that road
that drive
that car
that night,
that place
that lake
that storm
that sky,
that beach
that crash
that streak
that spark,
that rain
that wet
that sand
that dark,
that rush
that touch
that hard
that much,
that climb
that groan
that time
that fine,
that walk
that shell
that talk
that sky,
that beach
that night
that you
that I.
February 22, 2003
Next Generation Gonzo
I consider myself some kind of default expert on team blogging. I'm pretty sure that Gonzo Engaged was he first team weblog on Blogger. It's a first I've claimed and no one's disputed. So have at me if you know differently.
The fascinating thing about team blogging is the ebb and flow of voices in concert. The energy within a team blog is dependent upon the spirit and conscious condition of its individual members, and conversation as a whole is incredibly interdependent, much more so than with the in-and-out linkage of solo blogs. More on that, sometime, soon, probably not during Jenna's awake time. More likely in the middle of some future night.
For now, I'm thinking about how we started this conversation on October 7, 2001. In the time since, we've wandered through some brilliant, rediculous, fulfilling, empty, sacred, profane, eloquent and fart-ladden, human exchanges. The blog itself went on a quiet hiatus for some months, the energy leaking out--there must have been a hole in the template, or a hole in our collective heart.
And then, without saying a word, silently and oh-so appropriately, in fitting style, Marek began writing there again, shortly after turning his blog into an anti-spam collection plate. One of us stumbled upon Marek there--a place where he felt no responsibility other than to be real and funny and human and outrageous.
Tom Matrullo, after finding Marek posting away on the old homestead, quietly joined him. Tom didn't tell anyone either. They hung out in this abandonned warehouse of a blog, meeting up to exchange spoofs on Nigerian spam, sheep farming (or something), and get-rich-quick schemes.
It was a while before anyone knew Marek and Tom were over there. All but the occassional "anyone out there?" post had subsided months prior.
Fittingly, Gonzo came alive again kind of by accident.
One day, as I understand it, RageBoy was talking to Marek J. on that other thing that plugs into your wall, and RageBoy said, "Marek--why did you stop blogging, man?" And Marek said, "I never stopped; I've been blogging for months over on Gonzo Engaged," at which point Rageboy called Marek a "Blog Squatter," and laughter and vibing on other profane new blog terms ensued.
So he told me, and I jumped in, and he noticed the activity was picking up and started posting in earnest, and then he showed up, and then she reemerged, and then he asked to join. And now look at us.
Voice. Play. Outrage. Love. RGE 2.0.
The Blogosphere is so amazing.
[blogger's note: if I forgot anyone involved in re-baking Gonzo, please bring your paddle and meet me in the agora. That'd be you, Frank. See you there.]
The fascinating thing about team blogging is the ebb and flow of voices in concert. The energy within a team blog is dependent upon the spirit and conscious condition of its individual members, and conversation as a whole is incredibly interdependent, much more so than with the in-and-out linkage of solo blogs. More on that, sometime, soon, probably not during Jenna's awake time. More likely in the middle of some future night.
For now, I'm thinking about how we started this conversation on October 7, 2001. In the time since, we've wandered through some brilliant, rediculous, fulfilling, empty, sacred, profane, eloquent and fart-ladden, human exchanges. The blog itself went on a quiet hiatus for some months, the energy leaking out--there must have been a hole in the template, or a hole in our collective heart.
And then, without saying a word, silently and oh-so appropriately, in fitting style, Marek began writing there again, shortly after turning his blog into an anti-spam collection plate. One of us stumbled upon Marek there--a place where he felt no responsibility other than to be real and funny and human and outrageous.
Tom Matrullo, after finding Marek posting away on the old homestead, quietly joined him. Tom didn't tell anyone either. They hung out in this abandonned warehouse of a blog, meeting up to exchange spoofs on Nigerian spam, sheep farming (or something), and get-rich-quick schemes.
It was a while before anyone knew Marek and Tom were over there. All but the occassional "anyone out there?" post had subsided months prior.
Fittingly, Gonzo came alive again kind of by accident.
One day, as I understand it, RageBoy was talking to Marek J. on that other thing that plugs into your wall, and RageBoy said, "Marek--why did you stop blogging, man?" And Marek said, "I never stopped; I've been blogging for months over on Gonzo Engaged," at which point Rageboy called Marek a "Blog Squatter," and laughter and vibing on other profane new blog terms ensued.
So he told me, and I jumped in, and he noticed the activity was picking up and started posting in earnest, and then he showed up, and then she reemerged, and then he asked to join. And now look at us.
Voice. Play. Outrage. Love. RGE 2.0.
The Blogosphere is so amazing.
[blogger's note: if I forgot anyone involved in re-baking Gonzo, please bring your paddle and meet me in the agora. That'd be you, Frank. See you there.]
Jeneane's plan for peace: Are we really so different?
Collin Powell recently said that there will be no war if Saddam steps down.
But what could convince Saddam to step down?
We all know that Saddam's a non-democtratically-elected dictatorial madman who bucks UN resolutions without giving them a second thought. He is a war-mongering egomaniac who doesn't give a hoot about the wants and needs of the people in his country. The Iraqi economy is a joke--there are simply haves and have-nots.
Not much to dispute about that. But how to fix it? How to get a man like that to agree to leave the country he thinks he has a legacy to rule?
And then I had an idea.
We too have a non-democratically-elected leader! We have a President who doesn't care what the UN says, a war-mongering egomaniac with a personal vendetta and no real concern for the will of the people who elected him (oh, wait, right, he wasn't elected either!)
Both of these men would rather throw us into World War III than for either one, individually, to admit that there's probably a better way.
My plan is this: What if BOTH men agree to leave the office that neither ligitimately holds? What if we offer that up--our leader will go if yours will.
I think it could work! We could have a global webcast of Saddam and W. and their administrations together at the White House offering their joint resignations. And we could all join in a virtual kumbaya celebrating peace--or at least how we succeeded in avoiding the destruction of the entire human race.
I offer it up--I think it could work. Our imposter for yours. A plan for peace.
But what could convince Saddam to step down?
We all know that Saddam's a non-democtratically-elected dictatorial madman who bucks UN resolutions without giving them a second thought. He is a war-mongering egomaniac who doesn't give a hoot about the wants and needs of the people in his country. The Iraqi economy is a joke--there are simply haves and have-nots.
Not much to dispute about that. But how to fix it? How to get a man like that to agree to leave the country he thinks he has a legacy to rule?
And then I had an idea.
We too have a non-democratically-elected leader! We have a President who doesn't care what the UN says, a war-mongering egomaniac with a personal vendetta and no real concern for the will of the people who elected him (oh, wait, right, he wasn't elected either!)
Both of these men would rather throw us into World War III than for either one, individually, to admit that there's probably a better way.
My plan is this: What if BOTH men agree to leave the office that neither ligitimately holds? What if we offer that up--our leader will go if yours will.
I think it could work! We could have a global webcast of Saddam and W. and their administrations together at the White House offering their joint resignations. And we could all join in a virtual kumbaya celebrating peace--or at least how we succeeded in avoiding the destruction of the entire human race.
I offer it up--I think it could work. Our imposter for yours. A plan for peace.
Overdue
Ever feel like you're due for another really big blunder--I mean the really big gaff that comes around, say, once every 7 years?
I can just feel myself preparing for the red-cheeked recognition that I've inserted profanity into a client deliverable completely by accident (I'm so sorry; I meant can't--the u is a typo!" Or forgot about a critical deadline, or sent an email with some seriously private jpeg attached. Any of these are distinct possibilities. In fact, resistence is futile. Something big is going to go down. I'm overdue.
I remember the last biggie--it was in fact 7 years ago, and after proofing and having everyone within 2 feet of me proof the company brochure before sending it off to the printer, the first one I pulled out of the box had a typo in our company name. "Sytems Techniques." None of us had seen it, but I took the mea culpas because the buck stopped with me. It was ultimately my job.
Of course, there have been more. But I hate remembering them. Especially when I know something's coming. I can feel it round the bend. I just hope this one's not ultra-mortifying--or worse.
I can just feel myself preparing for the red-cheeked recognition that I've inserted profanity into a client deliverable completely by accident (I'm so sorry; I meant can't--the u is a typo!" Or forgot about a critical deadline, or sent an email with some seriously private jpeg attached. Any of these are distinct possibilities. In fact, resistence is futile. Something big is going to go down. I'm overdue.
I remember the last biggie--it was in fact 7 years ago, and after proofing and having everyone within 2 feet of me proof the company brochure before sending it off to the printer, the first one I pulled out of the box had a typo in our company name. "Sytems Techniques." None of us had seen it, but I took the mea culpas because the buck stopped with me. It was ultimately my job.
Of course, there have been more. But I hate remembering them. Especially when I know something's coming. I can feel it round the bend. I just hope this one's not ultra-mortifying--or worse.
And more to the point..
And I have felt
a presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth . . .
--William Wordsworth
a presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth . . .
--William Wordsworth
February 21, 2003
Moving on Up?
Tom points to this amazing amazing place, which is offered for sale by Sir Stavros' parents.
I am already in love with the place; I am reminded of this.
I have decided the place is perfect for us.
And why couldn't we? Really? Stavros--can you get fast access to the net there?
It looks like maybe 40 bloggers could live there comfortably, what with four cabins and two 20-man bunk houses, plus a main lodge and an owner's house (If I read it correctly). So, $265K divided by 40 is $6,500K and change a piece. Bought and paid for.
Instead of the Biosphere II project, we can create the Blogosphere 2003 and Beyond project.
From this:
To this:
And our motto, of course, would be:
"We don't need no stinking lid."
Because...
"if you change the rules, you can change the world."
I am already in love with the place; I am reminded of this.
I have decided the place is perfect for us.
And why couldn't we? Really? Stavros--can you get fast access to the net there?
It looks like maybe 40 bloggers could live there comfortably, what with four cabins and two 20-man bunk houses, plus a main lodge and an owner's house (If I read it correctly). So, $265K divided by 40 is $6,500K and change a piece. Bought and paid for.
Instead of the Biosphere II project, we can create the Blogosphere 2003 and Beyond project.
From this:
To this:
And our motto, of course, would be:
"We don't need no stinking lid."
Because...
"if you change the rules, you can change the world."
I was hoping it wouldn't take so long...
But thank goodness they came through. To keep me going, laughing.
A brilliant parody of Ready.Gov by idelwords -- time to put on the Depends. This line for the now infamous dead fish and bird graphic: "Piles of rotting animals may mask the odor of a chemical attack. Clear your home of dead animals frequently." Finally, some advice I can use. Kieran Healey's parody is funny too.
I love it when bloggers remind me I'm taking life way too seriously.
Someone with bandwidth needs to host these images and let us do that remote linking thang to them, passing on our own essential information as we go. Or something.
A brilliant parody of Ready.Gov by idelwords -- time to put on the Depends. This line for the now infamous dead fish and bird graphic: "Piles of rotting animals may mask the odor of a chemical attack. Clear your home of dead animals frequently." Finally, some advice I can use. Kieran Healey's parody is funny too.
I love it when bloggers remind me I'm taking life way too seriously.
Someone with bandwidth needs to host these images and let us do that remote linking thang to them, passing on our own essential information as we go. Or something.
oh, for crying out loud
I need a vote--do i fix all the typos from last night/this morning or leave them in for "flavor"? They're driving me crazy.
well, that wasn't such a good idea.
been up, slept an hour, wondering how and why I managed not to sleep more last night. Was it Jenna stirring? Or something else? It felt other worldly, actually.
I still haven't read the posts from my early morning meanderings. I don't remember much after the piano post. This ought to be interesting. Off to read now.
I still haven't read the posts from my early morning meanderings. I don't remember much after the piano post. This ought to be interesting. Off to read now.
Disclaimer: I have no idea if the following series of posts makes any sense at all
I wrote the next many posts in my sleep. forgive errors please. can' wait to see what I said and/or meant. In another couple of hours.
time to go pick out school clothes now.
yeha.
time to go pick out school clothes now.
yeha.
This is where I go
You see, this is where I go in my rest state. I always come back to death and loss because they are comfortable. i am not saying this is unique to me, or special, or that it's a good thing. It's just, that's all I know to do.
That's where I find my warm memories, and although they are jarring, they are the only memories I own.
It's okay. we did the best we could. It's okay. Better days ahead.
I feel like time's running out.
Does anyone else feel that time is completely out of synch and the cadence is off by three beats and time ignores us as if we were chasing it down because it owed us something.
does it owe us anything?
putting my head down.
That's where I find my warm memories, and although they are jarring, they are the only memories I own.
It's okay. we did the best we could. It's okay. Better days ahead.
I feel like time's running out.
Does anyone else feel that time is completely out of synch and the cadence is off by three beats and time ignores us as if we were chasing it down because it owed us something.
does it owe us anything?
putting my head down.
stream of consiousness - more
My eyes are closed again.
I should be blogging from bed, you know, with my sidekick, but there are too many words waiting to come out. Too many words for the sidekick. These are laptop words, not sidekick, not tonight.
I'm thinking of the little girl who had the organ transplant two weeks ago, and something went terribly wrong, and she got organs that were type A blood; she was type O. Her body began rejecting the organs immediately and she has been critically ill since. I guess yesterday they found an appropriate donor heart and lung, and last I knew, last night, I'd link but my eyes are closed, she was having her second transplant--this time with the right organs.
I think how human the surgeon sounded in all I read. How he took full responsibility for not having a fail-proof pricess in place to proect against getting organs of the wrong blood type. He said that he was devastated. He didn't try to cover up, and neither did Duke--I think it was Duke. The were so human in the face of the very acceptable rage of the girls family.
It's a situation I've thought about a lot this last day--what I would do, how I would feel if that were my daughter, and such a grave mistake were made. Who would I want to kill--what would I do--would I be able to focus on step two (getting her back on track with the right organs) or be so consumed with anger that I would lose myself to that anger.
And I just don't know.
Kids aren't supposed to get that sick. How frail are we. We are so frail and so human.
My grandfather was killed as a result of a hospital mix up. Three weeks after my father died. He was in for what was a pretty routine treatment--he had bronchitis or pnemonia or some sugh thing, but he was scheduled to go home the next day--or maybe the day after. I saw him. I was in Illinois then, where my grandparents (mother's side) lived, apparently sent out of the disaray of my dad's funeral and burial to my grandparents. And with my grandpa in the hospital, well, I was already uneasy.
So when a nurse came in and administered medicine to my grandfather and failed to note it on his chart, and when the doctor came in and administered what was to be an overdose of that medicine, he went into cardiac arrest and died before they could get my grandmother out of his room. Gone in an instant.
That wasn't supposed to happen either.
And yet we are human. And it does. Damnit.
The difference is, in my grandfather's case, the hospital and the doctor knew they could appease my grandmother--It'll be best Polly if you just forget about this trauma and get on with your life--your daughter needs you--your grandchildren need you--there's nothing we can do to bring Frank back.
And that doctor retired, and he moved to Florida, and I think if I could find him I just might. I just might.
Because I'm human too.
I should be blogging from bed, you know, with my sidekick, but there are too many words waiting to come out. Too many words for the sidekick. These are laptop words, not sidekick, not tonight.
I'm thinking of the little girl who had the organ transplant two weeks ago, and something went terribly wrong, and she got organs that were type A blood; she was type O. Her body began rejecting the organs immediately and she has been critically ill since. I guess yesterday they found an appropriate donor heart and lung, and last I knew, last night, I'd link but my eyes are closed, she was having her second transplant--this time with the right organs.
I think how human the surgeon sounded in all I read. How he took full responsibility for not having a fail-proof pricess in place to proect against getting organs of the wrong blood type. He said that he was devastated. He didn't try to cover up, and neither did Duke--I think it was Duke. The were so human in the face of the very acceptable rage of the girls family.
It's a situation I've thought about a lot this last day--what I would do, how I would feel if that were my daughter, and such a grave mistake were made. Who would I want to kill--what would I do--would I be able to focus on step two (getting her back on track with the right organs) or be so consumed with anger that I would lose myself to that anger.
And I just don't know.
Kids aren't supposed to get that sick. How frail are we. We are so frail and so human.
My grandfather was killed as a result of a hospital mix up. Three weeks after my father died. He was in for what was a pretty routine treatment--he had bronchitis or pnemonia or some sugh thing, but he was scheduled to go home the next day--or maybe the day after. I saw him. I was in Illinois then, where my grandparents (mother's side) lived, apparently sent out of the disaray of my dad's funeral and burial to my grandparents. And with my grandpa in the hospital, well, I was already uneasy.
So when a nurse came in and administered medicine to my grandfather and failed to note it on his chart, and when the doctor came in and administered what was to be an overdose of that medicine, he went into cardiac arrest and died before they could get my grandmother out of his room. Gone in an instant.
That wasn't supposed to happen either.
And yet we are human. And it does. Damnit.
The difference is, in my grandfather's case, the hospital and the doctor knew they could appease my grandmother--It'll be best Polly if you just forget about this trauma and get on with your life--your daughter needs you--your grandchildren need you--there's nothing we can do to bring Frank back.
And that doctor retired, and he moved to Florida, and I think if I could find him I just might. I just might.
Because I'm human too.
eyes closed blogging
Okay they're closed. My eyes I mean. I love writing with my eyes closed. The first time George saw me do it he got scared. You can type like that? I said, yep. And carry on a separate conversation.
It's relaxing to write with your eyes closed. At some point your fingers take over from your mind, and you're just along for the ride.
I've been seeing a lot of windows in my sleep these days, small panes of glass divided into little squares.
I don't know what that means.
The day I learned my dad died, me at six, I asked if I could go out to play, but I couldn't, my mom said, because we were in mourning. But having been removed from the dying process--yes I knew he was sick, but was never told how sick--having to rely only on my instinct to tell me just how sick he was, I learned at an early age that your instinct can fail you. It's hard to trust your instinct when your earliest memories are those of a big surprise that probably shouldn't have been a surprise at all.
Would it surprise you if I told you my eyes are still closed?
So, in removing me from the dying process, I really wasn't prepared to mourn. And then in a sense, the house full of dread leading up to my dad's death--I could feel that too...
My mother gave me a wonderful gift once. I was about 22 when I expressed to her how unsettled I felt about having never said goodbye to my father, how if I had known--if they had told me--I would have told him I loved him before I ran off to catch the school bus that day. And then, at six, maybe I wouldn't have. You know? Maybe it would have been a matter of course in my mind, having known no other course.
As I was feeling tragically guilty for not having known my father was as sick as he was--that somehow if I had known I would have behaved differently, my mother told me this: You were the only one who didn't look at him with eyes that knew he was sick. You were the only one he could be himself with. You were joy to him, you brought joy to him at a time when no one else could because you were a sweet, innocent, loving child.
I think that made me feel better.
For a while it did.
Eyes closed--opening to pos now.
It's relaxing to write with your eyes closed. At some point your fingers take over from your mind, and you're just along for the ride.
I've been seeing a lot of windows in my sleep these days, small panes of glass divided into little squares.
I don't know what that means.
The day I learned my dad died, me at six, I asked if I could go out to play, but I couldn't, my mom said, because we were in mourning. But having been removed from the dying process--yes I knew he was sick, but was never told how sick--having to rely only on my instinct to tell me just how sick he was, I learned at an early age that your instinct can fail you. It's hard to trust your instinct when your earliest memories are those of a big surprise that probably shouldn't have been a surprise at all.
Would it surprise you if I told you my eyes are still closed?
So, in removing me from the dying process, I really wasn't prepared to mourn. And then in a sense, the house full of dread leading up to my dad's death--I could feel that too...
My mother gave me a wonderful gift once. I was about 22 when I expressed to her how unsettled I felt about having never said goodbye to my father, how if I had known--if they had told me--I would have told him I loved him before I ran off to catch the school bus that day. And then, at six, maybe I wouldn't have. You know? Maybe it would have been a matter of course in my mind, having known no other course.
As I was feeling tragically guilty for not having known my father was as sick as he was--that somehow if I had known I would have behaved differently, my mother told me this: You were the only one who didn't look at him with eyes that knew he was sick. You were the only one he could be himself with. You were joy to him, you brought joy to him at a time when no one else could because you were a sweet, innocent, loving child.
I think that made me feel better.
For a while it did.
Eyes closed--opening to pos now.
Writing myself to sleep
I love that space, when I le down, relax, know that I could find sleep if I want to. I'm there now. The last couple of posts have taken that nervous energy from me. Where does it go? Maybe it's yours now. Maybe it starts swirling around the blogosphere.
Sleep writing is the most amazing thing. Sleep writing is me here, as I am right now, with my eyes closed. My fingers know where to go. I don't have to be awake to type really--just semi-conscious. It's a dream state, where, if I were to stop talking about the "state" and start talking about what I feel and see there, might get interesting...
shall we see? why not...
Sleep writing is the most amazing thing. Sleep writing is me here, as I am right now, with my eyes closed. My fingers know where to go. I don't have to be awake to type really--just semi-conscious. It's a dream state, where, if I were to stop talking about the "state" and start talking about what I feel and see there, might get interesting...
shall we see? why not...
The Piano
I blog from my couch. I guess if you saw the picture in the NY Times article, you've guessed that. I write on a laptop in what has to be the most unhealthy position for a spine you can imagine. I am the anti-ergomatic. I never had a choice really. Four years of simultaneous child rearing and working from home puts you in some precarious positions. A deadline is a deadline, and so, you work around the the general household insanity until one day you surrender to it, sit down on the couch, and say, Okay, I'll work from here.
Across from the couch is our piano. It was my father's piano--he bought it when i was three I think. An Ivers & Ponds baby grand. And while you may think, hey, nice that you have a baby grand, anyone who has had the responsibility of a piano for more than 20 years as I have can tell you--it's like owning a baby elephant that sings. I don't play--I goof around on it. George, of course, gets much use on it as he sometimes writes on the piano.
But the thing about pianos is moving them.
It's no small task, a huge expense, something you have to plan in advance for, and something you have to design one entire room of your house around.
I have moved this piano no fewer than 9 times since it officially became mine at age 18. There was the apartment it barely fit in. There wasn my English teacher who gave it a foster home for a year because no moving company would take it up the winding stairway framed with stained-glass windows. There was the house where it had a living room all to itself. And many more journeys.
When I think about moving, I think about the piano. And when I think about the piano, I think I'll never move again.
And yet, because it is something that touched my father's hands, because I have tapes of him pulling chords and notes so beautiful from it, I can never let it go. I can get back to that place in an instant, me on the piano stool him kneeling beside me, me stretching my legs down trying to reach the pedals, and finally being able to.
There is something about instruments, especially those made of wood. I have seen and held many, played a few (badly), and I know when an instrument is special. I have felt the presence of pre-played notes, that tingle that lets you know a piece of someone who touched it has been absorbed in the wood. If you listen very closely, you can almost hear the echos reverberating from 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years ago. It is a primal and joyous thing.
I'm tired, it's 5:13, and sleep won't come, my eye keeps driftin gover to the baby grand.
And I swear I can hear something.
Across from the couch is our piano. It was my father's piano--he bought it when i was three I think. An Ivers & Ponds baby grand. And while you may think, hey, nice that you have a baby grand, anyone who has had the responsibility of a piano for more than 20 years as I have can tell you--it's like owning a baby elephant that sings. I don't play--I goof around on it. George, of course, gets much use on it as he sometimes writes on the piano.
But the thing about pianos is moving them.
It's no small task, a huge expense, something you have to plan in advance for, and something you have to design one entire room of your house around.
I have moved this piano no fewer than 9 times since it officially became mine at age 18. There was the apartment it barely fit in. There wasn my English teacher who gave it a foster home for a year because no moving company would take it up the winding stairway framed with stained-glass windows. There was the house where it had a living room all to itself. And many more journeys.
When I think about moving, I think about the piano. And when I think about the piano, I think I'll never move again.
And yet, because it is something that touched my father's hands, because I have tapes of him pulling chords and notes so beautiful from it, I can never let it go. I can get back to that place in an instant, me on the piano stool him kneeling beside me, me stretching my legs down trying to reach the pedals, and finally being able to.
There is something about instruments, especially those made of wood. I have seen and held many, played a few (badly), and I know when an instrument is special. I have felt the presence of pre-played notes, that tingle that lets you know a piece of someone who touched it has been absorbed in the wood. If you listen very closely, you can almost hear the echos reverberating from 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 years ago. It is a primal and joyous thing.
I'm tired, it's 5:13, and sleep won't come, my eye keeps driftin gover to the baby grand.
And I swear I can hear something.
Words I Want to Keep
I marvel at the words my daughter creates--expanding her vocabulary every second of every day, and I'm sure in her dreams she learns new words.
But sometimes she utters words that aren't and I wish I could turn them into words that existed.
Zabreer is one of those. A zabreer is what mommy's wear under their blouses. A zabreer is something she can't quite fathom the use for.
"Mommy, I can't wear that undershirt with the straps--everyone will think I have a zabreer on!"
I don't correct her. Those are her words and they mean so much to me that there are several I won't correct. Maybe she'll pay the price later, when she utters it in gym class, or maybe I'll tell her before then. But for now zabreer is just fine.
And so is elligator, which, if you're wondering, is what carries you from one floor to the next.
Smile. It's 4:56.
But sometimes she utters words that aren't and I wish I could turn them into words that existed.
Zabreer is one of those. A zabreer is what mommy's wear under their blouses. A zabreer is something she can't quite fathom the use for.
"Mommy, I can't wear that undershirt with the straps--everyone will think I have a zabreer on!"
I don't correct her. Those are her words and they mean so much to me that there are several I won't correct. Maybe she'll pay the price later, when she utters it in gym class, or maybe I'll tell her before then. But for now zabreer is just fine.
And so is elligator, which, if you're wondering, is what carries you from one floor to the next.
Smile. It's 4:56.
Up all night.
I don't know why I've been up all night--there's no good reason for it. I'm wiped out from being sick, from Jenna being sick, I'm steroid and antibiotic infested, and maybe feeling better - maybe getting a second wind with no where to put it but here. So here. wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeshhhhhhh. For all of you who need it, that was my second wind, just for you.
I'm going to post myself into morning, post into a new day either to hope I find the sense of things there, or if not, numb myself with tiredness so that it doesn't matter.
I came here a year and a half ago because there was no reason not to. And that's why I'm here, hoping around between allied and stir and gonzo engaged, with a read through blog sisters too. What have I done? I've somehow unfolded worlds here, me and my teamblog obsession. Worlds of voices weaving in and out from one another, sometimes colliding, sometimes we make music, sometime only dissonance.
I don't know. Nothing makes sens at 4:51 in the morning when you saw day at 7 a.m. the day before.
7 to 7
lucky sevens maybe.
click.
I'm going to post myself into morning, post into a new day either to hope I find the sense of things there, or if not, numb myself with tiredness so that it doesn't matter.
I came here a year and a half ago because there was no reason not to. And that's why I'm here, hoping around between allied and stir and gonzo engaged, with a read through blog sisters too. What have I done? I've somehow unfolded worlds here, me and my teamblog obsession. Worlds of voices weaving in and out from one another, sometimes colliding, sometimes we make music, sometime only dissonance.
I don't know. Nothing makes sens at 4:51 in the morning when you saw day at 7 a.m. the day before.
7 to 7
lucky sevens maybe.
click.
A Ghostly Feeling - Indulge Me Please
Shelley has some interesting thoughts today about the good, bad, and ugly of writing professionally. In typical blogerrific synchronicity, I'd been sitting here thinking similar thoughts--differently--when I came upon Shelley's thoughts.
Here's the thing.
Like Shelley, I've been writing professionally for a long time. Some days it seems really long. Really really long. I've been on the corporate side, I've been on the agency side, and I've done things for and by me-myself-and-I.
But unlike Shelley who has quite a list of credits to her name, I have earned my living--a good living--as other people's voices. Snatched up early by smart CEOs who recognized my ability to get inside their heads and say what they would like to say how it should be said, I became the perfect ghost writer. When you perfect this kind of business writing, it is more science than art. Mostly, you're a sponge.
During the tech boom, I had the opportunity to be inside some giant brilliant amazing galactical heads, to speak with and for these people through my writing. What I absorbed from them--from everyone I've worked with--goes right into the old file drawer in my mind. In essence, I get their smarts; they get my voice. We both get paid. Fair trade.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, though, my husband used to ask, "Doesn't it bother you that so much of what you write has other people's names on it? I mean, it's yours. Why isn't your name on it? You just wrote this 200-page book, and you let them put their names on it." And I would answer, quite truthfully, that no, it wouldn't be PR if my name were on it. And it didn't bother me at all. They got my anonymity; I got a good paycheck.
Interestingly, with blogging something has changed for me.
During my part-time day, I write in my paid-for voice, and then, like Clark Kent, I sneak into a phone booth and slip out of my silly work clothes into my super blogger crime fighter outfit -- it's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's me.
Lately I've been feeling a little bit ghostly about my ghost writing. Part of it is, having gotten used to the ownership of my own voice in blogging, it's getting harder to put aside my "jeneane" voice and do the daytime switcheroo with the person I'm writing for.
Fascinating. A little unnerving too.
The other part of my shakey-ground feeling is that I've never had the person whose voice I've channeled go away. Bare with me. This one's tough for me. And I'm writing to try to figure out why.
A few weeks ago I found out that my boss has decided to explore some new career opportunities--i.e., he's leaving. And, he's leaving me. I've only recently recongized that this is a pretty big thing for me, a pretty big thing for a writer who's been writing closely with and for someone for nearly six years.
Surely, I've parted ways with other boss/clients, right? Well, yes. That's true. And that's why I've been knocking my hand against my head trying to figure out why this feels so different. Why I feel abandoned.
I think I've got it: In every other job, I've done the departing. Three times by choice, once not. Nonetheless, they stayed and I went.
Sounds weird doesn't it?
Oddly, this way, I feel vulnerable and left without anyplace to put my voice, and I get teary eyed thinking, he's going. He's really going.
We writers who write for other people, the connection we develop with those people from climbing around inside their heads--absorbing their thoughts, learning their cadence, understanding their triggers, what matters to them, what doesn't, why, how their phrasing works, their inflections, how they think when they're tired, how they sound when they're jazzed, how to be them without being them--that's a hard bond to break.
In my case--I don't know how it works for everyone--I really have to like the people I'm writing for. There are degrees, sure. You can write for a corporation (read: client) and write professionally with flair and passion because you know that voice--you have it down pat. You've won awards for it. It's not too difficult once you've done it for a couple of decades.
But writing for someone -- really connecting with that person, locking eyes with them and grabbing at their synapses with yours until you achieve nothing short of a mind-meld -- that's really special. It bonds you in a very unusual way. Words unspoken, for some minutes or hours, you share a brain.
And so my boss--a friend and colleague I respect deeply, and with whom I've achieved this kind of voice/mind connection--is moving on.
Going. Away.
And I feel like a voice without a mouth.
Wandering. Alone. Quiet. Ghostly.
Here's the thing.
Like Shelley, I've been writing professionally for a long time. Some days it seems really long. Really really long. I've been on the corporate side, I've been on the agency side, and I've done things for and by me-myself-and-I.
But unlike Shelley who has quite a list of credits to her name, I have earned my living--a good living--as other people's voices. Snatched up early by smart CEOs who recognized my ability to get inside their heads and say what they would like to say how it should be said, I became the perfect ghost writer. When you perfect this kind of business writing, it is more science than art. Mostly, you're a sponge.
During the tech boom, I had the opportunity to be inside some giant brilliant amazing galactical heads, to speak with and for these people through my writing. What I absorbed from them--from everyone I've worked with--goes right into the old file drawer in my mind. In essence, I get their smarts; they get my voice. We both get paid. Fair trade.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, though, my husband used to ask, "Doesn't it bother you that so much of what you write has other people's names on it? I mean, it's yours. Why isn't your name on it? You just wrote this 200-page book, and you let them put their names on it." And I would answer, quite truthfully, that no, it wouldn't be PR if my name were on it. And it didn't bother me at all. They got my anonymity; I got a good paycheck.
Interestingly, with blogging something has changed for me.
During my part-time day, I write in my paid-for voice, and then, like Clark Kent, I sneak into a phone booth and slip out of my silly work clothes into my super blogger crime fighter outfit -- it's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's me.
Lately I've been feeling a little bit ghostly about my ghost writing. Part of it is, having gotten used to the ownership of my own voice in blogging, it's getting harder to put aside my "jeneane" voice and do the daytime switcheroo with the person I'm writing for.
Fascinating. A little unnerving too.
The other part of my shakey-ground feeling is that I've never had the person whose voice I've channeled go away. Bare with me. This one's tough for me. And I'm writing to try to figure out why.
A few weeks ago I found out that my boss has decided to explore some new career opportunities--i.e., he's leaving. And, he's leaving me. I've only recently recongized that this is a pretty big thing for me, a pretty big thing for a writer who's been writing closely with and for someone for nearly six years.
Surely, I've parted ways with other boss/clients, right? Well, yes. That's true. And that's why I've been knocking my hand against my head trying to figure out why this feels so different. Why I feel abandoned.
I think I've got it: In every other job, I've done the departing. Three times by choice, once not. Nonetheless, they stayed and I went.
Sounds weird doesn't it?
Oddly, this way, I feel vulnerable and left without anyplace to put my voice, and I get teary eyed thinking, he's going. He's really going.
We writers who write for other people, the connection we develop with those people from climbing around inside their heads--absorbing their thoughts, learning their cadence, understanding their triggers, what matters to them, what doesn't, why, how their phrasing works, their inflections, how they think when they're tired, how they sound when they're jazzed, how to be them without being them--that's a hard bond to break.
In my case--I don't know how it works for everyone--I really have to like the people I'm writing for. There are degrees, sure. You can write for a corporation (read: client) and write professionally with flair and passion because you know that voice--you have it down pat. You've won awards for it. It's not too difficult once you've done it for a couple of decades.
But writing for someone -- really connecting with that person, locking eyes with them and grabbing at their synapses with yours until you achieve nothing short of a mind-meld -- that's really special. It bonds you in a very unusual way. Words unspoken, for some minutes or hours, you share a brain.
And so my boss--a friend and colleague I respect deeply, and with whom I've achieved this kind of voice/mind connection--is moving on.
Going. Away.
And I feel like a voice without a mouth.
Wandering. Alone. Quiet. Ghostly.
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