I'm not sure which. But the evidence is here. I think I speak for all of us--well maybe some of us--when I say, thank you for the advice, as always.
June 21, 2002
Off to the liquor store to find some moving boxes
Anyone reading this blog already knows my vision for the perfect world for bloggers, even though, okay, I know it probably can't happen, not yet anyway, but Riley Dog pointed me to Apartment the Earth where it appears move in day has arrived! Nice, nice, nice. Shall we say my digital camera is charging up? Here's this from the "about" page:
"What is Apartment the earth? If it were not for the borders in this world, we could live close together and talk to each other very easily like neighbors of apartments. This is my ideal world. And we can realize this ideal world with the internet because there isn't any borders in there. We can live together here. In this apartment we are citizens of the wrold, we are residents of "apartment the earth."
Beautiful. Happening. Cool.
"What is Apartment the earth? If it were not for the borders in this world, we could live close together and talk to each other very easily like neighbors of apartments. This is my ideal world. And we can realize this ideal world with the internet because there isn't any borders in there. We can live together here. In this apartment we are citizens of the wrold, we are residents of "apartment the earth."
Beautiful. Happening. Cool.
Back At Ya
Halley and Elaine
Met in Maine
Out on the beach
No sign of rain
Walking in the sun
Playing in the dirt
Hey Ms. Crone,
Where'd ya get that shirt?
Met in Maine
Out on the beach
No sign of rain
Walking in the sun
Playing in the dirt
Hey Ms. Crone,
Where'd ya get that shirt?
June 20, 2002
Call Me Mme
A friend told me recently that my manners and passions resemble those of Mme Germaine de Stael, of whom this was said:
"Mme de Stael entertained in palatial surroundings the most distinguished personnages in the land. The guests discussed topics of current interest and they were entertained by music, poetry readings and plays. Mme de Stael was quite literally the toast of Europe. She has been described as the first female ambassador, an unofficial title conferred upon her for a legendary role as a hostess and writer."
Apparently she also gave Napolean some good hell. All the more reason to love her--I can't stand those little power-monger types.
And so, I am honored, because I do resemble her, in more ways than a couple.
"Mme de Stael entertained in palatial surroundings the most distinguished personnages in the land. The guests discussed topics of current interest and they were entertained by music, poetry readings and plays. Mme de Stael was quite literally the toast of Europe. She has been described as the first female ambassador, an unofficial title conferred upon her for a legendary role as a hostess and writer."
Apparently she also gave Napolean some good hell. All the more reason to love her--I can't stand those little power-monger types.
And so, I am honored, because I do resemble her, in more ways than a couple.
bye trees
They're busy tearing down the last big woods near my house. The petition signs gave way to lumber trucks. George, wait until you see it. Apparently an elementary school will be taking the place of the woods. The've blocked off what might be 3-4 city blocks if this were a city, but it's not. It's a town become suburb. And the logging trucks pull out all day long carrying tree rounds, now lumber, to wherever they take them.
The georgia red clay is bright, bare, lonely looking. I wonder what the school will look like. It will probably be my child's school. I wonder why the kids couldn't have just gone to school in those woods. You know? Set up a little building, some camp grounds, something. Made it a nature school. A park. Something to shield the children from the hot Georgia sun. Not now--it's pretty barren.
Every day up here in what used to be off the beaten path, the City of Atlana edges closer, and woods give way to complexes, plazas, and overdone houses. Now a new school. Why does it look so much like a crime scene? I saw a house way back, deep inside what used to be the denseness of the trees today. You couldn't see that house from the road before. It looked to be a very nice house, big, with a little barn next to it. I could tell by the gouges in the sides that they'll be knocking it down too. I don't know. Maybe it's the dark cherry colored glasses I've been wearing lately, but the world doesn't seem quite right.
The georgia red clay is bright, bare, lonely looking. I wonder what the school will look like. It will probably be my child's school. I wonder why the kids couldn't have just gone to school in those woods. You know? Set up a little building, some camp grounds, something. Made it a nature school. A park. Something to shield the children from the hot Georgia sun. Not now--it's pretty barren.
Every day up here in what used to be off the beaten path, the City of Atlana edges closer, and woods give way to complexes, plazas, and overdone houses. Now a new school. Why does it look so much like a crime scene? I saw a house way back, deep inside what used to be the denseness of the trees today. You couldn't see that house from the road before. It looked to be a very nice house, big, with a little barn next to it. I could tell by the gouges in the sides that they'll be knocking it down too. I don't know. Maybe it's the dark cherry colored glasses I've been wearing lately, but the world doesn't seem quite right.
June 19, 2002
hurry home
Remember
Jimi Hendrix
Oh, remember the mocking bird, my baby bun
He used to sing for his supper, baby
Yes he used to sing for his supper, babe
He used to sing so sweet
Since my baby left me he ain't sang for two long days
Oh, remember the blue-birds and the honey bees,
They used to sing for sunshine
They used to sing for the flowers
They used to sing so sweet
But since my baby left me they ain't sang in two long days
Hey pretty baby, come on back to me
Make ev'ry body as happy as can be
So, baby, if you'll please come home again you know I'll
Kiss you for my supper,
You know I'll kiss you for my dinner, yeah!
But, ah, if you don't come back you know I'll have to
Starve to death
'Cus I ain't had one kiss all day now
Please remember
You've got to remember
You've got to remember our love
Come on back, baby, come on back in my arms,
I'll make ev'rything that better
Come on, baby, hurry up now
Can you hear me calling you back again now?
Come on, baby, stop jiving around, hurry home, hurry home.
more
Jimi Hendrix
Oh, remember the mocking bird, my baby bun
He used to sing for his supper, baby
Yes he used to sing for his supper, babe
He used to sing so sweet
Since my baby left me he ain't sang for two long days
Oh, remember the blue-birds and the honey bees,
They used to sing for sunshine
They used to sing for the flowers
They used to sing so sweet
But since my baby left me they ain't sang in two long days
Hey pretty baby, come on back to me
Make ev'ry body as happy as can be
So, baby, if you'll please come home again you know I'll
Kiss you for my supper,
You know I'll kiss you for my dinner, yeah!
But, ah, if you don't come back you know I'll have to
Starve to death
'Cus I ain't had one kiss all day now
Please remember
You've got to remember
You've got to remember our love
Come on back, baby, come on back in my arms,
I'll make ev'rything that better
Come on, baby, hurry up now
Can you hear me calling you back again now?
Come on, baby, stop jiving around, hurry home, hurry home.
more
June 18, 2002
Accidental Tuesday
Tuesday is the day we have everything to do. My work. Baby Blogger's school, then dance class, then piano lesson. It's a draining day, made more draining by the dead-stop traffic on the way back home at the end of it all, the lights and sirens up ahead indicating it might be a long wait. I inch forward, with all the other bumpers, in typical Atlanta fashion, waiting on line to get home.
When I'm finally close enough to see what all the fuss is about, I do the other Atlanta thing--the one I'm compelled to do every time I see an accident (which is too often)--and tell myself, "Quit your whining about the traffic and be glad you aren't the one they're shoving into the ambulance. Your big wreck is still ahead of you." It's a kind of metro "do unto others oath." We all take the pledge, this prayer to the jaws of life.
I remember when I was new to this town, how it would knock the air out of me the way people talked about wrecks (southern for car accidents). "I saw a good one on the way to work today." I heard that more than once. The news blink-blink-blinks these firey orange explosions on the traffic map every morning, not relaying that someone just lost a husband, wife, mother, father, friend, set of legs, but letting us know that taking an alternate route would be a good idea.
So as I pull up to the remnants of the wreck this Tuesday, I'm smack dab next to the paramedics working on one man, with a birdseye view into the ambulance. I notice someone's inside, being attended to by animated medics. I quickly turn my attention to the mangled truck and the small white sedan it ate. I edge past the scene and get the expected result that no one wants to admit is pure relief: traffic disolves instantly as you pass an accident--it's always a faster-than-usual drive from there onward.
Relieved to be past the mess, able to once again haul ass, I forget there's an innocent bystander in my back seat, until I hear:
"Mommy, was he dead?"
"Who honey--you mean at the accident?"
"Yes, was he dead?"
"No, I'm pretty sure he was alive. They're just taking him to the hospital to make sure he's okay."
"It was a boy."
"Well, it was probably a man. They had the stretcher on the grass. I think I saw a man."
"No, mommy, inside the ambulance."
"Oh. Yes there was someone inside. Probaby the man driving the other car."
"No, it was a boy," she insists.
"Well how do you know that?"
"Because his feet were very, very small."
When I'm finally close enough to see what all the fuss is about, I do the other Atlanta thing--the one I'm compelled to do every time I see an accident (which is too often)--and tell myself, "Quit your whining about the traffic and be glad you aren't the one they're shoving into the ambulance. Your big wreck is still ahead of you." It's a kind of metro "do unto others oath." We all take the pledge, this prayer to the jaws of life.
I remember when I was new to this town, how it would knock the air out of me the way people talked about wrecks (southern for car accidents). "I saw a good one on the way to work today." I heard that more than once. The news blink-blink-blinks these firey orange explosions on the traffic map every morning, not relaying that someone just lost a husband, wife, mother, father, friend, set of legs, but letting us know that taking an alternate route would be a good idea.
So as I pull up to the remnants of the wreck this Tuesday, I'm smack dab next to the paramedics working on one man, with a birdseye view into the ambulance. I notice someone's inside, being attended to by animated medics. I quickly turn my attention to the mangled truck and the small white sedan it ate. I edge past the scene and get the expected result that no one wants to admit is pure relief: traffic disolves instantly as you pass an accident--it's always a faster-than-usual drive from there onward.
Relieved to be past the mess, able to once again haul ass, I forget there's an innocent bystander in my back seat, until I hear:
"Mommy, was he dead?"
"Who honey--you mean at the accident?"
"Yes, was he dead?"
"No, I'm pretty sure he was alive. They're just taking him to the hospital to make sure he's okay."
"It was a boy."
"Well, it was probably a man. They had the stretcher on the grass. I think I saw a man."
"No, mommy, inside the ambulance."
"Oh. Yes there was someone inside. Probaby the man driving the other car."
"No, it was a boy," she insists.
"Well how do you know that?"
"Because his feet were very, very small."
it's Ismat to you
I just discovered Ismat's Top ten things not to say to the judge while defending yourself in court for a traffic ticket post. It is a good giggle, and her blog is a good read. The post just below the Top Ten Things is ripe with voice:
"I cut through the construction-muddled street, my bag flapping against my side. I notice the 'I'd rather be in Ann Arbor' bumper sticker on a passing car, and smile at its irony since the little Honda is most definitely in its favorite city. I wonder for a moment if it's not referring to an Ann Arbor gone by, much like the one I want to grasp on now. The air is thick, replete with enveloping humidity, swirling dust and the sounds of hulkish machines stabbing through concrete. After safely crossing on to the paved pathways surrounded by grass, old buildings and tall trees, I wipe the dust from my eyes and continue on to the Diag."
Read her.
"I cut through the construction-muddled street, my bag flapping against my side. I notice the 'I'd rather be in Ann Arbor' bumper sticker on a passing car, and smile at its irony since the little Honda is most definitely in its favorite city. I wonder for a moment if it's not referring to an Ann Arbor gone by, much like the one I want to grasp on now. The air is thick, replete with enveloping humidity, swirling dust and the sounds of hulkish machines stabbing through concrete. After safely crossing on to the paved pathways surrounded by grass, old buildings and tall trees, I wipe the dust from my eyes and continue on to the Diag."
Read her.
June 16, 2002
Fatherless Day
This is my 34th Fathers Day without my dad. It's not easy for me to believe that--that this is the 34th, I mean. Because the girl-child watching him play, sing, then die an excruciating death from pancreatic cancer, only 38 himself, lives at the surface of me. That little girl is my skin, I've never had the luxury of pushing her down, sending her back, taking her off. God knows I've tried, but she won't go.
She's the child who sits crying on her bed while classmates glide off to father-daughter dinner dances; she's the one who stammers when asked, "what does your father do?" thinking that "rot under the earth" isn't a great answer to give. She's the one who hates being told "I'm sorry" by people who don't have a clue what it is to have your father's hug disappear before you ever got used to it, being asked "Do you remember him," and wanting to strangle well-intentioned adults; she's the one who listens to the recordings alone trying to summon him back, imagining he didn't really die at all--maybe he left us--maybe he's playing music somewhere in Europe, coming back from the road any day now. She's the girl who got married with a brother, not a father, on her arm. She's the girl who got cheated out of an entire lifetime of love.
This day, 34 years later, I think of his grave in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, mourn for how far away I am from that place, that man, that grave, that faith, and I hug the little girl-child who doesn't leave me still.
She's the child who sits crying on her bed while classmates glide off to father-daughter dinner dances; she's the one who stammers when asked, "what does your father do?" thinking that "rot under the earth" isn't a great answer to give. She's the one who hates being told "I'm sorry" by people who don't have a clue what it is to have your father's hug disappear before you ever got used to it, being asked "Do you remember him," and wanting to strangle well-intentioned adults; she's the one who listens to the recordings alone trying to summon him back, imagining he didn't really die at all--maybe he left us--maybe he's playing music somewhere in Europe, coming back from the road any day now. She's the girl who got married with a brother, not a father, on her arm. She's the girl who got cheated out of an entire lifetime of love.
This day, 34 years later, I think of his grave in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, mourn for how far away I am from that place, that man, that grave, that faith, and I hug the little girl-child who doesn't leave me still.
June 15, 2002
A certain longing
This is the time of year we usually visit Jamaica, a place and people I've come to love, a music I understood only once I set it to the rhythm of the waves. But this year, we couldn't go, and it's left a longing in me that I wrote about yesterday. Figured I'd post it here:
Jamaica
Runaway Bay, my toes hit the water, I am home, cool Jamaican sea, salt smells comfort, a place I never want to leave. Quiet waves, I sink in, drifting, green-blue carries me far from shore. Sky sea horizon cools ancient fires, drifting still, on my back, bobbing, unnoticed, I do not exist: this is peace.
What brushes against my thigh? Bringing me back, it is slow and gentle, not a creature. I tread water, bring myself upright, as you emerge from under me. Splashes smiles welcoming arms, let's float together. I wrap around you, arms and legs, you hold me there, so you can swim us further out.
From the shore, children giggle and play, call "party wave!" and ride sea to sand. They are echos, distant songs, their cheering and laughter remembers us. I reach between my legs, slip my swimsuit to the side, dip under water long enough to pull your trunks down, take your sweetness out, you floating now, reaching for me as I re-emerge, wrap my arms around your neck, greet you eye to eye, tongue to tongue, we kiss long and slow.
Finally a place out of time to be just us, away from home, away from shore, weightless, no past/future, you probe for me, guide me onto you, bringing the cool sea water with you as I slide you deeper in.
Can we stay this way forever? Love locked. Even now. Still, floating, you inside me, me holding you with legs that wrap tight, breasts riding the water's surface, I feel your heat warm me, my wetness caress you, float with it, drink it in, this love sea.
Jamaica
Runaway Bay, my toes hit the water, I am home, cool Jamaican sea, salt smells comfort, a place I never want to leave. Quiet waves, I sink in, drifting, green-blue carries me far from shore. Sky sea horizon cools ancient fires, drifting still, on my back, bobbing, unnoticed, I do not exist: this is peace.
What brushes against my thigh? Bringing me back, it is slow and gentle, not a creature. I tread water, bring myself upright, as you emerge from under me. Splashes smiles welcoming arms, let's float together. I wrap around you, arms and legs, you hold me there, so you can swim us further out.
From the shore, children giggle and play, call "party wave!" and ride sea to sand. They are echos, distant songs, their cheering and laughter remembers us. I reach between my legs, slip my swimsuit to the side, dip under water long enough to pull your trunks down, take your sweetness out, you floating now, reaching for me as I re-emerge, wrap my arms around your neck, greet you eye to eye, tongue to tongue, we kiss long and slow.
Finally a place out of time to be just us, away from home, away from shore, weightless, no past/future, you probe for me, guide me onto you, bringing the cool sea water with you as I slide you deeper in.
Can we stay this way forever? Love locked. Even now. Still, floating, you inside me, me holding you with legs that wrap tight, breasts riding the water's surface, I feel your heat warm me, my wetness caress you, float with it, drink it in, this love sea.
Steroid Withdrawl
I've been on steroids for two weeks (two rounds) to knock his bronchitis out of my tired lungs. Came off two days ago. Have you ever come off of steroids? They are wonderful drugs which remove every bit of inflamation from your body. With steroids, you can breathe, you can soar, you can clean your house at 3:00 a.m. And then you finish your course of meds. And you feel precisely like cotton, from your brain to your feet, tired old cotton, wet even. And so tired. Jenna went off with family today. I closed my eyes at 1:00 and opened them six hours later. I could sleep for three days if someone would just give me the chance... If someone were here to help me. If George were home.
But George can't come home yet. And so I think of Elaine and if she were here I know I could clean my house, I could tackle the seven baskets of laundry waiting in the basement, I could register both of our cars, which are now two-weeks illegal, I could get the dogs to the vet to get their shots that are three months overdue, I could bother to go food shopping, bother to call the doctor about the yeast infection on my tongue thanks to the steroids, I could remember to take the overflowing garbage to the curb that I forgot about last week... But Elaine isn't here; she is taking some time for her, because I'm sure there are days, taking care of her mom, where she feels like cotton too.
So here I am alone, off to get my sweet sunshine, handle her energy one way or the other, and that's why no new blogging. Because more than any of these tasks awaiting me, I want to sleep. Deep sleep. No-Dream sleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
But George can't come home yet. And so I think of Elaine and if she were here I know I could clean my house, I could tackle the seven baskets of laundry waiting in the basement, I could register both of our cars, which are now two-weeks illegal, I could get the dogs to the vet to get their shots that are three months overdue, I could bother to go food shopping, bother to call the doctor about the yeast infection on my tongue thanks to the steroids, I could remember to take the overflowing garbage to the curb that I forgot about last week... But Elaine isn't here; she is taking some time for her, because I'm sure there are days, taking care of her mom, where she feels like cotton too.
So here I am alone, off to get my sweet sunshine, handle her energy one way or the other, and that's why no new blogging. Because more than any of these tasks awaiting me, I want to sleep. Deep sleep. No-Dream sleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
June 14, 2002
Privacy be damned
If you want a look at the best of generosity blogging, look here at the comment discussion happening in response to this honest post on alcoholism vs drinking by stavrosthewonderchicken. I learned more here than from all the little alanon pamphlets I ordered online.
RageBoy's Topic
Asking for it, I was. I say, "Give me a topic, I'll blog it." Before I finish Gary's "what if you weren't allowed to blog" question, I thought I'd tackle RageBoy's puzzle:
"Privacy is to generosity as iceboxes are to Eskimos. True or false."
I stunk at word problems in school. It may become very clear that I still suck at them. But, not doing something well never stopped me from doing it anyway. Iceboxes and Eskimos. Here I assume one thing, but remember I'm in atlanta where it's like 90 degrees right now: Eskimos don't need iceboxes. Refrigeration is useless. Do I have it right so far?
What about privacy and generosity, and let's stick within the realm of blogging here. Privacy in blogging means what? It means keeping yourself to yourself. It means keeping the personal out of your writing, keeping your family jewels safely within your briefs, quite literallly.
Privacy is something I don't do so well, evidenced by the fact that my kid's face is plastered all over my blog (and her own), as are my loving and sexual longings for my husband, my feelings of horror and disgust toward sex abusing catholics (small c), my childhood career as a shoplifter, my experiences as a kid with a dying father. Little private jewels like that--the experiences I share, those pieces of me I feel compelled to give you.
Does that mean I'm generous? I don't know. I'm sharing huge pieces of my self, for sure. But, I'm sure you can also argue that there's a hint (maybe more) of exhibitionism in it all. Although there is a generosity inherent in all sharing/giving, I get something from it too. It ain't all charity here on allied. I get the release. I get the opening up, the laying out, the eyes, the ears, the souls, and I get the conversation that follows, you telling me you love me "even though."
But let's get away from me for a minute. When you think of bloggers you would describe as "generous," several come to mind--to my mind anyway. They are the bloggers who dare to get personal: Golby, Halley, Marek, Locke, Shelley. They are generous because they dare to lay themselves down naked in front of us: "Here I am. Fuck with me if you want. Or decide you love me. I'm laying down either way."
So cool. So brave. So not private.
But there are generous bloggers who don't push the envelope on privacy to the max too. In this category I'd put Tom Matrullo and AKMA. Theirs is a generosity of spirit and prose and thought. Eloquent, winding prose and voice. Even if they don't always open their chests and show us their beating hearts, they opens our minds just the same. They give us glimpses of their families, their children, the ideas that matter most, but they pull up on the laying down naked thing. Who can blame them.
Then you have the disingenuous, the ungenerous, the very private, the antibloggers. The guy I reference near the top on the right of this page is one of those. I'm afraid they may be growing in number--but I think they'll fall by the wayside eventually.
These are the bloggers who refuse to give any hint of who they are. They remain wrapped and cloaked and yet afford no one that same opportunity. They are all about exposing others without daring to expose themselves. Here the disconnect between privacy and generosity is most clear. They give away nothing. They share nothing. They are absolute privacy. And they are reaaaallly boring. I would like to send them to live with the Eskimos for a month. Maybe then they would have something to say, some genuine experiences to share. But alas...
I must now go be mom, maker of dinner, bather of daughter, feeder of dogs, those other generous roles I play every single day.
So, my answer, I think, is "False."
Discuss.
"Privacy is to generosity as iceboxes are to Eskimos. True or false."
I stunk at word problems in school. It may become very clear that I still suck at them. But, not doing something well never stopped me from doing it anyway. Iceboxes and Eskimos. Here I assume one thing, but remember I'm in atlanta where it's like 90 degrees right now: Eskimos don't need iceboxes. Refrigeration is useless. Do I have it right so far?
What about privacy and generosity, and let's stick within the realm of blogging here. Privacy in blogging means what? It means keeping yourself to yourself. It means keeping the personal out of your writing, keeping your family jewels safely within your briefs, quite literallly.
Privacy is something I don't do so well, evidenced by the fact that my kid's face is plastered all over my blog (and her own), as are my loving and sexual longings for my husband, my feelings of horror and disgust toward sex abusing catholics (small c), my childhood career as a shoplifter, my experiences as a kid with a dying father. Little private jewels like that--the experiences I share, those pieces of me I feel compelled to give you.
Does that mean I'm generous? I don't know. I'm sharing huge pieces of my self, for sure. But, I'm sure you can also argue that there's a hint (maybe more) of exhibitionism in it all. Although there is a generosity inherent in all sharing/giving, I get something from it too. It ain't all charity here on allied. I get the release. I get the opening up, the laying out, the eyes, the ears, the souls, and I get the conversation that follows, you telling me you love me "even though."
But let's get away from me for a minute. When you think of bloggers you would describe as "generous," several come to mind--to my mind anyway. They are the bloggers who dare to get personal: Golby, Halley, Marek, Locke, Shelley. They are generous because they dare to lay themselves down naked in front of us: "Here I am. Fuck with me if you want. Or decide you love me. I'm laying down either way."
So cool. So brave. So not private.
But there are generous bloggers who don't push the envelope on privacy to the max too. In this category I'd put Tom Matrullo and AKMA. Theirs is a generosity of spirit and prose and thought. Eloquent, winding prose and voice. Even if they don't always open their chests and show us their beating hearts, they opens our minds just the same. They give us glimpses of their families, their children, the ideas that matter most, but they pull up on the laying down naked thing. Who can blame them.
Then you have the disingenuous, the ungenerous, the very private, the antibloggers. The guy I reference near the top on the right of this page is one of those. I'm afraid they may be growing in number--but I think they'll fall by the wayside eventually.
These are the bloggers who refuse to give any hint of who they are. They remain wrapped and cloaked and yet afford no one that same opportunity. They are all about exposing others without daring to expose themselves. Here the disconnect between privacy and generosity is most clear. They give away nothing. They share nothing. They are absolute privacy. And they are reaaaallly boring. I would like to send them to live with the Eskimos for a month. Maybe then they would have something to say, some genuine experiences to share. But alas...
I must now go be mom, maker of dinner, bather of daughter, feeder of dogs, those other generous roles I play every single day.
So, my answer, I think, is "False."
Discuss.
June 13, 2002
Where was Tom then?
Where was Tom Matrullo when I was trying to explain to anyone who would listen why I thought Napster was such a good idea--why it blew my mind to pieces, why sitting at the PC with my husband saying, "how did that chord progression go?" and tapping into that vast online living room of like-minded music freaks called Napster was so wonderful. Where was Tom when we were downloading "with love" pieces and parcels of music and sounds that were right on the tip of our tongues, sparking the next wave of creativity, "yeh, that's right, and remember?"
Tom was here being brilliant, and I didn't know. Although I didn't have the chance to read his 24 Notes on Napster then, I just took a joy ride back in time, some George Clinton funk blastin' from my radiadio, tearin the roof off the mothersucker, reliving the love that was Napster in this most exquisite article.
If only...
Tom was here being brilliant, and I didn't know. Although I didn't have the chance to read his 24 Notes on Napster then, I just took a joy ride back in time, some George Clinton funk blastin' from my radiadio, tearin the roof off the mothersucker, reliving the love that was Napster in this most exquisite article.
If only...
COMMERCIAL BREAK
On this Open Line Thursday, we pause for this important commercial message:
Marek's looking for a job. Craig's looking for a job. Starting salary for Craig is 17 gazilion dollars, while Marek will do just about anything for 4 gazillion dollars.
TODAY ONLY we're offering a two-fer-one!!! Hire one bookworthy genius, get a funny brilliant Pole for free!
[Offer valid only while supplies last. Not valid in all states. 46-percent sales tax applies for purchaes made in Georgia.]
Marek's looking for a job. Craig's looking for a job. Starting salary for Craig is 17 gazilion dollars, while Marek will do just about anything for 4 gazillion dollars.
TODAY ONLY we're offering a two-fer-one!!! Hire one bookworthy genius, get a funny brilliant Pole for free!
[Offer valid only while supplies last. Not valid in all states. 46-percent sales tax applies for purchaes made in Georgia.]
Open Forum: What if You Could No Longer Blog
Gary Turner took the bait but fast on my Open Line Thursday, giving me an interesting question to blog about. Gary asks:
"What if you lost your blog and were not allowed to start another one?"
You've been hanging out with Frank Paynter, haven't you Gary? Lots of dynamite packed into this question.
First, I think about losing my blog, and assume you mean LOSING it, as in, gone, bye, finis. All the writing disappears, all the sweat and hard work down the drain. I'm left with two strong emotions: Terror and Despair. Terror: It could happen, couldn't it? My words don't live on my own server. What if, what if, what if it all disappeared tomorrow?
I remember getting the call from George a dozen years ago, him in New York, me at home in Rochester, him saying all that was left was the rock they used to bash the van window in. Everything was gone. The upright bass he'd had all his adult life, the Guild fretless he'd had since he was 16, the one he played with Jaco. His amps, too, everything gone.
Welcome to New York, Motherfucker.
What I heard on the phone was pure anguish.
"Honey everything's gone."
"What everything--what do you mean?"
"Everything. They got everything."
"The upright? They took the fucking upright?"
"That, the Guilds. Everything."
"Oh my god."
That was a day out of time, the room spun. He would later refer to that loss this way: "I lost my sound. My sound is gone." Those instruments were a second skin for him--they were his voice, and they were gone forever. The depression that followed lasted a good long time. Financially, the loss of the basses and equipment represented the loss of our only real assets. And even though other instruments would come along--the Sadowsky, the Padulla, even the 100+ year-old upright--well, even I knew, I know still. Beautiful, inspiring, lively, exotic, but not the sound of the man I met. Not worse, not better. But not the sound. One instrument meets two hands makes one sound. World without end, amen.
So how does this relate? In many ways. If words are our songs, then blogs are our instruments--carriers of voice. If I had been blogging here for 15 years, and all of my collective songs and voice suddenly vanished, I think I would feel much the same pain, dismay, drifting. Voice, place, song, home, center--to lose it then would be horrible. But the blog isn't my only instrument, and this day it's not my most "important" instrument. Blogging is my love, my hobby, but it's not my life. I will not die if I do not blog. I can write on paper if I have to. I can start an e-zine if the mood strikes me. One thing I've learned from that little PR gig that pays the bills is how to adapt. Adapt my voice, adapt my attitude, adapt adapt adapt.
The truth is, I have less than a year's worth of "me" here. It's important, yes, but it wouldn't kill me to lose it. Hurt? Yes. Badly. But, I would understand, at the same time, that it could be much, much worse. Like if it happened a dozen years down the road.
Consider then the Sessum's thoughts at the time of the great instrument hoist--if we can find the fuckers who took the stuff, and if we didn't slit their throats, how much would we be willing to give them to get it back? How much, then, is your sound worth? How much can you afford to protect that sound, or to get it back if someone takes it? All serious, relative things we should be thinking about in Blogaria. As it stands right now, if my blog disappeared and Blogger/Blogspot said we need $500 to get it back for you, I'd say, okay; here's a check. If they said, it will cost you $1,000 to get it back, would I? hmmmm. Ouch. I dunno. $10,000? No way. I can recreate. I will live to spew another day. So long, bye bye, what a shame. I can take a nice vacation with that money and drink my tears away.
Still, it may be time that we start putting a personal value on what we're doing here, just to level set a little bit.
In George's case, if we could have found the instruments--and we did check stores and pawnshops for years, STILL do--we would have easily anted up a few grand. (This is me talking, not him. Hypothetically. George can explore this on his blog if he wants to.) If we had $20,000, it wouldn't have been too much to pay to have those instruments back. $70,000? hmmmm. Feet are getting colder. $100,000? Het-hem. You can get lots of pretty sounds for $100,000.
But I digress...
The second part of Gary's question is just as loaded. Having lost my blog, what would I do if I was not allowed to start another one? Oooooh. Allowed. Interesting word. Who would be doing the disallowing? Work? Blogger? Spouse? The whole notion of "permission" is wrapped in here--a quagmire of its own. In fact, it deserves another post.... Stay tuned.
"What if you lost your blog and were not allowed to start another one?"
You've been hanging out with Frank Paynter, haven't you Gary? Lots of dynamite packed into this question.
First, I think about losing my blog, and assume you mean LOSING it, as in, gone, bye, finis. All the writing disappears, all the sweat and hard work down the drain. I'm left with two strong emotions: Terror and Despair. Terror: It could happen, couldn't it? My words don't live on my own server. What if, what if, what if it all disappeared tomorrow?
I remember getting the call from George a dozen years ago, him in New York, me at home in Rochester, him saying all that was left was the rock they used to bash the van window in. Everything was gone. The upright bass he'd had all his adult life, the Guild fretless he'd had since he was 16, the one he played with Jaco. His amps, too, everything gone.
Welcome to New York, Motherfucker.
What I heard on the phone was pure anguish.
"Honey everything's gone."
"What everything--what do you mean?"
"Everything. They got everything."
"The upright? They took the fucking upright?"
"That, the Guilds. Everything."
"Oh my god."
That was a day out of time, the room spun. He would later refer to that loss this way: "I lost my sound. My sound is gone." Those instruments were a second skin for him--they were his voice, and they were gone forever. The depression that followed lasted a good long time. Financially, the loss of the basses and equipment represented the loss of our only real assets. And even though other instruments would come along--the Sadowsky, the Padulla, even the 100+ year-old upright--well, even I knew, I know still. Beautiful, inspiring, lively, exotic, but not the sound of the man I met. Not worse, not better. But not the sound. One instrument meets two hands makes one sound. World without end, amen.
So how does this relate? In many ways. If words are our songs, then blogs are our instruments--carriers of voice. If I had been blogging here for 15 years, and all of my collective songs and voice suddenly vanished, I think I would feel much the same pain, dismay, drifting. Voice, place, song, home, center--to lose it then would be horrible. But the blog isn't my only instrument, and this day it's not my most "important" instrument. Blogging is my love, my hobby, but it's not my life. I will not die if I do not blog. I can write on paper if I have to. I can start an e-zine if the mood strikes me. One thing I've learned from that little PR gig that pays the bills is how to adapt. Adapt my voice, adapt my attitude, adapt adapt adapt.
The truth is, I have less than a year's worth of "me" here. It's important, yes, but it wouldn't kill me to lose it. Hurt? Yes. Badly. But, I would understand, at the same time, that it could be much, much worse. Like if it happened a dozen years down the road.
Consider then the Sessum's thoughts at the time of the great instrument hoist--if we can find the fuckers who took the stuff, and if we didn't slit their throats, how much would we be willing to give them to get it back? How much, then, is your sound worth? How much can you afford to protect that sound, or to get it back if someone takes it? All serious, relative things we should be thinking about in Blogaria. As it stands right now, if my blog disappeared and Blogger/Blogspot said we need $500 to get it back for you, I'd say, okay; here's a check. If they said, it will cost you $1,000 to get it back, would I? hmmmm. Ouch. I dunno. $10,000? No way. I can recreate. I will live to spew another day. So long, bye bye, what a shame. I can take a nice vacation with that money and drink my tears away.
Still, it may be time that we start putting a personal value on what we're doing here, just to level set a little bit.
In George's case, if we could have found the instruments--and we did check stores and pawnshops for years, STILL do--we would have easily anted up a few grand. (This is me talking, not him. Hypothetically. George can explore this on his blog if he wants to.) If we had $20,000, it wouldn't have been too much to pay to have those instruments back. $70,000? hmmmm. Feet are getting colder. $100,000? Het-hem. You can get lots of pretty sounds for $100,000.
But I digress...
The second part of Gary's question is just as loaded. Having lost my blog, what would I do if I was not allowed to start another one? Oooooh. Allowed. Interesting word. Who would be doing the disallowing? Work? Blogger? Spouse? The whole notion of "permission" is wrapped in here--a quagmire of its own. In fact, it deserves another post.... Stay tuned.
Blogger Open Forum!
NOW--THROUGH TODAY ONLY! The Request Line is OPEN.
What do YOU want me to blog about? Screw this "My Blog, I Say" concept. Nuh-uh. Today is your day on allied. Gimme a topic, I'll blog it. It may not be good, but it might be interesting....
C'mon. What is it? Whatcha want to know about? Death? Love? Sex? Integrity? Loss? Lies? K-Mart? More about cats? (don't have one--it disappeared two years ago--ooops, more on that loss topic again---why does it always go back to that?)
You gotta topic, I gotta blogit.
Leave me a comment.
What do YOU want me to blog about? Screw this "My Blog, I Say" concept. Nuh-uh. Today is your day on allied. Gimme a topic, I'll blog it. It may not be good, but it might be interesting....
C'mon. What is it? Whatcha want to know about? Death? Love? Sex? Integrity? Loss? Lies? K-Mart? More about cats? (don't have one--it disappeared two years ago--ooops, more on that loss topic again---why does it always go back to that?)
You gotta topic, I gotta blogit.
Leave me a comment.
Come, Ride with Me
Excuse me while I take time out to enjoy my ride on daypop just now courtesy of my interview with Frank Paynter. At number 20, I have hurdled my husband, who rode into the 30s earlier this week. Sessum double hit--Outrageous!
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