separated at birth.
That's probably a good thing.
Some bloggers are very serious about blogging.
Some bloggers are not very serious about blogging.
I sometimes giggle when I see bloggers handling money.
There is no good reason for this.
November 08, 2003
california raisin some questions here...
Shelley thought I raised some good questions in my second comment to her post about the California Tax Board using content written in her weblog as part of the criteria considered when determining how much she might or might not be able to pay them.
That crosses the line in a lot of ways, as did Bill Kearny's uninspired comment in the same thread, which I also reference in mine. So I said this. Food for thought I think:
-------------
...If I see one more blogger using the "oh stop your whining" cliche I'm going to puke. It's a technique for silencing and a substitute for thoughtful prose. In other words, it's LAZY.
Just to clarify something: We're not talking about a public journal being read by the public in this instance. We're talking about what you've written in public within your weblog, which, HELLO, could be fact or could be fiction, being used by the government in their financial assessment of you and what you may or may not owe them.
Not sure about you or Shelley, but I'm just thrilled to know that the IRS is a valued reader of this blog, just as I'll be thrilled to have a chat with the HMO folks over the phone one day, indicating that they've read every sentence I've written about my daughter's asthma, and would like to deal with me financially based on the pixel trail I left behind.
And what if I told you it's all a lie? What if I told you I made it up? What if I confessed she's never wheezed in her life? What if I say, that was all an experiment to guage the interest of my readers on specific topics, or, if I declare that I was doing research? Or, that it was ENTERTAINMENT, not necessarily fact?
If Shelley turned her blog into a novel, the IRS wouldn't be discussing the theme or content with her. They would be interested ONLY in the INCOME she derived from the novel. As far as I know, shelley hasn't made her first million off this blog yet.
Therefore, I believe our blog content is NOT fair game for the IRS research minions. ONLY blog income is.
I'll happily report my latest $11.00.
Hello? Anyone still have a pre-Bush bone in their bodies?
Again, let me say it with feeling this time, when it comes to the CONTENT and CONTEXT of our blogs, there's something SMELLY about being held financially accountable based on what we say (or perhaps eventually what we DON'T say) in our individual post or sentences. Get it?
----------
Good.
That crosses the line in a lot of ways, as did Bill Kearny's uninspired comment in the same thread, which I also reference in mine. So I said this. Food for thought I think:
-------------
...If I see one more blogger using the "oh stop your whining" cliche I'm going to puke. It's a technique for silencing and a substitute for thoughtful prose. In other words, it's LAZY.
Just to clarify something: We're not talking about a public journal being read by the public in this instance. We're talking about what you've written in public within your weblog, which, HELLO, could be fact or could be fiction, being used by the government in their financial assessment of you and what you may or may not owe them.
Not sure about you or Shelley, but I'm just thrilled to know that the IRS is a valued reader of this blog, just as I'll be thrilled to have a chat with the HMO folks over the phone one day, indicating that they've read every sentence I've written about my daughter's asthma, and would like to deal with me financially based on the pixel trail I left behind.
And what if I told you it's all a lie? What if I told you I made it up? What if I confessed she's never wheezed in her life? What if I say, that was all an experiment to guage the interest of my readers on specific topics, or, if I declare that I was doing research? Or, that it was ENTERTAINMENT, not necessarily fact?
If Shelley turned her blog into a novel, the IRS wouldn't be discussing the theme or content with her. They would be interested ONLY in the INCOME she derived from the novel. As far as I know, shelley hasn't made her first million off this blog yet.
Therefore, I believe our blog content is NOT fair game for the IRS research minions. ONLY blog income is.
I'll happily report my latest $11.00.
Hello? Anyone still have a pre-Bush bone in their bodies?
Again, let me say it with feeling this time, when it comes to the CONTENT and CONTEXT of our blogs, there's something SMELLY about being held financially accountable based on what we say (or perhaps eventually what we DON'T say) in our individual post or sentences. Get it?
----------
Good.
November 07, 2003
The Shelley Powers Institute of Technology
This is an awesome essay penned by Shelley on all manner of things regarding comment spamming, what to do or not do about it, virtual wars and attacks that take down blogs, what to expect, what to fear, putrid bottom feeders, angry algae, and how not to take this shit lying down.
I feel like I just went to a really cool class where I learned about something I didn't know was happening. You know, that all-a-buzz feeling.
I feel like I just went to a really cool class where I learned about something I didn't know was happening. You know, that all-a-buzz feeling.
oooooh!
congratulations. you are the "you smell like
butt" bunny. you're brutally honest and
always say what's on your mind.
which happy bunny are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thanks, RB!
backward
this is the park where I used to ride my horse when I was a teenager. It looks just the same. I'm misty.
November 06, 2003
leastman lane
In the late summer, she'd sit on the rocky bank and watch the clay dry under her fingernails. The thick clay beneath the water was the best thing about the creek in mid-August, those tiny tadpoles making freckles and lines, darting in and out of what looked more like chocolate pudding than dirt.
On the hottest days she looked forward to finishing chores, to sinking into the softness of the creek, then stretching out on the bottom, gouging fistfulls of clay as she half floated, in cutoffs and a t-shirt, soaking head to toe in crystal water.
This was the only way to cool off after a ride, after the stalls were clean. The horse flies never followed her down to the water's edge. Neither did her nightmares.
On the hottest days she looked forward to finishing chores, to sinking into the softness of the creek, then stretching out on the bottom, gouging fistfulls of clay as she half floated, in cutoffs and a t-shirt, soaking head to toe in crystal water.
This was the only way to cool off after a ride, after the stalls were clean. The horse flies never followed her down to the water's edge. Neither did her nightmares.
net times
George: "I'm trying to think of what they call that illness--it gets you really sick. I can't remember. It's right here (knocking his head), I've almost got it. I just have to think..."
Me: "You don't have to think anymore. There's Google."
Me: "You don't have to think anymore. There's Google."
um, holy shit?
shelley.
shhhh.
Denise, could you conjure us little guys--well, me--up a lil ole disclaimer for this here blog indicating, kind of like they say at the end of a (usually accurate and truthful) movie, that what you read here is a mixture of fiction and fact that even I haven't sorted out yet? you know, nothing here represents anything real or if it does it's coincidental and toss something in about the fact that we're WRITERS and this is a CREATIVE space and leave us the fuck alone?
I mean, if you're not busy buying diaper genies and stuff.
I'm floored. I always thought the insurance companies would be first.
shhhh.
Denise, could you conjure us little guys--well, me--up a lil ole disclaimer for this here blog indicating, kind of like they say at the end of a (usually accurate and truthful) movie, that what you read here is a mixture of fiction and fact that even I haven't sorted out yet? you know, nothing here represents anything real or if it does it's coincidental and toss something in about the fact that we're WRITERS and this is a CREATIVE space and leave us the fuck alone?
I mean, if you're not busy buying diaper genies and stuff.
I'm floored. I always thought the insurance companies would be first.
Two Years and Two Days Old
EEEKS! I missed my own birthday! Allied turned two November 4th. Seems like 22.
I just future posted this to December 31, 2004--here's a copy for today. Consider this a beta test. ;-)
I just figured out that with blogger's future post, theoretically, we can post wahayyyy into the future. Say, December 31, 2004, which, since I'm writing this on November 4, 2003, is quite a few months from now.
It's playing with my head. This wondering will I still be here then (and I don't just mean "here" on this blog)? My goodness. How much will change between now and then, and do I really want to post THAT far into the future?
And so, I guess if I can say one thing into this black hole of blogging made possible by some funky new future posting functionality, it's don't forget love.
Don't forget heart.
That's what we came here for.
Peace.
And happy 2005 everyone.
It's playing with my head. This wondering will I still be here then (and I don't just mean "here" on this blog)? My goodness. How much will change between now and then, and do I really want to post THAT far into the future?
And so, I guess if I can say one thing into this black hole of blogging made possible by some funky new future posting functionality, it's don't forget love.
Don't forget heart.
That's what we came here for.
Peace.
And happy 2005 everyone.
November 05, 2003
I like mine fried.
Our samsung TV recently bit the dust. We'd been fans of Samsung in the past, having had a microwave that lasted like 18 years, and some other gadget that lasted about 394 years. But this TV died way before it's time. Like after two years.
We often still turn it on, just to listen to the clickclickclickclick of it not actually turning on at all. It gives us hope. Or something. Used to be if we let it chatter away with its clicking for two to three hours, and it'd come on. Then we started never turning it off, knowing that actually getting it to come back on would be a tricky and lengthy process. Then, as you may remember, the kind folks at the local power company shut us off for a day (something about them wanting money for electricity). Now we wait 24 hours, 48 hours: nothing.
Which is to say, if they can't make a good TV, why would I want them boiling my underwear? In fact, why do I want to boil my underwear at all? In fact, who does boil their underwear? And why precisely?
Hmmmmmmm.
This is deep.
Thanks to the jer zone in advance for giving me some interesting dreams.
We often still turn it on, just to listen to the clickclickclickclick of it not actually turning on at all. It gives us hope. Or something. Used to be if we let it chatter away with its clicking for two to three hours, and it'd come on. Then we started never turning it off, knowing that actually getting it to come back on would be a tricky and lengthy process. Then, as you may remember, the kind folks at the local power company shut us off for a day (something about them wanting money for electricity). Now we wait 24 hours, 48 hours: nothing.
Which is to say, if they can't make a good TV, why would I want them boiling my underwear? In fact, why do I want to boil my underwear at all? In fact, who does boil their underwear? And why precisely?
Hmmmmmmm.
This is deep.
Thanks to the jer zone in advance for giving me some interesting dreams.
The trails
Let me tell you a story of a young girl who rides horses. She is strong, with tight thighs that like riding bareback best, the tickle of chestnut hair, matted, hot against her skin, holding on for dear life, a best friend who loves to gallop ahead, to race her thoroughbred through the woods, always in the lead, choosing the toughest trails, the steepest hills.
She goes for it every time. Part of their friendship is in her following. Every time they start slow, then build speed, branches snap and reach for her cheeks, the trees throwing razor sharp twigs like confetti, this is a celebration of the trails. With each coming branch, she lowers her chin to his mane, squeezes tighter with her calves.
She never expects to stay on all the way there and back again, she is ready in an instant to let go, to throw herself into the brush, take pine needles in exchange for flying. Even as her senses urge her to slow him down, she knows that it's too late. It's always too late. There's no way to pull back once you pass the concrete walk that cuts through the trail by the pond.
Four legs galloping flat out, she sees his nose stretch forward, jerking the reins loose, nostrils puffing, grabbing the bit, it's not her ride anymore.
There is a point during a gallop where you stop stopping, stop hoping to ever stop, with no choice but to go on, you submit to fear, riding on the edge, too fast to feel your own breath, you become motion. The wind no longer fights you for your breath because you are the wind.
What you do is give in and ride.
What you do is ride.
She goes for it every time. Part of their friendship is in her following. Every time they start slow, then build speed, branches snap and reach for her cheeks, the trees throwing razor sharp twigs like confetti, this is a celebration of the trails. With each coming branch, she lowers her chin to his mane, squeezes tighter with her calves.
She never expects to stay on all the way there and back again, she is ready in an instant to let go, to throw herself into the brush, take pine needles in exchange for flying. Even as her senses urge her to slow him down, she knows that it's too late. It's always too late. There's no way to pull back once you pass the concrete walk that cuts through the trail by the pond.
Four legs galloping flat out, she sees his nose stretch forward, jerking the reins loose, nostrils puffing, grabbing the bit, it's not her ride anymore.
There is a point during a gallop where you stop stopping, stop hoping to ever stop, with no choice but to go on, you submit to fear, riding on the edge, too fast to feel your own breath, you become motion. The wind no longer fights you for your breath because you are the wind.
What you do is give in and ride.
What you do is ride.
the solution really is poetry
"You know when I was young, a child even, it was like it was singing to me all the time," she recalled. "I mean it was like everything was in metaphor, everything was in lines, everything was in phrases, and it would just go through my head continuously. I thought the supply was endless. It was, for many years."
-Ruth Stone
from Wood s lot.
-Ruth Stone
from Wood s lot.
debt
The economy's getting stronger, they say, they've said for a week now, and yet I have to wonder, how do we dig out? How do any of us with lost jobs, lousy or non-existent severences, newly-aquired COBRA paymenets, and tax bills waiting to jump out and suck any bit of progress from our veins in a matter of weeks--how to we catch up? How? How do we recover from an entertainment industry bashed to nothing by 9/11? How do we eeek just that little bit more out of who knows where to get ahead?
We give them $100 here, $500 here, $1000 there. Making progress. Phone calls getting friendlier, a little bit anyway, every now and then a human creditior says: "Thanks for trying, you're making progress."
It doesn't matter. It's not possible. Is it possible? What can you do go earn a chunk of change big enough to make a difference, to make a dent, to stop the lein they've put in motion? What does it take to do more than get by, or is that the point?
Maybe that's the point.
Relax, get by. You're okay. You've always been okay. Don't use your energy fighting it, let it wash over you and away. Today's all we have. Blessed to have a roof, no leaks, warmth, medicine, food, wheels, a yard, green grass, crazy autumn leaves, the piano, warm blankets for Jenna, toys, books, a mailbox where sometimes good news comes.
Each other.
We give them $100 here, $500 here, $1000 there. Making progress. Phone calls getting friendlier, a little bit anyway, every now and then a human creditior says: "Thanks for trying, you're making progress."
It doesn't matter. It's not possible. Is it possible? What can you do go earn a chunk of change big enough to make a difference, to make a dent, to stop the lein they've put in motion? What does it take to do more than get by, or is that the point?
Maybe that's the point.
Relax, get by. You're okay. You've always been okay. Don't use your energy fighting it, let it wash over you and away. Today's all we have. Blessed to have a roof, no leaks, warmth, medicine, food, wheels, a yard, green grass, crazy autumn leaves, the piano, warm blankets for Jenna, toys, books, a mailbox where sometimes good news comes.
Each other.
competition in the blog world
It's something I didn't really think would follow us here as quickly as it did. Or should I say, follow me here, personally. Which it has. To a greater or lesser degree, depending on the day, I feel competitive with some of my blog classmates.
Will you admit the same?
You do, don't you.
Precisely why? Why do I spend a single ounce of incredibly valuable mental energy letting such unproductive thoughts reverberate between my newly-pierced earlobes?
It rises and falls in me.
One week I'm all about community and having fun and not giving a shit and playing like we used to play. The next week, I'm all about, damn--how come I still have a 6/10 google ranking when so many others have jumped to 7/10. What's their secret? Are they better writers than I am? (That's rhetorical--don't answer it.) Are they writing about more interesting topics? Is it that they focus? Do they link to more important people than I do (that's easy to do--no offense, I mean, I LOVE you all)?
Is it because they meet bloggers in the flesh--at conferences, meet ups, in academia, etc? I think that may be part of it, just as it has been with bloggers first moving to the telephone to deepen relationships. With more bloggers meeting bloggers, and with more sanctioned blog-focused events, there is a core circle of bloggers who are further deepening their relationships. I think this helps nudge the boundaries of their communities further outward. Bigger community, more links, more links, more credibility.
Sucks, don't it?
The truth is, I don't go to conferences. I don't have the money or the free get-away time, at least not now, to do so. And I don't have a focus here. I'm an excellent writer, though I don't always demonstrate that here. The point is, whatever the secret ingredients are to blog ranking success, I just don't have em.
Most days I'm glad about it. I've confined my voice in the corporate world in order to focus, to provide exactly what was expected. And I keep reminding myself that here, I don't have to do that. Here, I don't have to do anything, and I can do everything. I also have to remind myself that the freedom to write everything and nothing at all is worth more than a bump in google page ranks.
Although, if and when I do bump to 7/10, we're having a fucking PARTY over here--do you HEAR me? I'm not going to pretend I didn't notice it happen, like some folks. HELL NO! It's partay-down time. Get your grass skirts, wake the kids and phone the neighbors, BYOB (bring your own blog), and we will party our behinds off.
Yah.
Uh-huh.
You better believe it.
Will you admit the same?
You do, don't you.
Precisely why? Why do I spend a single ounce of incredibly valuable mental energy letting such unproductive thoughts reverberate between my newly-pierced earlobes?
It rises and falls in me.
One week I'm all about community and having fun and not giving a shit and playing like we used to play. The next week, I'm all about, damn--how come I still have a 6/10 google ranking when so many others have jumped to 7/10. What's their secret? Are they better writers than I am? (That's rhetorical--don't answer it.) Are they writing about more interesting topics? Is it that they focus? Do they link to more important people than I do (that's easy to do--no offense, I mean, I LOVE you all)?
Is it because they meet bloggers in the flesh--at conferences, meet ups, in academia, etc? I think that may be part of it, just as it has been with bloggers first moving to the telephone to deepen relationships. With more bloggers meeting bloggers, and with more sanctioned blog-focused events, there is a core circle of bloggers who are further deepening their relationships. I think this helps nudge the boundaries of their communities further outward. Bigger community, more links, more links, more credibility.
Sucks, don't it?
The truth is, I don't go to conferences. I don't have the money or the free get-away time, at least not now, to do so. And I don't have a focus here. I'm an excellent writer, though I don't always demonstrate that here. The point is, whatever the secret ingredients are to blog ranking success, I just don't have em.
Most days I'm glad about it. I've confined my voice in the corporate world in order to focus, to provide exactly what was expected. And I keep reminding myself that here, I don't have to do that. Here, I don't have to do anything, and I can do everything. I also have to remind myself that the freedom to write everything and nothing at all is worth more than a bump in google page ranks.
Although, if and when I do bump to 7/10, we're having a fucking PARTY over here--do you HEAR me? I'm not going to pretend I didn't notice it happen, like some folks. HELL NO! It's partay-down time. Get your grass skirts, wake the kids and phone the neighbors, BYOB (bring your own blog), and we will party our behinds off.
Yah.
Uh-huh.
You better believe it.
Reciprocal Linking Day
TODAY ONLY! That's right. Today only, you link to me, I link to you. And why the hell not?
First of all, my blogroll's a mess. I haven't used blogrolling.com because I've always had this idealistic notion that it's cheating. That you should tend to and prune and nurture your blogroll by hand, because it's the most selfless part of the blog. The posts are all about self. The template is all about dazzle and functionality. But the blogroll is about people. So, like a doofus, I've added and added and added, and forgotten to ever update links to those who've moved blogs. For some really crazy reason, I actually ENJOY taking the long way past their old home to get to their new blog. What is that? It's really not the best use of time, but stopping by Mike Golby's old place and stopping by Michael O'Connor Clarke's old place -- for crying out loud, pick a blogger off my blogroll and you'll probably stop by their old blog too -- gives me this warm feeling. A kind of "oh! I remember when we hung out there--that was a great place" as I click any variety of "I've moved!" links to get to the blog's new location.
Anyway, where am I going with this? I'm so excited actually. I have TWO FREE HOURS and my brain about me, which means its blogoramabama time! Anyway...
All of this is to say, my blogroll is unweildly, and my neighborhood relationships need some serious tending to. SO, if you want me to link to you, link to me and leave a comment with your blog's URL, and I'll add you to this blogroll-in-progress that lives on the left side of the page. Somewhere. Don't ask me where you'll end up. But somewhere over there.
Oh yes, I almost forgot! Secondly, I'm looking for some new blogs to read.
Thirdly, ta-ta!
First of all, my blogroll's a mess. I haven't used blogrolling.com because I've always had this idealistic notion that it's cheating. That you should tend to and prune and nurture your blogroll by hand, because it's the most selfless part of the blog. The posts are all about self. The template is all about dazzle and functionality. But the blogroll is about people. So, like a doofus, I've added and added and added, and forgotten to ever update links to those who've moved blogs. For some really crazy reason, I actually ENJOY taking the long way past their old home to get to their new blog. What is that? It's really not the best use of time, but stopping by Mike Golby's old place and stopping by Michael O'Connor Clarke's old place -- for crying out loud, pick a blogger off my blogroll and you'll probably stop by their old blog too -- gives me this warm feeling. A kind of "oh! I remember when we hung out there--that was a great place" as I click any variety of "I've moved!" links to get to the blog's new location.
Anyway, where am I going with this? I'm so excited actually. I have TWO FREE HOURS and my brain about me, which means its blogoramabama time! Anyway...
All of this is to say, my blogroll is unweildly, and my neighborhood relationships need some serious tending to. SO, if you want me to link to you, link to me and leave a comment with your blog's URL, and I'll add you to this blogroll-in-progress that lives on the left side of the page. Somewhere. Don't ask me where you'll end up. But somewhere over there.
Oh yes, I almost forgot! Secondly, I'm looking for some new blogs to read.
Thirdly, ta-ta!
It's Hot.
What is this weather in Atlanta? It's been a week of heat that has nothing to do with fall. What is it this grey drisley morning, 75 degrees? A couple of days ago, with the sun beating the pavement, it had to be 80, no? What, did I flip too many pages on my calendar? What, is this global scalding? Global sweating? The wasps are mad with the warmth--they've risen with a vengence from wherever it is they go when it gets cold. The leaves are jumping back onto the trees, unraking themselves and hurling their crisp little bodies skyward. And I read that the groundhog saw his entire ass--which means no fall, no winter, no spring. It's right back to summer for us.
November 04, 2003
Rock me gently
It wasn't that I never liked rocking chairs; it was more like I couldn't see how they would be particularly useful.
Growing up, into my teens, 20s, 30s, I'd sit in a rocking chair at my sister's house once in a while, rock back and forth a few times, wish I could get what was supposed to be so special, so relaxing, about it.
The truth is, at best sitting in a rocking chair made me feel a little queasy, a little anxious, like I should just get up already. I mean, if I'm expending all this energy to stretch my legs back and forth, I might as well be doing something, right?
I love the way they look, don't get me wrong, and I always have. I have my grandmother's antique green rocker, which I've moved around with me since I had my first apartment 20 years ago. For most of those years, I didn't sit in it much. I enjoyed having it, not using it.
I love wooden rockers the best, even the naked variety you can get at the unfinished furniture store. Too look at, I've always found them mysteriously beautiful. To sit in them, well, I never quite could relax.
Then Jenna came along, and into her little baby room went a rocking chair for mommy, eventually a nice big rocker with a tall back, and a soft pastel cushion. Little did I know that this sturdy wooden rocker and I would become long-time companions.
Children change everything. Nursing changes everything. Yes, even how you feel about furniture.
For more than a year, I sat in that chair every night, at first nursing that sweet and never-tired bundle to sleep, and when bottle came along, it was the same place, same routine, back and forth we'd rock, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, letting down and drinking in each other's eyes, daughter to mother to daughter: you are so wonderful.
When it wasn't me rocking, it was George, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Reading and humming until she would finally give in to sleep.
It wasn't until I re-arranged Jenna's room a few months back that I finally moved the rocker out to give her more room for her toys and books. The rocking chair had become more a chair for a dozen stuffed animals, for half-dirty-but-still-wearable clothes, for pens and pencils, for stubbing our toes on, than a rocking chair. So I lugged it down to George's studio where it holds a bundle of cords and equipment that aren't quite meant for a rocking chair either.
I hadn't missed the chair, nor the rocking, hadn't even thought about it until tonight when I was laying at the foot of Jenna's bed, trying to coax her to rest on this night when she was having a particularly difficult time falling asleep. Without thinking, I took my leg, half off the bed already, and pushed my foot against her dresser, and started to gently rock the bed, slowly and gently, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. For a long time. And I thought back to how the room once looked, the corner where the chair had once sat. How different the world had become in just six years.
Back and forth, back and forth, thoughts subsided, followed by that opiate rush. mmmmmmmmmm.
It wasn't long before she was asleep, and it wasn't long before I realized that once you've rocked your baby to sleep, you never experience rocking quite the same way again.
I don't think it matters if you don't rock again until your 60 or 70 or 100--when you start rocking, the mystery tells its tale backwards to you. It all comes back: the let down, the blessing of that hormonal opiate, nature's way of removing the fear and the awkwardness, and the magnitude of new motherhood. Rocking brings with it the magic of forgetting that you haven't slept in days, weeks, months. With baby rocking, the way everything is fades so far away.
Fade away, fade away, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Six years now past my days of rocking and feeding baby, tonight's bedtime rocking session was a treat for me. It was a treat remembering the softness, the comfort, the awe, the certainty, the unknowing, the pleasure of it all.
And, I heartily admit, a treat to know I don't have to do the same thing again in 3 hours.
The beauty of the back and forth moves within the memories that come back--and forth, and back, and forth--when you rock. The sweetness in having rocked is that you can always rock.
Growing up, into my teens, 20s, 30s, I'd sit in a rocking chair at my sister's house once in a while, rock back and forth a few times, wish I could get what was supposed to be so special, so relaxing, about it.
The truth is, at best sitting in a rocking chair made me feel a little queasy, a little anxious, like I should just get up already. I mean, if I'm expending all this energy to stretch my legs back and forth, I might as well be doing something, right?
I love the way they look, don't get me wrong, and I always have. I have my grandmother's antique green rocker, which I've moved around with me since I had my first apartment 20 years ago. For most of those years, I didn't sit in it much. I enjoyed having it, not using it.
I love wooden rockers the best, even the naked variety you can get at the unfinished furniture store. Too look at, I've always found them mysteriously beautiful. To sit in them, well, I never quite could relax.
Then Jenna came along, and into her little baby room went a rocking chair for mommy, eventually a nice big rocker with a tall back, and a soft pastel cushion. Little did I know that this sturdy wooden rocker and I would become long-time companions.
Children change everything. Nursing changes everything. Yes, even how you feel about furniture.
For more than a year, I sat in that chair every night, at first nursing that sweet and never-tired bundle to sleep, and when bottle came along, it was the same place, same routine, back and forth we'd rock, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, letting down and drinking in each other's eyes, daughter to mother to daughter: you are so wonderful.
When it wasn't me rocking, it was George, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Reading and humming until she would finally give in to sleep.
It wasn't until I re-arranged Jenna's room a few months back that I finally moved the rocker out to give her more room for her toys and books. The rocking chair had become more a chair for a dozen stuffed animals, for half-dirty-but-still-wearable clothes, for pens and pencils, for stubbing our toes on, than a rocking chair. So I lugged it down to George's studio where it holds a bundle of cords and equipment that aren't quite meant for a rocking chair either.
I hadn't missed the chair, nor the rocking, hadn't even thought about it until tonight when I was laying at the foot of Jenna's bed, trying to coax her to rest on this night when she was having a particularly difficult time falling asleep. Without thinking, I took my leg, half off the bed already, and pushed my foot against her dresser, and started to gently rock the bed, slowly and gently, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. For a long time. And I thought back to how the room once looked, the corner where the chair had once sat. How different the world had become in just six years.
Back and forth, back and forth, thoughts subsided, followed by that opiate rush. mmmmmmmmmm.
It wasn't long before she was asleep, and it wasn't long before I realized that once you've rocked your baby to sleep, you never experience rocking quite the same way again.
I don't think it matters if you don't rock again until your 60 or 70 or 100--when you start rocking, the mystery tells its tale backwards to you. It all comes back: the let down, the blessing of that hormonal opiate, nature's way of removing the fear and the awkwardness, and the magnitude of new motherhood. Rocking brings with it the magic of forgetting that you haven't slept in days, weeks, months. With baby rocking, the way everything is fades so far away.
Fade away, fade away, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
Six years now past my days of rocking and feeding baby, tonight's bedtime rocking session was a treat for me. It was a treat remembering the softness, the comfort, the awe, the certainty, the unknowing, the pleasure of it all.
And, I heartily admit, a treat to know I don't have to do the same thing again in 3 hours.
The beauty of the back and forth moves within the memories that come back--and forth, and back, and forth--when you rock. The sweetness in having rocked is that you can always rock.
A product of the segregated north
I've been following the story of the mayor's race in philly, where katz v street is big news. What I find most interesting about this story may not be what the rest of America finds interesting. What interests me in this race, this "race" race, with its thick dividing lines between very angry voters on both sides, is that I don't think this same situation could occur in the south.
The reason is that segregation is inherent within the cultural fabric of the northeast united states.
The reason is that the south is further along on the path of trauma recovery from slavery than the north.
The reason is that the south's denial broke a long time ago.
The reason is, the north is still in denial, and the institutional machinery and economics of the northeast rely on its remaining in denial.
From a neighborhood perspective, from a community perspective, the geographic boundaries in the northeast ARE the demographic boundaries. The level of segregation I have noticed--hell, experienced--in the northeast is astounding in the year 2003. You have city, black. You have suburbs, white. You have media personalities (anchor people) White Men (maybe a black or Asian woman thrown in the mix for boldness), and you have counterculture personalities (black, Hispanic). And it's not easy to move among those dividing lines.
The mayor's race in Philly, and the breakdown of voters geographically, and the us versus them mindset, is so typical of the segregated northeast that I wonder if it really surprises me at all. The whining over bullying and injustice from the Katz people won't surprise me if he loses, the outrage and explosive rage from the Street people won't surprise me if he loses.
This is coming from someone who lived in the northeast most of her life, followed by time in Iowa, Illinois, Virginia, and now Atlanta. I know, as a mom and wife in an extra-ethnic family the last many years, the difference between living in the north and the south. I know the mindsets. I know the innuendos. I know the covert. I know the barely seen and the unseen.
I've traveled through the south over the last decade. You want a test subject in race relations, send a black man, a white woman, and a mixed child trouncing across this country.
The difference is that in the south, integration has become inherent. Travel the country roads of Alabama, where you feel the hair prickle on the back of your neck as you look at some of those old, old, crooked branch trees, flashes like whiplash of men hanging dot the spaces behind your eyes. Shiver. Chill.
You walk into a backroad convenience store. You glance at the white clerk, old and wrinkled, you wonder about his history, his daddy's history. You get your bottled water and bag of chips. You walk to the register where your husband's waiting. You see that they're talking now. The old clerk's drawing him a map of some fishing spots, and suddenly they have something in common. An old man of color with a flannel shirt walks in, nods, off looking for a tie-down for his truck. Before long someone points to an article in the paper and a loud discussion starts about the government and know nothings and know it alls, and smiles, and "oh, go on!" hand waving, and nods and, when everyone's had their say, it's: "Ya'll take care now." And you're on your way.
It doesn't matter where you go, country or city, most of what you find in the south is people. People who talk. People who like to tell stories to people. People who like to hear stories. The northeast is to the southeast what institution is to blogging.
In Atlanta, in the larger more prosperous cities of the south, the color that determines power is green. And green is NOT synonymous with White.
People live where people live. Money lives well. No money lives shitty. Colors are blended on both sides of the have and have-not divide.
Once dubbed (and proudly so) "the city too busy to hate," atlanta's success as a diverse city works because ain't no color not focused on that green color.
In some ways that makes this city an anomolie in the south. In other ways, it's just the rest of the south on steroids.
I need to write more about this, because I have something brewing on this topic, which relates to the idea of trauma and race and this country. Which relates to what communities that have begun working through that trauma look like. Which relates to where we are as a people. Which relates to just about everything.
But first I must get to work.
peace, philly.
For more on race and politics and folk, read Shelley's Dixieland post.
The reason is that segregation is inherent within the cultural fabric of the northeast united states.
The reason is that the south is further along on the path of trauma recovery from slavery than the north.
The reason is that the south's denial broke a long time ago.
The reason is, the north is still in denial, and the institutional machinery and economics of the northeast rely on its remaining in denial.
From a neighborhood perspective, from a community perspective, the geographic boundaries in the northeast ARE the demographic boundaries. The level of segregation I have noticed--hell, experienced--in the northeast is astounding in the year 2003. You have city, black. You have suburbs, white. You have media personalities (anchor people) White Men (maybe a black or Asian woman thrown in the mix for boldness), and you have counterculture personalities (black, Hispanic). And it's not easy to move among those dividing lines.
The mayor's race in Philly, and the breakdown of voters geographically, and the us versus them mindset, is so typical of the segregated northeast that I wonder if it really surprises me at all. The whining over bullying and injustice from the Katz people won't surprise me if he loses, the outrage and explosive rage from the Street people won't surprise me if he loses.
This is coming from someone who lived in the northeast most of her life, followed by time in Iowa, Illinois, Virginia, and now Atlanta. I know, as a mom and wife in an extra-ethnic family the last many years, the difference between living in the north and the south. I know the mindsets. I know the innuendos. I know the covert. I know the barely seen and the unseen.
I've traveled through the south over the last decade. You want a test subject in race relations, send a black man, a white woman, and a mixed child trouncing across this country.
The difference is that in the south, integration has become inherent. Travel the country roads of Alabama, where you feel the hair prickle on the back of your neck as you look at some of those old, old, crooked branch trees, flashes like whiplash of men hanging dot the spaces behind your eyes. Shiver. Chill.
You walk into a backroad convenience store. You glance at the white clerk, old and wrinkled, you wonder about his history, his daddy's history. You get your bottled water and bag of chips. You walk to the register where your husband's waiting. You see that they're talking now. The old clerk's drawing him a map of some fishing spots, and suddenly they have something in common. An old man of color with a flannel shirt walks in, nods, off looking for a tie-down for his truck. Before long someone points to an article in the paper and a loud discussion starts about the government and know nothings and know it alls, and smiles, and "oh, go on!" hand waving, and nods and, when everyone's had their say, it's: "Ya'll take care now." And you're on your way.
It doesn't matter where you go, country or city, most of what you find in the south is people. People who talk. People who like to tell stories to people. People who like to hear stories. The northeast is to the southeast what institution is to blogging.
In Atlanta, in the larger more prosperous cities of the south, the color that determines power is green. And green is NOT synonymous with White.
People live where people live. Money lives well. No money lives shitty. Colors are blended on both sides of the have and have-not divide.
Once dubbed (and proudly so) "the city too busy to hate," atlanta's success as a diverse city works because ain't no color not focused on that green color.
In some ways that makes this city an anomolie in the south. In other ways, it's just the rest of the south on steroids.
I need to write more about this, because I have something brewing on this topic, which relates to the idea of trauma and race and this country. Which relates to what communities that have begun working through that trauma look like. Which relates to where we are as a people. Which relates to just about everything.
But first I must get to work.
peace, philly.
For more on race and politics and folk, read Shelley's Dixieland post.
November 03, 2003
my head hertz
My head is killing me tonight. never was one to suffer from headaches until I turned 40 or started blogging--haven't pinpointed the pivotal event actually. Anyway, frigging OUCH!
Taking some Advil is probably a good plan. Instead I searched up "exploding head" on google, thinking that, if I could put into words what this headache feels like, it would be that my head's about to explode.
Good ole google.
You now have proof that you should NEVER EVER think too hard. Print this out and take it in to your boss in the morning. It ought to buy you six or seven extra coffee breaks during the day.
...the doctor urges people to take it easy and not think too hard for long periods of time. "Take frequent relaxation breaks when you're doing things that take lots of mental focus," he recommends.
Stop with all of those overly serious posts, while you're at it. We could be killing one another out here.
No, but seriously, a further search of google tells me that the exploding head story of 1999 was another urban legend.
Damn. I really wanted to have this one.
Taking some Advil is probably a good plan. Instead I searched up "exploding head" on google, thinking that, if I could put into words what this headache feels like, it would be that my head's about to explode.
Good ole google.
You now have proof that you should NEVER EVER think too hard. Print this out and take it in to your boss in the morning. It ought to buy you six or seven extra coffee breaks during the day.
...the doctor urges people to take it easy and not think too hard for long periods of time. "Take frequent relaxation breaks when you're doing things that take lots of mental focus," he recommends.
Stop with all of those overly serious posts, while you're at it. We could be killing one another out here.
No, but seriously, a further search of google tells me that the exploding head story of 1999 was another urban legend.
Damn. I really wanted to have this one.
tearscape
running tide if waves had feet
shoes slip quickly, skim the crests
bounce one to the next in time
reggae bass beat
wraps the sea
in meaning
or is it the other way
around?
shredded
heart through the skimmer
who can cobble together
a filter
for pain?
run me through it
catch the jagged edges
pieces of heart and womb
in the trap,
send joy back through
back into wet waiting,
refresh, recreate, reincarnate
send me back
as water.
Is there anything else?
shoes slip quickly, skim the crests
bounce one to the next in time
reggae bass beat
wraps the sea
in meaning
or is it the other way
around?
shredded
heart through the skimmer
who can cobble together
a filter
for pain?
run me through it
catch the jagged edges
pieces of heart and womb
in the trap,
send joy back through
back into wet waiting,
refresh, recreate, reincarnate
send me back
as water.
Is there anything else?
November 02, 2003
what a dance
Meg's Tech Woman's Blog Prom list of inviteeeeees is shaping up nicely!. Has the makings of quite a night!
October 31, 2003
My Date Is So Smart
Meg's also got a great comment thread over her way asking how people got to be what they are--by accident or with some kind of forethought or intention. It started with tech, but other career types have chimed in as well.
For me, how boring is this to admit, I had this whole thing all planned, even the blogging part. Yep. When I needed a place where I could write something other than boring case studies for IBM, I decided to invent weblogging. Not accidental--quite intentional.
NO NO--no need to thank me.
The idea first came to me after a visit to the National Game and Wildlife Refuge where I watched the mating of two very horny capra aegagrus. No lie. You see wild goats often have fur balls in their stomachs. The poor sons of bitches were hunted to near extinction by mountain peoples who thought these goo-covered hairballs were ripe with medicinal qualities, providing cures for such problems as impotence.
Anyway, I'm watching two of these hairy bastards engage in their mating ritual up on the jagged side of a particularly treacherous mountain, and I can't quite get over the idea that this somehow signifies something larger, something incredibly important, and as I watch the male just pounding away, crazy like, his flipper tail tucked tight, the female bracing herself and leaning in against him, thinking of the kids she'll have on the way by spring, it comes to me:
WEBLOGGING!!!
You see? Nothing's accidental.
For me, how boring is this to admit, I had this whole thing all planned, even the blogging part. Yep. When I needed a place where I could write something other than boring case studies for IBM, I decided to invent weblogging. Not accidental--quite intentional.
NO NO--no need to thank me.
The idea first came to me after a visit to the National Game and Wildlife Refuge where I watched the mating of two very horny capra aegagrus. No lie. You see wild goats often have fur balls in their stomachs. The poor sons of bitches were hunted to near extinction by mountain peoples who thought these goo-covered hairballs were ripe with medicinal qualities, providing cures for such problems as impotence.
Anyway, I'm watching two of these hairy bastards engage in their mating ritual up on the jagged side of a particularly treacherous mountain, and I can't quite get over the idea that this somehow signifies something larger, something incredibly important, and as I watch the male just pounding away, crazy like, his flipper tail tucked tight, the female bracing herself and leaning in against him, thinking of the kids she'll have on the way by spring, it comes to me:
WEBLOGGING!!!
You see? Nothing's accidental.
Screw Halloween--I Got an INVITE!
Meg has invited me to the tech woman blog prom! I'm so excited and honored! And me, without a working backspace key. WOW! What shall I wear--all I have is this orange t-shirt and jeans that Jenna wiped bubble soap on 20 minutes ago.
I would assume this is a come-as-you-are, not who-you-wish-you-were event?
Shall I bring my "The Role of the Repository in the Data Warehouse" White Paper, or aren't we exchanging gifts?
So many questions. I'm all a-twitter!
Meg says you can use her invitation to invite your own techy woman date.
I got mine. I think I'm allowed to invite a third. Hmmmmm. Who should it be....
??YOU??
I would assume this is a come-as-you-are, not who-you-wish-you-were event?
Shall I bring my "The Role of the Repository in the Data Warehouse" White Paper, or aren't we exchanging gifts?
So many questions. I'm all a-twitter!
Meg says you can use her invitation to invite your own techy woman date.
I got mine. I think I'm allowed to invite a third. Hmmmmm. Who should it be....
??YOU??
i spy
First of all, my spacebar is acting up again. Nothing drives me more crazy than when the very-faulty keyboard of this dell laptop acts up. Writing with a sucky keyboard is like driving without tires.
I'm sickof backspacingt o fix things.SOthisis howmykeyboardworks -- and yes i am pressingthespace bar between each word, it'sjust that sometimes you get one space and sometimes you get NOspaces and sometimes you getTWOspaces--and thisishowit looks.
SO, you can see that I spend a great deal of my writing time BACKSPACING. I said to george the other day, I spend more time going backwards than forwards when I write on this computer.
Anyway, I didn't come here to bitch. However, $5K for a brand new laptop WOULD make me stop bitching at least for 60 days. On the other hand, morning's here. Maybe I'll try cleaning this keyboard again.
Remind me to tell y ou a bout I Spy (the titleof thispost) after I work on my keyboard.
be back....
I'm sickof backspacingt o fix things.SOthisis howmykeyboardworks -- and yes i am pressingthespace bar between each word, it'sjust that sometimes you get one space and sometimes you get NOspaces and sometimes you getTWOspaces--and thisishowit looks.
SO, you can see that I spend a great deal of my writing time BACKSPACING. I said to george the other day, I spend more time going backwards than forwards when I write on this computer.
Anyway, I didn't come here to bitch. However, $5K for a brand new laptop WOULD make me stop bitching at least for 60 days. On the other hand, morning's here. Maybe I'll try cleaning this keyboard again.
Remind me to tell y ou a bout I Spy (the titleof thispost) after I work on my keyboard.
be back....
like forgetting what you went there for
just had the blogging equivilant of walking into a room and forgetting what I was there to do/say/get.
freakish.
freakish.
October 30, 2003
creepylicious
when I check my stats on site meter and look at what keywords folks use to search me up, I get a tickle out of some of the ways people get here.
THEN I see those instances, once or twice a week, when someone gets here by searching up "Jeneane Sessum."
Those are the searches that make my coxis tingle (get yer minds outta the gutter). It's one thing to get here looking up loss, death, and pizza recipes. It's quite another when you know someone's looking for y-o-u.
eeeeeeeeee.
more later.
THEN I see those instances, once or twice a week, when someone gets here by searching up "Jeneane Sessum."
Those are the searches that make my coxis tingle (get yer minds outta the gutter). It's one thing to get here looking up loss, death, and pizza recipes. It's quite another when you know someone's looking for y-o-u.
eeeeeeeeee.
more later.
October 29, 2003
Writing: Passion or Crutch?
One man's calling is another man's way around having to talk to strange people on public transportation. This makes perfect sense to me. Tomororow, no blogging. I'm taking the bus!
water cooler gossip
shhhhhh!
Did you hear that Meg snagged Euen's pumpkins?
Happens every day around this place.
Don't tell.
Did you hear that Meg snagged Euen's pumpkins?
Happens every day around this place.
Don't tell.
Grafting Photos
I wish that Euen's pumpkins could mate with Shelley's rhodochrosite. Damn, that'd be a feast for the eye.
October 28, 2003
I'll bid $600 just for the item description...
From Sheila Lennon, you may enjoy this cluefilled ebay item description from a husband looking to dump his ex-wife's plushies. I wish this guy blogged. But then, maybe he does...
Shelley's Goods
Shelley has been showing us her jewels, err, minerals, and telling wonderful stories about them the last couple of days. I can't say that I've ever visited a weblog before, as I have with Shelley's mineral posts, and felt as if I were enjoying some completely new kind of medium. Better than a book, better than a blog, better than paper, better than digital, better than acrylic, better than even the experience of the photos featured there would be without the text surrounding and informing them.
In this post, and this one, it is like holding a book with my eyes. It is as close to physically touching a good book or a wonderful painting as I've gotten online, but even better than touching, because without the ability to touch the minerals or the photos of the minerals, I've literally been drinking them with my eyeballs.
Simply drinking. In the brilliance of color and text, I squirm and squint, then my eyes blink, then adjust, then they open wide and say, "ahhh."
Today I decided that from now on when someone asks me what shade of blue I like best, I will say, Shelley's Toxic Chalcanthite, and if someone asks me my favorite shade of red, I will reply, Shelley's Flawless Rhodochrosite.
These are the posts that keep me here. They are stories with layers, layers of stories, and you have to dig, use the hands of your brain and your eyes to take them in, like digging for minerals, each photo and story is a discovery. They are wrapped by writer and unwrapped by the reader alone. They are her gift to us.
Others can dine on politics and campaigns and law and tech. But you'll find me gladly partaking of some mineral water over at Shelley's place.
In this post, and this one, it is like holding a book with my eyes. It is as close to physically touching a good book or a wonderful painting as I've gotten online, but even better than touching, because without the ability to touch the minerals or the photos of the minerals, I've literally been drinking them with my eyeballs.
Simply drinking. In the brilliance of color and text, I squirm and squint, then my eyes blink, then adjust, then they open wide and say, "ahhh."
Today I decided that from now on when someone asks me what shade of blue I like best, I will say, Shelley's Toxic Chalcanthite, and if someone asks me my favorite shade of red, I will reply, Shelley's Flawless Rhodochrosite.
These are the posts that keep me here. They are stories with layers, layers of stories, and you have to dig, use the hands of your brain and your eyes to take them in, like digging for minerals, each photo and story is a discovery. They are wrapped by writer and unwrapped by the reader alone. They are her gift to us.
Others can dine on politics and campaigns and law and tech. But you'll find me gladly partaking of some mineral water over at Shelley's place.
Book It!
There are probably a few 20-something bloggers who read me who participated in "Book It!" in school. I remember my nephew, now 22, doing Book It, and his excitement over filling up his reading log and getting a free Pizza Hut pizza certificate. Can it really be that now, almost 20 years later, I'm doing Book It with Jenna?
I AM SO OLD.
Tonight we finished her first reading log, and tomorrow she'll take it proudly to school and trade it in for a cheese pizza, or a facsimile thereof.
The real story is of course one of those Jenna moments, as she read to me the last two books to fill up the lines: Clifford's Hiccups and My World (Companion to Good Night Moon and a freaky little companion book it is). I was, shall we say, encouraging her to finish up, the bewitching hour of bedtime already having slipped by, and she began explaining to me her process for shutting down.
Jenna: Mama, there's a tower in my body, a very tall tower, and lots of people. The people have to climb the tower all the way from down here (her feet) to up here (the top of her head) at night. When they get to the top, they turn out the light in my brain, and I go to sleep. I can't go to sleep until they turn out the light in my brain. And there are a LOT of people in me, in my body and in my brain.
Me: Okay, well, I think they need to move along. All of them.
Jenna: They are. They're right here (pointing to her butt). They still have a loooong way to go though (using her pointer finger to trace a path from her butt up to the top of her head).
Me: Jenna, baby, it's late, we need to finish up this book and get to sleep. Tell your night time people to move along.
Jenna: I can't rush them. They'll fall. You see, they're very very old.
I AM SO OLD.
Tonight we finished her first reading log, and tomorrow she'll take it proudly to school and trade it in for a cheese pizza, or a facsimile thereof.
The real story is of course one of those Jenna moments, as she read to me the last two books to fill up the lines: Clifford's Hiccups and My World (Companion to Good Night Moon and a freaky little companion book it is). I was, shall we say, encouraging her to finish up, the bewitching hour of bedtime already having slipped by, and she began explaining to me her process for shutting down.
Jenna: Mama, there's a tower in my body, a very tall tower, and lots of people. The people have to climb the tower all the way from down here (her feet) to up here (the top of her head) at night. When they get to the top, they turn out the light in my brain, and I go to sleep. I can't go to sleep until they turn out the light in my brain. And there are a LOT of people in me, in my body and in my brain.
Me: Okay, well, I think they need to move along. All of them.
Jenna: They are. They're right here (pointing to her butt). They still have a loooong way to go though (using her pointer finger to trace a path from her butt up to the top of her head).
Me: Jenna, baby, it's late, we need to finish up this book and get to sleep. Tell your night time people to move along.
Jenna: I can't rush them. They'll fall. You see, they're very very old.
October 27, 2003
wiping one's ass with both hands
Also over on Gonzo, Marek is exploring Voice among early bloggers (minus the technology). Emerson? No. Something much, much better:
Afterwards, I wiped my ass, said Gargantua, with a kerchief, with a pillow, with a pantoufle, with a pouch, with a pannier, but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchcul; then with a hat. Of hats, note, that some are shorn, and others shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffities, and others with satin. The best of all these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstertion of the fecal matter. Afterwards, I wiped my tail with a hen, a cock, with a pullet, with a calf's skin, with a hare, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an attorney's bag, with a montero, with a coif, with a falconer's lure. But to conclude, I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail napkins, bung-hole cleansers, and wipe breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose that is well downed, if you hold her neck betwixt you legs. And believe me therein upon mine honour, for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure....
On His own blog, Marek integrates the self of himself using a common children's game in an uncommon way. For the love of Pete, the man is brilliant:
And now I still want it to be different yet I found a game to play with my brokenness. I play Peekaboo! I found out that to play Peekaboo you need a partner, and what better partner than a broken man. And he and I play. When he covers his face I rejoice for he disappears his ugliness and I see a beautiful world. Then he uncovers his face and I see the ugly world but he gets to see me, unlike himself and I think he really loves it. Then it's my turn to play. I get to cover my face and I am happy that I don't have to look at this ugly broken human being and I can, for few monents, disappear into my imaginary world and I think he is sad at that moment because he is alone. But then I uncover my face and he gets to be happy and I again see the broken man. This game we play is the most fascinating game we have found to keep beauty and ugliness be next to each other. I think he likes this game. I know I do. Peekaboo!
Pekaboo, Marek!
Afterwards, I wiped my ass, said Gargantua, with a kerchief, with a pillow, with a pantoufle, with a pouch, with a pannier, but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchcul; then with a hat. Of hats, note, that some are shorn, and others shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffities, and others with satin. The best of all these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstertion of the fecal matter. Afterwards, I wiped my tail with a hen, a cock, with a pullet, with a calf's skin, with a hare, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an attorney's bag, with a montero, with a coif, with a falconer's lure. But to conclude, I say and maintain, that of all torcheculs, arsewisps, bumfodders, tail napkins, bung-hole cleansers, and wipe breeches, there is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose that is well downed, if you hold her neck betwixt you legs. And believe me therein upon mine honour, for you will thereby feel in your nockhole a most wonderful pleasure....
On His own blog, Marek integrates the self of himself using a common children's game in an uncommon way. For the love of Pete, the man is brilliant:
And now I still want it to be different yet I found a game to play with my brokenness. I play Peekaboo! I found out that to play Peekaboo you need a partner, and what better partner than a broken man. And he and I play. When he covers his face I rejoice for he disappears his ugliness and I see a beautiful world. Then he uncovers his face and I see the ugly world but he gets to see me, unlike himself and I think he really loves it. Then it's my turn to play. I get to cover my face and I am happy that I don't have to look at this ugly broken human being and I can, for few monents, disappear into my imaginary world and I think he is sad at that moment because he is alone. But then I uncover my face and he gets to be happy and I again see the broken man. This game we play is the most fascinating game we have found to keep beauty and ugliness be next to each other. I think he likes this game. I know I do. Peekaboo!
Pekaboo, Marek!
oh jeez, ken did it!
Over on Gonzo, Ken passes the initiation and now becomes an administrator along with the rest of the madfolk there.
Ken, I'll send your certificate forthwith. It entitles you to one free box of baking soda and a can of Kool-Whip. What you do with those is up to you. Just don't get drunk and blow away the blog.
Dean you're an administrator too--it was easier for me to click two squares instead of one. You owe Ken a plunger.
Thank you.
Ken, I'll send your certificate forthwith. It entitles you to one free box of baking soda and a can of Kool-Whip. What you do with those is up to you. Just don't get drunk and blow away the blog.
Dean you're an administrator too--it was easier for me to click two squares instead of one. You owe Ken a plunger.
Thank you.
writers and editors, have a chuckle...
...over this post at crooked timber. That's the kind of post I wish I'd have done first. It also makes me wish I could separate my writer and editor selves into two different people, and that my editor self would also be good at cleaning house and being on time.
Has anyone wondered if the California Fires are Terrorism?
Jumping to conclusions is rarely good. But am I alone in wondering how easy it would be for a few terrorists to trade box cutters for Bic lighters and effectively disrupt business, air travel, homes, lives by starting wildfires at the opportune time (i.e., dry leaf season) for massive destruction?
Can't our air force swoop in with some kind of stealth water bombs that would blast good news water over a wide area instead of bad news explosive blasts?
For crying out loud, I sound like Michael Moore. But then....
Can't our air force swoop in with some kind of stealth water bombs that would blast good news water over a wide area instead of bad news explosive blasts?
For crying out loud, I sound like Michael Moore. But then....
In the car on the way to school today
Jenna: Mom, is that the right time on the clock there?
Mom: Well, it is now. It was an hour ahead all year--now it's right on time because we set the clocks back an hour.
Jenna: Oh. Okay, so what time is it in real life right now?
Mom: 10:00. It would have been 11:00, but we got that extra hour back.
Jenna: Oh. Well that's good. We need that hour. Does that mean we're not late?
Mom: Well, it is now. It was an hour ahead all year--now it's right on time because we set the clocks back an hour.
Jenna: Oh. Okay, so what time is it in real life right now?
Mom: 10:00. It would have been 11:00, but we got that extra hour back.
Jenna: Oh. Well that's good. We need that hour. Does that mean we're not late?
Blogs and Trust
I was thinking about this today--about trusting and not trusting bloggers--an especially interesting question for those of us who haven't met too many of our blog cohorts face to face.
I would trust a number of bloggers with my money, my house, my job, to keep a secret, to stand up for me, and some with my life. When I was thinking about who I trust most in the blogworld, though, I couldn't narrow it down to as small a group as I originally thought when I asked myself that silly question, given rise by much bullshit that's been going down in these parts lately.
Now, if you say you trust AKMA, that's cheating. AKMA is THE blogger's trusted agent, we know that. I'm not sure how AKMA or Margaret feel about AKMA being a "given" in the trust department, but for crying out loud, he's already the Official US Dead Blogger Executor. That, I think, is a gold seal of approval in the trust department.
First, I trust everyone at Gonzo Engaged with my online life. How can I say this? Because about a year ago, I began making every member of that blog an administrator. What are there, like 20 of us now? (Ken gets his nuclear status next week -- after he passes the test of building the world's tallest port-a-potty. That's everyone's initiation. Ken, did we tell you that on the front end? I'm always forgetting details....That stuff's supposed to be Marek's job. Marek, did I tell you that on the front end? I'm always forgetting details...).
Think about that.
Every single person on Gonzo Engaged, the first team blog on blogspot, which I started more than two years ago, has the right to hire, fire, or disembowel any of the others. Including me.
Every single one of us can go in and mess with the template and fonts and the blogroll. (Exhibit A: observe the amazing changing font size. we like to think of that as a feature.)
And it also means that every single one of us has the power to blow away the blog and its entire two years of archives.
Did ya'll know that?
How does that sound for trust?
How does that sound for risk?
Are you with me?
And can anyone back up the archives quick before Frank gets giddy with power and does something stupid?
You know I did that on purpose, right?
HAAAAA! How insane is that. Don't you fucking LOVE IT?
Yeh. Guess what. That's trust.
And guess what else--I didn't choose a single member of that blog. Not one. Didn't make sure they were professionals, or young or old, didn't care if they were known to have popped their cork on occassion or pooped in the street during Fourth of July Parades, didn't care about anything other than their desire to contribute and engage.
It's amazing what happens when you share trust within a community early on. It's freeing. It's anti-hierarchy. It is truly a network within a network. It's joyous. It's hysterical. It's annoying. And it can be tragic. Ultimately, it can be tragic.
So can life. That's what's real.
Let's play here, let's weep here. No sugar coating, no shake-n-bake on the chicken. Just skin and feathers, baby. You blow me away, you blow away all of it. You take it down, and you've cheated yourself. And 20 other angry motherfuckers too.
I don't know. Maybe that blog is more of a posse than a community. Maybe that's the difference. Maybe in an online "community" you can mold and cast members and decorum and protocol. But in a posse, everyone "gets it." No explanation needed. And don't abuse the privilege (and it is a privilege to share blog control with 20 other lunatics) or none of us wake up here tomorrow.
Are we professionals? Well, many of us are tops in our fields. Does that make a difference? Not a fucking ounce of difference. Who's young? Who's old? Are we diverse? I don't know. I haven't seen one of those goofballs up close enough to know if they're men, women, transgendered, black, white, or Bill Gates.
That's the point: It's humanity, it's the each other in the other that opens up the possibilities for creating, innovating, misbehaving, irritating, engaging, and transforming.
It's not the only way. It's not even my only way. But it might just be the right way.
I would trust a number of bloggers with my money, my house, my job, to keep a secret, to stand up for me, and some with my life. When I was thinking about who I trust most in the blogworld, though, I couldn't narrow it down to as small a group as I originally thought when I asked myself that silly question, given rise by much bullshit that's been going down in these parts lately.
Now, if you say you trust AKMA, that's cheating. AKMA is THE blogger's trusted agent, we know that. I'm not sure how AKMA or Margaret feel about AKMA being a "given" in the trust department, but for crying out loud, he's already the Official US Dead Blogger Executor. That, I think, is a gold seal of approval in the trust department.
First, I trust everyone at Gonzo Engaged with my online life. How can I say this? Because about a year ago, I began making every member of that blog an administrator. What are there, like 20 of us now? (Ken gets his nuclear status next week -- after he passes the test of building the world's tallest port-a-potty. That's everyone's initiation. Ken, did we tell you that on the front end? I'm always forgetting details....That stuff's supposed to be Marek's job. Marek, did I tell you that on the front end? I'm always forgetting details...).
Think about that.
Every single person on Gonzo Engaged, the first team blog on blogspot, which I started more than two years ago, has the right to hire, fire, or disembowel any of the others. Including me.
Every single one of us can go in and mess with the template and fonts and the blogroll. (Exhibit A: observe the amazing changing font size. we like to think of that as a feature.)
And it also means that every single one of us has the power to blow away the blog and its entire two years of archives.
Did ya'll know that?
How does that sound for trust?
How does that sound for risk?
Are you with me?
And can anyone back up the archives quick before Frank gets giddy with power and does something stupid?
You know I did that on purpose, right?
HAAAAA! How insane is that. Don't you fucking LOVE IT?
Yeh. Guess what. That's trust.
And guess what else--I didn't choose a single member of that blog. Not one. Didn't make sure they were professionals, or young or old, didn't care if they were known to have popped their cork on occassion or pooped in the street during Fourth of July Parades, didn't care about anything other than their desire to contribute and engage.
It's amazing what happens when you share trust within a community early on. It's freeing. It's anti-hierarchy. It is truly a network within a network. It's joyous. It's hysterical. It's annoying. And it can be tragic. Ultimately, it can be tragic.
So can life. That's what's real.
Let's play here, let's weep here. No sugar coating, no shake-n-bake on the chicken. Just skin and feathers, baby. You blow me away, you blow away all of it. You take it down, and you've cheated yourself. And 20 other angry motherfuckers too.
I don't know. Maybe that blog is more of a posse than a community. Maybe that's the difference. Maybe in an online "community" you can mold and cast members and decorum and protocol. But in a posse, everyone "gets it." No explanation needed. And don't abuse the privilege (and it is a privilege to share blog control with 20 other lunatics) or none of us wake up here tomorrow.
Are we professionals? Well, many of us are tops in our fields. Does that make a difference? Not a fucking ounce of difference. Who's young? Who's old? Are we diverse? I don't know. I haven't seen one of those goofballs up close enough to know if they're men, women, transgendered, black, white, or Bill Gates.
That's the point: It's humanity, it's the each other in the other that opens up the possibilities for creating, innovating, misbehaving, irritating, engaging, and transforming.
It's not the only way. It's not even my only way. But it might just be the right way.
ask yourself
If your community carefully selects its members based on their age, profession, former residence, even race, what type of community is that? A gated community? And what are the people who live in those places so afraid of?
October 26, 2003
October 25, 2003
Sixty Minutes Worth of Hits 4 FREE!!! (US Only)
DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF BLOG HITS!!!!
Did you know that you gain a whopping sixty minutes worth of hits for free in the wee hours of the morning when the clocks jump back an hour TONIGHT?
Have you thought about what those extra sixty minutes could add to your hit count each year? Are you leveraging your free hour with that perfectly-timed post that'll have all the biggies link lovin' your bloggin behind?
If not, you should be!
All you have to do to get your hour's worth of hits for free is to subscribe to the "Standard Time Hit Fandango Reminder Subscription Service" for only $19.95.. THAT'S RIGHT!!!! Only $19.95. When you register for MY service, I'll remind you around the same time next year* to blog that political post you've been saving for just the right time, that secret formula for bringing down Microsoft, or that insightful post on gender issues that's sure to pop you right to the top of the charts.
Imagine your potential gains in Technorati and Google standings! Think of the money you can rake in when Toyota decides to put their fancy new car ad on YOUR blog.
What can sixty minutes worth of gimme hits get you? Well, if you're Instapundit, probably 2.4 million additional hits!
That's right: 2.4 million additional hits!
You too can be a pundit and capitalize on this once-a-year opportunity. It doesn't matter if you're polipundit or techpundit or lawpundit or mompundit or sexpundit or dadpundit or laidoffpundit or, one near and dear to my heart, deathpundit, BIG TIME HITS ARE WAITING FOR YOU!
Don't you want to be like Instapundit???
DON'T YOU?
C'mon. You know you do.
Well then, send me $19.95.
Tonight.
*certain restrictions apply**
**offer void if I quit blogging, if I feel like not bothering, or if I simply forget.
Did you know that you gain a whopping sixty minutes worth of hits for free in the wee hours of the morning when the clocks jump back an hour TONIGHT?
Have you thought about what those extra sixty minutes could add to your hit count each year? Are you leveraging your free hour with that perfectly-timed post that'll have all the biggies link lovin' your bloggin behind?
If not, you should be!
All you have to do to get your hour's worth of hits for free is to subscribe to the "Standard Time Hit Fandango Reminder Subscription Service" for only $19.95.. THAT'S RIGHT!!!! Only $19.95. When you register for MY service, I'll remind you around the same time next year* to blog that political post you've been saving for just the right time, that secret formula for bringing down Microsoft, or that insightful post on gender issues that's sure to pop you right to the top of the charts.
Imagine your potential gains in Technorati and Google standings! Think of the money you can rake in when Toyota decides to put their fancy new car ad on YOUR blog.
What can sixty minutes worth of gimme hits get you? Well, if you're Instapundit, probably 2.4 million additional hits!
That's right: 2.4 million additional hits!
You too can be a pundit and capitalize on this once-a-year opportunity. It doesn't matter if you're polipundit or techpundit or lawpundit or mompundit or sexpundit or dadpundit or laidoffpundit or, one near and dear to my heart, deathpundit, BIG TIME HITS ARE WAITING FOR YOU!
Don't you want to be like Instapundit???
DON'T YOU?
C'mon. You know you do.
Well then, send me $19.95.
Tonight.
*certain restrictions apply**
**offer void if I quit blogging, if I feel like not bothering, or if I simply forget.
October 24, 2003
It's funny how it happens
Does it happen to you? More and more it happens to me. Maybe because I've been blogging for a couple of years, or maybe it's a sign of the times. Too often now, I hear the coming waves before I see the cresting, the rolling down, or feel the spray.
In blogging I mean. Convergence or something like that.
It's when you start to feel a certain way about blogging, about the communities you live in online, about what's being written or not being written, and about how it feels. But you don't know why. You can't really tell anyone, not even another blogger, why you feel things getting icky, stupid, gross, exclusive, ugly, boring, monotonous, or even dark and, well, evil. You can't really point to any one thing--it's the culmination of pixels across blogs, across comments, a strong wind that smacks of something wrong.
No secret I've been feeling it this last month here. I've posted about it. And it's not just me. When I express my sadness over where I feel blogging is going, I hear from others who can't put their finger on it, who can't keystroke an answer, but who feel it too.
It takes a toll on those people. And they're not one or two. I've heard from a dozen or so.
It is about community. And it's not. Maybe it's about the organic generation that we once had here. This springing naturally from that to this from that to him to her to us to them and back and forth and look at that, holy shit, IT'S ALL CONNECTED--ORGASM!
God, those were the days. Hasn't felt like that for a long time. I guess that's why I've been nostalgic of late, reading first posts from way back when. I think I was trying to find my way back to the source that once inspired me here.
I should have left more breadcrumbs.
For a while, this place felt safe because we were real. We started out real. Remember your first post? Bare ass. "Hi. Oooo. Is this thing on? (tap tap) Hello?"
Coming to blogging forced us to get real, and real quick. That doesn't mean we didn't disagree or hurl chairs or fall down in the mud sloshing around. But somehow, when we came to the surface for air, we eyed one another, and eventually our lips curled up at the edges. Then a smile. Oh shit. I learned something. About myself. About you. Look at how that works. Look at this shit. Look at us grow. You motherfucker you. Respect.
It doesn't feel safe here anymore. It feels, well, more fake. That's the best word I can come up with. Is it me? Well part of it must be, because I'm one of the left turns out here. I've lost my way here lately. I'm thankful when I get called on it. When I lose my way, when my voice goes south, or an idea sounds fishy, either you say nothing or someone like Dean calls me on it. And when I come back home, Dean tells me so too. That's being real. That's the thing learning and growing in writing is made of.
I was writing to a blogger friend today about my week. About how Jenna has been so sick, about how we had to take her for nine shots in three days, a CT-scan of her head, chest x-rays, and four blood draws, a failed IV that sprayed salt water in her face. Tears of salt on mine.
That's been going on for a week.
And for most of the week, I spent my time here taking first posts of bloggers from my comment page and putting them neatly in a row. One at a time. Sometimes two.
Several days ago, I wrote two paragraphs in this little window about my kid, and about what I felt, about me, about her, about living and crying. And I deleted it before I ever posted it.
For the first time, I didn't come here with what I needed to say. And I didn't come here because something is wrong here. Something is so wrong. It's going the wrong way. If you have a hard time faking it, you might just as well be quiet.
All of this talk about blogging and self importance and blogs in business and bloggercons and connerblogs and look at me and look at us and link to me baby, lemme give you a blogjob if you'll just add me. For what? Voices into a canyon--nothing coming back.
No voice back at me here. Not even my own. And that means something's wrong.
My eyes tear when I feel you trying......
A village is a community, a place where isolation in adversity is simply not permitted, a place where a cry for help is answered by neighbors with open hearts......
When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what......
You can only BE THE VOICE ON ONE OF THE ENDS and that's all you can ever BE. The Fact that YOU are there doesn't even MATTER. It's Your Voice at the END that you are willing to HAVE and Your willingness to LISTEN to The VOICES of OTHER ENDS......
I also had some problems climbing around the rocks, trapping my foot between two at one point and falling into a boulder. You should have heard me cuss. Boy did I cuss. Kicked the rocks, too, when I freed my foot, as if half-ton rocks that have been around forever are going to worry about the kick of a tennis-shoe clad foot attached to a cranky, middle-aged woman......
Worms on the kitchen floor. Lumbricus terrestris, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
I see it in them. What are you trying to get good at here?
Don't forget to tell your story here.
More and more, it's big-media topics and news and politics. Why? Why do we want to replicate what we came here to escape? What are we feeding on here with aggregators and all news all the time.
We have no mandate, no laws of decorum, no way to say, Did you read him? did you read her? can you see he's hurting? Are you looking past your own post? Your own site meter? A post above or below the one you followed the link to?
We're losing one another.
Go back and read your own old posts. I've been reading your old posts all week.
I saw you there. You and you and you.
Don't forget where you came from.
And don't let me either.
In blogging I mean. Convergence or something like that.
It's when you start to feel a certain way about blogging, about the communities you live in online, about what's being written or not being written, and about how it feels. But you don't know why. You can't really tell anyone, not even another blogger, why you feel things getting icky, stupid, gross, exclusive, ugly, boring, monotonous, or even dark and, well, evil. You can't really point to any one thing--it's the culmination of pixels across blogs, across comments, a strong wind that smacks of something wrong.
No secret I've been feeling it this last month here. I've posted about it. And it's not just me. When I express my sadness over where I feel blogging is going, I hear from others who can't put their finger on it, who can't keystroke an answer, but who feel it too.
It takes a toll on those people. And they're not one or two. I've heard from a dozen or so.
It is about community. And it's not. Maybe it's about the organic generation that we once had here. This springing naturally from that to this from that to him to her to us to them and back and forth and look at that, holy shit, IT'S ALL CONNECTED--ORGASM!
God, those were the days. Hasn't felt like that for a long time. I guess that's why I've been nostalgic of late, reading first posts from way back when. I think I was trying to find my way back to the source that once inspired me here.
I should have left more breadcrumbs.
For a while, this place felt safe because we were real. We started out real. Remember your first post? Bare ass. "Hi. Oooo. Is this thing on? (tap tap) Hello?"
Coming to blogging forced us to get real, and real quick. That doesn't mean we didn't disagree or hurl chairs or fall down in the mud sloshing around. But somehow, when we came to the surface for air, we eyed one another, and eventually our lips curled up at the edges. Then a smile. Oh shit. I learned something. About myself. About you. Look at how that works. Look at this shit. Look at us grow. You motherfucker you. Respect.
It doesn't feel safe here anymore. It feels, well, more fake. That's the best word I can come up with. Is it me? Well part of it must be, because I'm one of the left turns out here. I've lost my way here lately. I'm thankful when I get called on it. When I lose my way, when my voice goes south, or an idea sounds fishy, either you say nothing or someone like Dean calls me on it. And when I come back home, Dean tells me so too. That's being real. That's the thing learning and growing in writing is made of.
I was writing to a blogger friend today about my week. About how Jenna has been so sick, about how we had to take her for nine shots in three days, a CT-scan of her head, chest x-rays, and four blood draws, a failed IV that sprayed salt water in her face. Tears of salt on mine.
That's been going on for a week.
And for most of the week, I spent my time here taking first posts of bloggers from my comment page and putting them neatly in a row. One at a time. Sometimes two.
Several days ago, I wrote two paragraphs in this little window about my kid, and about what I felt, about me, about her, about living and crying. And I deleted it before I ever posted it.
For the first time, I didn't come here with what I needed to say. And I didn't come here because something is wrong here. Something is so wrong. It's going the wrong way. If you have a hard time faking it, you might just as well be quiet.
All of this talk about blogging and self importance and blogs in business and bloggercons and connerblogs and look at me and look at us and link to me baby, lemme give you a blogjob if you'll just add me. For what? Voices into a canyon--nothing coming back.
No voice back at me here. Not even my own. And that means something's wrong.
My eyes tear when I feel you trying......
A village is a community, a place where isolation in adversity is simply not permitted, a place where a cry for help is answered by neighbors with open hearts......
When spirit moves under the stars, memory stirs like a rattle of snakes, like scorpions rising to the cool of night, these eyes, this love, this lifelonging taste for the beautiful terrifying edges of the world. And self is the trace it leaves passing through. No matter what......
You can only BE THE VOICE ON ONE OF THE ENDS and that's all you can ever BE. The Fact that YOU are there doesn't even MATTER. It's Your Voice at the END that you are willing to HAVE and Your willingness to LISTEN to The VOICES of OTHER ENDS......
I also had some problems climbing around the rocks, trapping my foot between two at one point and falling into a boulder. You should have heard me cuss. Boy did I cuss. Kicked the rocks, too, when I freed my foot, as if half-ton rocks that have been around forever are going to worry about the kick of a tennis-shoe clad foot attached to a cranky, middle-aged woman......
Worms on the kitchen floor. Lumbricus terrestris, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
I see it in them. What are you trying to get good at here?
Don't forget to tell your story here.
More and more, it's big-media topics and news and politics. Why? Why do we want to replicate what we came here to escape? What are we feeding on here with aggregators and all news all the time.
We have no mandate, no laws of decorum, no way to say, Did you read him? did you read her? can you see he's hurting? Are you looking past your own post? Your own site meter? A post above or below the one you followed the link to?
We're losing one another.
Go back and read your own old posts. I've been reading your old posts all week.
I saw you there. You and you and you.
Don't forget where you came from.
And don't let me either.
shhhhh.
Yikes--don't tell IBM, Magnet, Digital Insight, Cingular, Nokia, AMS, Matrix, HealthTrio, Medaphis, Hyperion, Harland, Equifax, Novartis, Merial, Kodak, or any of my other past or current clients that I didn't get asked to the women and tech blog prom.
Fascinating but oddly exclusive list of technology-focused women bloggers, many of whom I respect from the standpoint of writing and technology. It will be interesting to see how this blog plays out.
Rumor has it that Shelley and I are crashing the party. Shelley will be the one in the tux.
I remember when I started a group blog or two. It never occurred to me to "select" or hand pick the participants. Of course, I've always hoped this place would be more like a party than a tech magazine. I'm so goofy that way. It keeps getting me in trouble.
Meanwhile, I gotta run and do some tech work so I can keep da lights on.
weeeeeeeeee!
;-)
Fascinating but oddly exclusive list of technology-focused women bloggers, many of whom I respect from the standpoint of writing and technology. It will be interesting to see how this blog plays out.
Rumor has it that Shelley and I are crashing the party. Shelley will be the one in the tux.
I remember when I started a group blog or two. It never occurred to me to "select" or hand pick the participants. Of course, I've always hoped this place would be more like a party than a tech magazine. I'm so goofy that way. It keeps getting me in trouble.
Meanwhile, I gotta run and do some tech work so I can keep da lights on.
weeeeeeeeee!
;-)
October 23, 2003
The Future Just Stopped By...
Holy Shit!
I'm probably the last to know. boing boing told me.
Amazon.com now has a "search inside the book" feature that lets you search within millions of real live (okay, online) pages to find matches to your search keywords.
Holy Shit!
I decided to test how it worked with an until-now very obscure reference to yours truly inside a book on uterine fibroids, a subject on which I am an unfortunate expert.
A couple of years back I was interviewed for a book on the topic. I elected to have the author use my first name only. Since not too many women (and even fewer men, I suppose) have the name jeneane spelled like my Jeneane, I did the amazon search inside the book for the word "Jeneane."
Sure enough, amazon pulled up every instance within the book where my name appears--and took me right to each page with a simple click.
What a simple-dimple way to relive my pregnancy trauma! how cool!
No, seriously. I am amazed by this capability. What an educational masterpiece this thing is. Do they never stop innovating over there? How for granted will our kids take this little invention in 3-5 years time?
Man! With this little deal, I'm going to be a pundit by Tuesday. You watch me.
Amapundit.
Thanks, Amazon.
Fucking forgettaboudit.
I'm blown away.
I'm probably the last to know. boing boing told me.
Amazon.com now has a "search inside the book" feature that lets you search within millions of real live (okay, online) pages to find matches to your search keywords.
Holy Shit!
I decided to test how it worked with an until-now very obscure reference to yours truly inside a book on uterine fibroids, a subject on which I am an unfortunate expert.
A couple of years back I was interviewed for a book on the topic. I elected to have the author use my first name only. Since not too many women (and even fewer men, I suppose) have the name jeneane spelled like my Jeneane, I did the amazon search inside the book for the word "Jeneane."
Sure enough, amazon pulled up every instance within the book where my name appears--and took me right to each page with a simple click.
What a simple-dimple way to relive my pregnancy trauma! how cool!
No, seriously. I am amazed by this capability. What an educational masterpiece this thing is. Do they never stop innovating over there? How for granted will our kids take this little invention in 3-5 years time?
Man! With this little deal, I'm going to be a pundit by Tuesday. You watch me.
Amapundit.
Thanks, Amazon.
Fucking forgettaboudit.
I'm blown away.
October 19, 2003
It's National Blog History Month!
This is by no means a complete list of my classmates/inspirations/co-conspirators, and yet, when I started snooping around, I did find enough "first posts" to warrant a celebratory yeeehaw! We've come a long way, baby....
Fishrush's Hello World: September 25, 1952 (ROTFL)
xian's Breathing Room: October 30, 1997
Lisa Williams' Cadence 90: May 31, 2000
Chris Locke's All Noise: August 5, 2000
Marek J's Soapbox: August 5, 2000
Brooke's Rivervision: November 7, 2000
Dean Landsman's DeanLand: December 17, 2000
Deb Gussman's Distracted: February 27, 2001
Michael O'Connor Clarke: March 1, 2001
Shelley Powers' BurningBird: [[April 5, 2001, after lurking for a year. Shelley's first post was on a Userland Manila site and has since disappeared. Conspiracy? TAHDW? You be the judge. Shelley has special dispensation because she is my idol. She's the only first post I'll include without a link.]]
Marc's Nexistepas: October 8, 2001
Gonzo Engaged: October 14, 2001
George Sessum's Musick: October 23, 2001
Jeneane Sessum's Allied: November 4, 2001
Gaspar Torriero: November 7, 2001
Kevin Marks Epeus' epigone: November 7, 2001
Gary Turner's* MLOD: November 14, 2001 (Gary Turner's "Inturnernet News" blog dates back to 1999.)
David Weinberger's JOHO: November 15, 2001*. (*JOHO was started in 1999, and after a two-year hiatus, re-emerged.)
Denise Howell's Bag n Baggage: November 28, 2001
Elaine's Kalilily: November 29, 2001
Jennifer Balderama's Nonsense Verse: December 7, 2001
Frank Paynter's Sandhill Trek: January 5, 2002
Halley's Commentsans: January 10, 2002
Mike Golby: Jan 11, 2002
AKMA: January 23, 2002
Tom Shugart's Insiteview: Feburary 21, 2002
Doug's The Dynamic Drivel: March 28, 2002
Jonathon Mays' Stretching Thought: April 16, 2002
Liz Lawley's Mamamusings October 22, 2002 (happy first birthday, Liz!)
I've got comments. leave a link to your first post there if you please.
It's national blog history month. take a blogger to lunch.
Fishrush's Hello World: September 25, 1952 (ROTFL)
xian's Breathing Room: October 30, 1997
Lisa Williams' Cadence 90: May 31, 2000
Chris Locke's All Noise: August 5, 2000
Marek J's Soapbox: August 5, 2000
Brooke's Rivervision: November 7, 2000
Dean Landsman's DeanLand: December 17, 2000
Deb Gussman's Distracted: February 27, 2001
Michael O'Connor Clarke: March 1, 2001
Shelley Powers' BurningBird: [[April 5, 2001, after lurking for a year. Shelley's first post was on a Userland Manila site and has since disappeared. Conspiracy? TAHDW? You be the judge. Shelley has special dispensation because she is my idol. She's the only first post I'll include without a link.]]
Marc's Nexistepas: October 8, 2001
Gonzo Engaged: October 14, 2001
George Sessum's Musick: October 23, 2001
Jeneane Sessum's Allied: November 4, 2001
Gaspar Torriero: November 7, 2001
Kevin Marks Epeus' epigone: November 7, 2001
Gary Turner's* MLOD: November 14, 2001 (Gary Turner's "Inturnernet News" blog dates back to 1999.)
David Weinberger's JOHO: November 15, 2001*. (*JOHO was started in 1999, and after a two-year hiatus, re-emerged.)
Denise Howell's Bag n Baggage: November 28, 2001
Elaine's Kalilily: November 29, 2001
Jennifer Balderama's Nonsense Verse: December 7, 2001
Frank Paynter's Sandhill Trek: January 5, 2002
Halley's Commentsans: January 10, 2002
Mike Golby: Jan 11, 2002
AKMA: January 23, 2002
Tom Shugart's Insiteview: Feburary 21, 2002
Doug's The Dynamic Drivel: March 28, 2002
Jonathon Mays' Stretching Thought: April 16, 2002
Liz Lawley's Mamamusings October 22, 2002 (happy first birthday, Liz!)
I've got comments. leave a link to your first post there if you please.
It's national blog history month. take a blogger to lunch.
October 18, 2003
start talking.
families engage in a conspiracy
of silence around death...In their efforts
to contain grief, the pain is actually
intensified as people wall off parts
of themselves. This avoidance of open,
shared grieving hasa its roots in the
losses of previous generations.
--Murray Bowen, M.D.
of silence around death...In their efforts
to contain grief, the pain is actually
intensified as people wall off parts
of themselves. This avoidance of open,
shared grieving hasa its roots in the
losses of previous generations.
--Murray Bowen, M.D.
stavros remembers
Is there a statute of limitations on mourning? Should there be? If we stop feeling that skip in the heartbeat and stab in the gut when we think of someone we loved who was killed, have we stopped caring? Should guilt then rush in? Should we try to leave behind our grief, and get on with it? What is left of the dead one, a year after they've gone, in the world? What do we learn from their lives, what can we learn? What have I learned?
And much more... Like this:
Scars were left on me in the wake of those deaths in my young life, furrows and welts in my brain some of which are even now just working their way into the light. This is as it should be. My great and abiding love for the drink, moderated and benign as it has become in my later years, as much passed on genetically and nurtured environmentally as it may be, certainly has some roots there. My fear and loathing of the very idea of having children, absolutely. My carefully-chosen expatriate existence, yearning contrapuntally as I sometimes do for the deep, cold coniferous forests of my youth. The vigour with which I counter those who I perceive to be attacking me, yes. All of these and more. I have made my peace with the ghosts, made it many years ago, and carry my wounds with awareness and a quiet understanding that what happens is good by virtue of the sheer fact that it has happened, and that to claim otherwise and rail against our experience is to refuse life, and shrink from it. To say no, rather than yes.
A wonderfully thoughtful and intensely genuine post.
Wshew.
And much more... Like this:
Scars were left on me in the wake of those deaths in my young life, furrows and welts in my brain some of which are even now just working their way into the light. This is as it should be. My great and abiding love for the drink, moderated and benign as it has become in my later years, as much passed on genetically and nurtured environmentally as it may be, certainly has some roots there. My fear and loathing of the very idea of having children, absolutely. My carefully-chosen expatriate existence, yearning contrapuntally as I sometimes do for the deep, cold coniferous forests of my youth. The vigour with which I counter those who I perceive to be attacking me, yes. All of these and more. I have made my peace with the ghosts, made it many years ago, and carry my wounds with awareness and a quiet understanding that what happens is good by virtue of the sheer fact that it has happened, and that to claim otherwise and rail against our experience is to refuse life, and shrink from it. To say no, rather than yes.
A wonderfully thoughtful and intensely genuine post.
Wshew.
New Blog Babe Magnet Revealed.
Paynter Usurps RB as Blogworld Babe Magnet, according to Betsy Devine.
Frank, you smelled blood and went right in, didn't ya. Have you no shame? ;-)
You gotta see the pic Betsy did of Frank. It's a hoot.
In other news, Frank is writing like the new babe magnet, full of love and graceful prose and open spaces. Nice.
Frank, you smelled blood and went right in, didn't ya. Have you no shame? ;-)
You gotta see the pic Betsy did of Frank. It's a hoot.
In other news, Frank is writing like the new babe magnet, full of love and graceful prose and open spaces. Nice.
the frustration of paint by numbers
surely you remember it. darling jenna is in the kitchen experiencing it with her own two paint smudged hand. Usually an able artist, she got through three "numbered" paints in this paint-by-number heart thingy with way too much detail before asking permission to abandon the numbers and mix her own colors.
I remember.
I said, "Okay."
I remember.
I said, "Okay."
i did this soooo long ago
I did this little site on good business writing eons ago. I was looking at it tonight, finding my old white paper template for a buddy, and started looking through copy I don't even remember writing. When did I do all this stuff? Am I my own ghost writer? I don't know. Weird feeling. Anyhow, in case you need some old fashioned word templates for abstracts, white papers, and the like, I figured I'd link to the old gal.
breaker break one-nine
John Markhoff: "To my mind, it's not clear yet whether blogging is anything more than CB radio."
via Halley, who proclaims these to be wise words.
I say this: Would you rather talk with the truckers on CB Radio or read the NY Times?
I think you know my preference.
Cutting you loose, good buddy. Over and out.
via Halley, who proclaims these to be wise words.
I say this: Would you rather talk with the truckers on CB Radio or read the NY Times?
I think you know my preference.
Cutting you loose, good buddy. Over and out.
October 16, 2003
attention deficit
It's been a while since I've blogged anything meaningful. So funny. When I was swamped with work, a hundred posts flooded my mind in a single day--none of them actually posted. Now that I have 20 minutes here and there to write for me n you, all I hear is wind.
damn.
And then last night, something broke loose for me. After Group. After talking with George. After a glorious late night talk with Shelley and word from Master Boy that he had phone (call him with ideas, ya'll) back for the time being.
In the space before sleep and dream, I figured something out.
I became a memory.
I'm riding the bus to school the first day back to school after my father died, wondering--consciously thinking: "how should I feel? what am I supposed to act like?" Not feeling sad, no, that wouldn't come until later, about 36 years later, no, not sad. Feeling like I should feel sad. Feeling like everyone around me is sad for me, and so I should be sad, but I don't feel sad. So what should I do? Who should I be like? I have no template for this.
I walk into class to the warm arms of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McKlusky, who embraces me with the tenderness of a mother, see tears in her eyes, "my poor dear." And I like it.
I like it.
I'm warm.
I'm safe.
Hug me again, Mrs. McKlusky.
Please?
The next day comes, and the next, and the next, and during those rides to school, I monitor my performance. I hear the older kids in the seat behind me, "That's the girl whose dad died. That's her." "Wow. Poor kid." "She must be so sad."
Me thinking, yes. I suppose I can pretend to be sad. Me consciously configuring a look of sad, profound depth on my five-year-old face, leaning my forehead against the up-and-down glass window of the bus, watching the fog from my breath obscure my own view of my face, rubbing it away so that I can see if I look sad enough.
Talk about me some more, kids.
Me. What about me?
What about me, who had lived for the last year in a household of death and dying, of secrecy, of hidden truths, of pretending that nothing was wrong. What about that year, which used make believe to obscure reality, like fog on the glass window of the school bus. What about knowing what was happening without permission to give voice to terror.
Things you put aside, file under "unfortunate"--those are the memories that shape your dark places.
For all of my adult life, I've sought a supporting role, hating the spotlight, hating the sound of my own voice out loud, shakey, unsure. Instead I shape my voice with words and pixels, screaming as loudly as I can in black and white.
It goes back to those rides on the bus, my teacher's arms. It goes back to me asking can I please go out and play on the day of his death, and being told no, we are in mourning, and thinking: what about me?
It's common for children to blame themselves for their parent's death. I knew of this phenomenon because so many adults asked me, "you don't feel like you caused your dad's death, right? I mean, some children feel responsible. You shouldn't feel responsible. It wasn't your fault."
Me thinking, well I DIDN'T feel responsible until the 9th adult asked me this stinking question. I didn't feel responsible. I didn't kill him.
Did you? Or you?
Not me.
But there is guilt, and I found it waiting for me in the space between sleep and dream, last night. It's the guilt of a little girl on a school bus faking sorrow to get attention. It's a little girl who knows she should feel something that everyone else is feeling, but can't. Whatever emotion this is I see around me, it seems to work for them--it seems that they can all get together and hug and cry and laugh, and they are all in on the big secret, and I'm sitting there, alone, on the bus, pretending to have my own secret. The secret of manufactured sadness. Because that's all I have.
I say I'm sorry to that little girl for making her feel guilty for so many years for wanting the attention that went to her dying father.
I say I'm sorry that you couldn't get all the attention you needed while the family circled around his dying.
I say it was okay to ask, what about me? And it still is.
And I say:
It's okay to go out and play.
It's okay to go out and play.
damn.
And then last night, something broke loose for me. After Group. After talking with George. After a glorious late night talk with Shelley and word from Master Boy that he had phone (call him with ideas, ya'll) back for the time being.
In the space before sleep and dream, I figured something out.
I became a memory.
I'm riding the bus to school the first day back to school after my father died, wondering--consciously thinking: "how should I feel? what am I supposed to act like?" Not feeling sad, no, that wouldn't come until later, about 36 years later, no, not sad. Feeling like I should feel sad. Feeling like everyone around me is sad for me, and so I should be sad, but I don't feel sad. So what should I do? Who should I be like? I have no template for this.
I walk into class to the warm arms of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. McKlusky, who embraces me with the tenderness of a mother, see tears in her eyes, "my poor dear." And I like it.
I like it.
I'm warm.
I'm safe.
Hug me again, Mrs. McKlusky.
Please?
The next day comes, and the next, and the next, and during those rides to school, I monitor my performance. I hear the older kids in the seat behind me, "That's the girl whose dad died. That's her." "Wow. Poor kid." "She must be so sad."
Me thinking, yes. I suppose I can pretend to be sad. Me consciously configuring a look of sad, profound depth on my five-year-old face, leaning my forehead against the up-and-down glass window of the bus, watching the fog from my breath obscure my own view of my face, rubbing it away so that I can see if I look sad enough.
Talk about me some more, kids.
Me. What about me?
What about me, who had lived for the last year in a household of death and dying, of secrecy, of hidden truths, of pretending that nothing was wrong. What about that year, which used make believe to obscure reality, like fog on the glass window of the school bus. What about knowing what was happening without permission to give voice to terror.
Things you put aside, file under "unfortunate"--those are the memories that shape your dark places.
For all of my adult life, I've sought a supporting role, hating the spotlight, hating the sound of my own voice out loud, shakey, unsure. Instead I shape my voice with words and pixels, screaming as loudly as I can in black and white.
It goes back to those rides on the bus, my teacher's arms. It goes back to me asking can I please go out and play on the day of his death, and being told no, we are in mourning, and thinking: what about me?
It's common for children to blame themselves for their parent's death. I knew of this phenomenon because so many adults asked me, "you don't feel like you caused your dad's death, right? I mean, some children feel responsible. You shouldn't feel responsible. It wasn't your fault."
Me thinking, well I DIDN'T feel responsible until the 9th adult asked me this stinking question. I didn't feel responsible. I didn't kill him.
Did you? Or you?
Not me.
But there is guilt, and I found it waiting for me in the space between sleep and dream, last night. It's the guilt of a little girl on a school bus faking sorrow to get attention. It's a little girl who knows she should feel something that everyone else is feeling, but can't. Whatever emotion this is I see around me, it seems to work for them--it seems that they can all get together and hug and cry and laugh, and they are all in on the big secret, and I'm sitting there, alone, on the bus, pretending to have my own secret. The secret of manufactured sadness. Because that's all I have.
I say I'm sorry to that little girl for making her feel guilty for so many years for wanting the attention that went to her dying father.
I say I'm sorry that you couldn't get all the attention you needed while the family circled around his dying.
I say it was okay to ask, what about me? And it still is.
And I say:
It's okay to go out and play.
It's okay to go out and play.
October 15, 2003
black and white
Stick to your guns
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
Nobody knows the trouble this poor boy’s seen
People will believe anything
Man on the run
Always gets it in the end
Nobody cares ’cause nobody shares his dream
People don’t believe anything
Everything is changed
Everything is still the same
It’s just a part of the game
Blood on the moon
Patterns running across the floor
A musical inside a movie inside a dream
Guess you can believe anything
Everything is changed
Everything is still the same
It’s all a part of the game
Mama, papa, boys, and girls
Holding hands around the world
Wrong is wrong and right is right
Nothing changes overnight
I’ll believe it when I see it in black and white
Tell me the truth
Nobody leaves here alive
In the black core of doubt
Trying to get out in the light
Sometimes you can’t see anything
Everyone is changed
Everyone is still the same
They can’t get out of the game
--Todd - check out the flash.
It's not just any old flash site intro. that's how todd is with technology and the Net. way before the many who came after him. above all, and more than the music, I liked that he "got it" early on. the site says 'interactive media' is coming soon. that will be good. does todd blog? todd should blog.
bye bye.
Diamonds are a girl’s best friend
Nobody knows the trouble this poor boy’s seen
People will believe anything
Man on the run
Always gets it in the end
Nobody cares ’cause nobody shares his dream
People don’t believe anything
Everything is changed
Everything is still the same
It’s just a part of the game
Blood on the moon
Patterns running across the floor
A musical inside a movie inside a dream
Guess you can believe anything
Everything is changed
Everything is still the same
It’s all a part of the game
Mama, papa, boys, and girls
Holding hands around the world
Wrong is wrong and right is right
Nothing changes overnight
I’ll believe it when I see it in black and white
Tell me the truth
Nobody leaves here alive
In the black core of doubt
Trying to get out in the light
Sometimes you can’t see anything
Everyone is changed
Everyone is still the same
They can’t get out of the game
--Todd - check out the flash.
It's not just any old flash site intro. that's how todd is with technology and the Net. way before the many who came after him. above all, and more than the music, I liked that he "got it" early on. the site says 'interactive media' is coming soon. that will be good. does todd blog? todd should blog.
bye bye.
Savory Help for Bloggers
Stu Savory takes up the cause of encouraging bloggers to help other bloggers get jobs. I agree. When I lost my job, I thought of starting a team blog of bloggers looking for jobs, where we could have links to our credentials, portfolios, previous employers, links that represent our industry knowledge, etc. I figured we could all write there not so much about the woes of being unemployed, although yes, that too, but more feature writing germaine to our professional disciplines and thinking, predictions, trends, etc. Sort of turning America's business cast offs into America's business pundits.
The value of such a blog of corporate also-rans is 1) to shove in the face of our former employers how "no, duh" they are, as if that would make a difference (note that I made that the number one goal. I don't claim to hide my distaste for stupidity). 2) to demonstrate our thinking, creativity, wit, and industry knowledge in an effort to attract clients or intrigue possible future employers. 3) to enjoy a community of really smart people in the same predicament as you to avoid going completely insane.
Needless to say, I didn't do squat with the idea. Got too busy with freelance work in order to get money in the door.
But someone could. I'm game if anyone takes up the challenge.
Either way, if you know of job openings, email some of the folks Stu lists at his place. If you're looking for a job, feel free to leave a link here. We can at least start some sort of running blogroll of bloggers looking for work.
The value of such a blog of corporate also-rans is 1) to shove in the face of our former employers how "no, duh" they are, as if that would make a difference (note that I made that the number one goal. I don't claim to hide my distaste for stupidity). 2) to demonstrate our thinking, creativity, wit, and industry knowledge in an effort to attract clients or intrigue possible future employers. 3) to enjoy a community of really smart people in the same predicament as you to avoid going completely insane.
Needless to say, I didn't do squat with the idea. Got too busy with freelance work in order to get money in the door.
But someone could. I'm game if anyone takes up the challenge.
Either way, if you know of job openings, email some of the folks Stu lists at his place. If you're looking for a job, feel free to leave a link here. We can at least start some sort of running blogroll of bloggers looking for work.
October 14, 2003
a year ago tomorrow
I attempted to shame the beloved Halley and David into getting comments. And I tried to get RageBoy to fix his.
One of them has comments today, although I wouldn't be smug enough to think it was me who pushed him over the edge. David, are you glad you did it?
One of them has comments today, although I wouldn't be smug enough to think it was me who pushed him over the edge. David, are you glad you did it?
a year ago yesterday
I called upon SMBs to jump down to the bottom with us bloggers and underwrite some blogs -- Ungowa, littleguy power! Or something like that.
(tap tap tap on my desk): still waiting...
(tap tap tap on my desk): still waiting...
October 13, 2003
always late to the dance
Shelley Powers is marvelous in her interview with Frank. And I hope she's doing okay after surgery too!
October 11, 2003
proud mama
What does jeneane do when she's not doing Tech?
This.
I wrote the copy for 18 sections and the homepage in about 10 days. That is why I've been, well, somewhat cranky lately. Glad to see it's up and looking good. I will never look at my crummy house the same way again.
note to self: Save up for cabinet refacing. As soon as we get rid of the ant infestation in the kitchen, and of course buy Jenna a private education, that is.
This.
I wrote the copy for 18 sections and the homepage in about 10 days. That is why I've been, well, somewhat cranky lately. Glad to see it's up and looking good. I will never look at my crummy house the same way again.
note to self: Save up for cabinet refacing. As soon as we get rid of the ant infestation in the kitchen, and of course buy Jenna a private education, that is.
October 10, 2003
Skool Daze
One of those mouth-open drives to school with Jenna today. Every now and then, the voice from the back of the van says something that freezes me in mid drive--I know my reaction by now. Foot releases from the accelerator and I become a three-second statue. Whiz bang the kid pinged my mind.
Today's conversation focused around her interactions with some little girls from her kindergarten class on the playground this week--or at least on the surface that's what it was about. One five-year-old in particular has had a mission the last two days of trying to make Jenna feel shitty in the way some little girls (especially) do so well: "I'm not your best friend." "She's not your best friend!" I've been around enough of them to know that this zinger is the weapon of choice for little girls. No matter who says it to whom, or why, or when, one of them ends up crying.
anyway, I talked with Jenna as I drove about her experiences last year at Montessori, and reminded her of similar experiences, and how she sucessfully handled the same kind of experiences there, and even ended up being friends with some of the girls who started out being mean. And I talked to her about what a "good" friend is and how good friends don't try to hurt each other, and how Jenna is a good friend to the friends she has.
I finished it off with, "Jenna, just be yourself, honey. You know yourself. You make friends wherever you go. Just be who you are."
She says, "I can't be."
I say, "Why not?"
She says, "The teacher."
I say, "What about the teacher."
She says, "I have to be her.
[[foot off the accelerator]].
"What?"
"I have to BE the teacher. She wants us to be EXACTLY like her. She wants us to say what she says and do what she does. She wants us to be her.
wshew.
Captured and interpreted in the mind and voice of a six-year-old who notices this for one pretty simple reason. The Montessori experience is the opposite of institution. In a Montessori classroom, learning is self-directed. The teacher plays the role of "facilitator" not teacher. Children choose their own work (and it is called work), take it to a table, do their work, return the materials so the other children can use them next. The Montessori classrom is quiet motion. It is a non-choreographed dance of learning, with the teacher adding value only where needed. It's child+materials+older children helping younger children.
Montessori is very much like blogging.
This is why it was so evident to Jenna during these first few weeks the contrast between where she'd been and where she is.
The institution of public education cannot be like blogging. I get that now. Although I have promises that this new school with its own curriculum approved by the board, not the State, will not behave like a regular public school. But how can it not?
Yes, we have further stepped up our efforts here at home. You have no choice with Jenna as your child. She demands to learn. And I know that her most important learning has and is taking place right here.
But what of our public schools? What of children in kindergarten who get the message that mirroring is the way succeed. Who learn early on not to be themselves, but instead to "be who we need you to be."
What about all of them.
Today's conversation focused around her interactions with some little girls from her kindergarten class on the playground this week--or at least on the surface that's what it was about. One five-year-old in particular has had a mission the last two days of trying to make Jenna feel shitty in the way some little girls (especially) do so well: "I'm not your best friend." "She's not your best friend!" I've been around enough of them to know that this zinger is the weapon of choice for little girls. No matter who says it to whom, or why, or when, one of them ends up crying.
anyway, I talked with Jenna as I drove about her experiences last year at Montessori, and reminded her of similar experiences, and how she sucessfully handled the same kind of experiences there, and even ended up being friends with some of the girls who started out being mean. And I talked to her about what a "good" friend is and how good friends don't try to hurt each other, and how Jenna is a good friend to the friends she has.
I finished it off with, "Jenna, just be yourself, honey. You know yourself. You make friends wherever you go. Just be who you are."
She says, "I can't be."
I say, "Why not?"
She says, "The teacher."
I say, "What about the teacher."
She says, "I have to be her.
[[foot off the accelerator]].
"What?"
"I have to BE the teacher. She wants us to be EXACTLY like her. She wants us to say what she says and do what she does. She wants us to be her.
wshew.
Captured and interpreted in the mind and voice of a six-year-old who notices this for one pretty simple reason. The Montessori experience is the opposite of institution. In a Montessori classroom, learning is self-directed. The teacher plays the role of "facilitator" not teacher. Children choose their own work (and it is called work), take it to a table, do their work, return the materials so the other children can use them next. The Montessori classrom is quiet motion. It is a non-choreographed dance of learning, with the teacher adding value only where needed. It's child+materials+older children helping younger children.
Montessori is very much like blogging.
This is why it was so evident to Jenna during these first few weeks the contrast between where she'd been and where she is.
The institution of public education cannot be like blogging. I get that now. Although I have promises that this new school with its own curriculum approved by the board, not the State, will not behave like a regular public school. But how can it not?
Yes, we have further stepped up our efforts here at home. You have no choice with Jenna as your child. She demands to learn. And I know that her most important learning has and is taking place right here.
But what of our public schools? What of children in kindergarten who get the message that mirroring is the way succeed. Who learn early on not to be themselves, but instead to "be who we need you to be."
What about all of them.
October 08, 2003
Note to self
Take this to group therapy: anniversary response strong recently.
I realized after heading home this evening, and only just three seconds ago while sniffing around the archives there, that RGE turned two yesterday. Happy birthday ya'll. Anyone up for a pig roast?
I realized after heading home this evening, and only just three seconds ago while sniffing around the archives there, that RGE turned two yesterday. Happy birthday ya'll. Anyone up for a pig roast?
Going Gonzo
I could stay here this week and ride my hits with some powerful posts, suck up some of that good PR juice I've been getting, ride the education wave, maybe push myself up into that 7 out of 10 Google Page Ranking slot so coveted by the hitmakers.
Or I can go home.
I'm going home.
I'm going to play and write odes to Shelley, or maybe not do anything at all, except read Marek. I'm going to goof off and do what matters here.
It's time to dust off the old homestead. Can't afford not to. You'll see.
You want in, email me.
From the Gonzo Engaged sidebar:
"In the meantime,
the time of our lives,
all we have is intuition
and stories
to try to make sense of the world,
to provide some sort of vision
of where we're at
and where we may be headed.
But that's not so bad.
As a species,
it's all we've ever had."
-Chris Locke
see you soon.
Or I can go home.
I'm going home.
I'm going to play and write odes to Shelley, or maybe not do anything at all, except read Marek. I'm going to goof off and do what matters here.
It's time to dust off the old homestead. Can't afford not to. You'll see.
You want in, email me.
From the Gonzo Engaged sidebar:
"In the meantime,
the time of our lives,
all we have is intuition
and stories
to try to make sense of the world,
to provide some sort of vision
of where we're at
and where we may be headed.
But that's not so bad.
As a species,
it's all we've ever had."
-Chris Locke
see you soon.
That Love Hate Thing
Whenever I get disgusted about weblogging, where I see it going, and where I hoped it wouldn't go, I do one thing consistently: I go home.
I go back to my roots, return to the lake, that grey-blue place I started with one tiny pixel in 2001 that became the first team weblog on blogspot. Who cares about firsts? Not me usually. But I care about how old the place is and how longstanding the relationships are with the people who made their home there. And still do. For many of us, Gonzo Engaged was our first home--the blog that came before most of the Class of 2001 had their own blogs.
I love that place still and because of.
When I hate everyplace else in blogspace, even this place, and when I despair over what the same passionless boring been-there-done-that bullshit small-dicked Institution jockeys want to bring here, I go back there.
And that blog opens its big fucked-up-templated arms, and says HEY! That blog, where every member is an administrator which provides no end to fucked up formatting and lost shit, is home. That blog is honest. That blog reminds me:
Remember joy? Remember passion? Remember outrage? Remember when VOICE was supposed to be the antidote to institution? Remember why we came here in the first plalce? Remember that the solution is poetry? Remember what institution looks like? Remember what it feels like? Remember how it ate your brain the firist time around? Remember what business as usual looks like? Remember that shit?
Another reason the place still feels like home is that He's usually waiting there.
He's a citizen now, you know. Consider that. America finally got clued.
How bout you?
AKMA, Michael O'Connor Clarke, Hernani Dimantas, christophe ducamp, Mike Golby, Denise Howell, Chris Locke, Steve MacLaughlin, Marek J, Kevin Marks, Tom Matrullo, Frank Paynter, Helen Razer, Doc Searls, Jeneane Sessum, George Sessum, Tom Shugart, Gary Turner, David Weinberger.
Note: Links to many blogs above are outdated. You people are all administators over there. Get off your butts and change your own links.
Love.
I go back to my roots, return to the lake, that grey-blue place I started with one tiny pixel in 2001 that became the first team weblog on blogspot. Who cares about firsts? Not me usually. But I care about how old the place is and how longstanding the relationships are with the people who made their home there. And still do. For many of us, Gonzo Engaged was our first home--the blog that came before most of the Class of 2001 had their own blogs.
I love that place still and because of.
When I hate everyplace else in blogspace, even this place, and when I despair over what the same passionless boring been-there-done-that bullshit small-dicked Institution jockeys want to bring here, I go back there.
And that blog opens its big fucked-up-templated arms, and says HEY! That blog, where every member is an administrator which provides no end to fucked up formatting and lost shit, is home. That blog is honest. That blog reminds me:
Remember joy? Remember passion? Remember outrage? Remember when VOICE was supposed to be the antidote to institution? Remember why we came here in the first plalce? Remember that the solution is poetry? Remember what institution looks like? Remember what it feels like? Remember how it ate your brain the firist time around? Remember what business as usual looks like? Remember that shit?
Another reason the place still feels like home is that He's usually waiting there.
He's a citizen now, you know. Consider that. America finally got clued.
How bout you?
AKMA, Michael O'Connor Clarke, Hernani Dimantas, christophe ducamp, Mike Golby, Denise Howell, Chris Locke, Steve MacLaughlin, Marek J, Kevin Marks, Tom Matrullo, Frank Paynter, Helen Razer, Doc Searls, Jeneane Sessum, George Sessum, Tom Shugart, Gary Turner, David Weinberger.
Note: Links to many blogs above are outdated. You people are all administators over there. Get off your butts and change your own links.
Love.
Public School Blues (Clues)
We generated some very fascinating and impassioned (my favorite kind) of conversation over here the other day with my post about going head to head with the Principal at Jenna's new school.
We picked this particular school (rather than the "traditional' traditional public school right around the corner) because we thought it would offer us an opportunity to get a smart montessori graduate six-year-old (whose birthday just missed the very-firm first grade cut off date in Georgia) out of Kindergarten and into first grade. This particular public school is of a self-directed flavor, so, therein, thought I, was my hope for having a say.
What we got was two months of the runaround.
So we met with the Principal, guidance counselor, and I'm not sure what the other one was, on Monday to express our dissatisfaction over what our child wasn't learning, and WAS learning, in their midst. To discuss her growing frustration at being stuck listening to lessons from two years ago (for her) without an opportunity to help the younger children ("my teacher says, thank you jenna but I don't need your help..."), thereby turning an enthusastic learner into an increasingly discontented kindergartener.
The meeting was absolutely, positively exhausting.
Several times in front of them I turned to George and said, "Are you sufficiently beaten down yet?"
I felt as if we were buying a Buick.
George held the bad cop role="Just move her to first. Why are we wasting time here? You're going to lose her."
I held the angry but open to discussion role="So what are you planning to do and by what date?"
At one point, the Principal pretty much told us, in her nicest southern drawl, that we should find the best place for our child. I said, "Can you translate that? Are you telling us to move her to private school, and is that the kind of decision you'd be happy with?" Then I went on to explain the reasons I chose this school in the first place. She backed her demure southern ass right off.
We made a good, if not exhausted, team during the meeting.
In the end, after an hour and a half back and forth, examining her reading comprehension and test results, they agreed to let her go to First Grade for reading and math work, and to re-evaluatae where she's at with us at another meeting in two weeks.
Beyond the interesting and facinating themes on education that run like a current through posts and comments like this, I couldn't help but consider how blogging played its part in that meeting.
I told George on the way home, if the discussion around the situation, and resulting encouragement from bloggers who commented, hadn't happened before our meeting with the school officials, I fear I might have backed down about half way into the meeting.
But I didn't.
One--although not the only--reason was that I kept hearing the words of Elaine and Yule, Stuart, adamsj, Trevor, Brooke, Michael, BMO, Jeremy, and the illustrious Mr. Paynter.
This is NO small cast of characters!
And in the back of my mind, playing like a virtual "you go, girl" theme song, were all of you. I was conscious of not only not wanting to disappoint our daughter, myself, and the very principle of the matter (not principal, mind you), but I didn't want to let down the bloggers cheering for us that morning, cheering for Jenna to get back some of that school-inspired fire she's known for. And, cheering for VOICE versus INSTITUTION--our ongoing battle HERE.
Man.
That is intense.
You were there with us. I knew I had to come back and report on what happened. And I was damn sure not going to come back empty handed.
So thanks to those who offered their insight. The information of all flavors was appreciated, considered, and is STILL playing a part in my emerging understanding of what I can expect and what I can as a parent of a school-age child in this country. Understand that we haven't "won," but we have lengthened the battle and learned a heck of a lot from the fight.
We picked this particular school (rather than the "traditional' traditional public school right around the corner) because we thought it would offer us an opportunity to get a smart montessori graduate six-year-old (whose birthday just missed the very-firm first grade cut off date in Georgia) out of Kindergarten and into first grade. This particular public school is of a self-directed flavor, so, therein, thought I, was my hope for having a say.
What we got was two months of the runaround.
So we met with the Principal, guidance counselor, and I'm not sure what the other one was, on Monday to express our dissatisfaction over what our child wasn't learning, and WAS learning, in their midst. To discuss her growing frustration at being stuck listening to lessons from two years ago (for her) without an opportunity to help the younger children ("my teacher says, thank you jenna but I don't need your help..."), thereby turning an enthusastic learner into an increasingly discontented kindergartener.
The meeting was absolutely, positively exhausting.
Several times in front of them I turned to George and said, "Are you sufficiently beaten down yet?"
I felt as if we were buying a Buick.
George held the bad cop role="Just move her to first. Why are we wasting time here? You're going to lose her."
I held the angry but open to discussion role="So what are you planning to do and by what date?"
At one point, the Principal pretty much told us, in her nicest southern drawl, that we should find the best place for our child. I said, "Can you translate that? Are you telling us to move her to private school, and is that the kind of decision you'd be happy with?" Then I went on to explain the reasons I chose this school in the first place. She backed her demure southern ass right off.
We made a good, if not exhausted, team during the meeting.
In the end, after an hour and a half back and forth, examining her reading comprehension and test results, they agreed to let her go to First Grade for reading and math work, and to re-evaluatae where she's at with us at another meeting in two weeks.
Beyond the interesting and facinating themes on education that run like a current through posts and comments like this, I couldn't help but consider how blogging played its part in that meeting.
I told George on the way home, if the discussion around the situation, and resulting encouragement from bloggers who commented, hadn't happened before our meeting with the school officials, I fear I might have backed down about half way into the meeting.
But I didn't.
One--although not the only--reason was that I kept hearing the words of Elaine and Yule, Stuart, adamsj, Trevor, Brooke, Michael, BMO, Jeremy, and the illustrious Mr. Paynter.
This is NO small cast of characters!
And in the back of my mind, playing like a virtual "you go, girl" theme song, were all of you. I was conscious of not only not wanting to disappoint our daughter, myself, and the very principle of the matter (not principal, mind you), but I didn't want to let down the bloggers cheering for us that morning, cheering for Jenna to get back some of that school-inspired fire she's known for. And, cheering for VOICE versus INSTITUTION--our ongoing battle HERE.
Man.
That is intense.
You were there with us. I knew I had to come back and report on what happened. And I was damn sure not going to come back empty handed.
So thanks to those who offered their insight. The information of all flavors was appreciated, considered, and is STILL playing a part in my emerging understanding of what I can expect and what I can as a parent of a school-age child in this country. Understand that we haven't "won," but we have lengthened the battle and learned a heck of a lot from the fight.
RageBoy Develops New Google Game
Well.
Since I've never met "That Asshole Dave Winer," I cannot confirm for you whether Dave is just superficially an asshole OR whether the layers of his assholedness run deeper. (If you didn't know, there are many variations of assholes. I would link to a site demonstrating this phenom, but that'd be kind of gross).
The point of this post isn't to determine if that asshole Dave Winer deserves his new(?) moniker or worse.
It's really to say that the pig picture at the end of RB's post is perhaps the scariest thing I have ever seen in my life.
Shelley, I think if you print out the pig picture and hang it by your bedside post-surgery, your healing time will speed up by multitudes. If only because you will want to have the necessary vim and vigor to run screaming from your room.
MAN OH MAN, you gotta love blogging. Not only does the emperor have no clothes, but he has a penis head too.
Sooie! Sooie!
"For those of you who do not know, a razorback is a skinny, long-legged, half wild, mongrel hog with a bad disposition."
yowsa.
Since I've never met "That Asshole Dave Winer," I cannot confirm for you whether Dave is just superficially an asshole OR whether the layers of his assholedness run deeper. (If you didn't know, there are many variations of assholes. I would link to a site demonstrating this phenom, but that'd be kind of gross).
The point of this post isn't to determine if that asshole Dave Winer deserves his new(?) moniker or worse.
It's really to say that the pig picture at the end of RB's post is perhaps the scariest thing I have ever seen in my life.
Shelley, I think if you print out the pig picture and hang it by your bedside post-surgery, your healing time will speed up by multitudes. If only because you will want to have the necessary vim and vigor to run screaming from your room.
MAN OH MAN, you gotta love blogging. Not only does the emperor have no clothes, but he has a penis head too.
Sooie! Sooie!
"For those of you who do not know, a razorback is a skinny, long-legged, half wild, mongrel hog with a bad disposition."
yowsa.
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