Burningbird

Could be persuaded to put down their tar, feathers, pitchforks, and torches, perhaps they might listen to the details coming out about Megan Meiers and the Drews and might want to consider that they acted thoughtlessly, recklessly, and without all the facts.

For six weeks, Josh and Megan traded "innocuous" messages, Banas said, with no sexual suggestion and no "demeaning or disrespectful" language sent by either.

On Oct. 15, 2006, the day before Megan committed suicide, a friend of Drew's daughter was given the password to the Josh Evans account. The friend sent Megan a message as Josh saying he had heard Megan was mean to her friends.

The next day, the messages flew back and forth and became heated, Banas said. Other kids, who may not have known Josh was fake, began writing. They called each other names.

Josh said the world would be better off without Megan.

In the aftermath, bloggers, neighbors and leaders blamed the Drews for Megan's death.

But on Monday, Banas said it's unclear who created the fake MySpace profile.

Grills told lawyers that Drew wanted her to set up a fake profile.

Drew, however, said her daughter and Grills came to her with the idea. Drew agreed but told the girls they should only speak to Megan "in polite terms and not say anything disrespectful," Banas said.

Drew told the FBI she let her daughter write Megan when she was present — only once or twice.

There is no evidence that Drew wrote a single message, Banas said.

On the day Megan hanged herself, it was Grills who wrote the final message, Banas said.

Until now, the story told was that Grills told a lawyer representing Megan's parents that Drew was present and that she was telling Drew what she was typing.

But according to an FBI report, Drew said she wasn't even home when the "heated exchange" between Josh and Megan took place, Banas said.

And that same report shows that Grills had changed her story: It wasn't Lori Drew at home, but her husband, Curt Drew.

Curt Drew said he was home, Banas said, but unaware.

Grills, Banas said, was later hospitalized for psychiatric care as a result of the case. She threatened to harm herself, he said.

"That young lady and most of these people had no idea that this would happen to a young girl the way it did," Banas said.

The account was set up because Drews daughter believe Megan was saying stuff about her, and wanted to find out what she was saying. It was childish, and Lori Drew should not have agreed, but there was no intent to callously push this child into suicide. It was only later, when in typical MySpace fashion, a pile on had occurred and brought in people totally unrelated to any of the people that things got ugly.

Lori Drew was guilty of nothing more than making a mistake in judgment. A bad mistake in judgment, but not unlike mistakes all parents make. Now, her daughter has been forced to drop out of school, her business has been destroyed, her husband has been fired from his job, and they're being forced from their home and their neighborhood. The same people going after Lori Drew have now started going after Grills. Trying for two suicides, eh?

These are two families and a local tragedy, made global. These are two families, both with parents who did not have the sense to keep their kids away from MySpace. This was a tragic event made even more ugly via the same 'social networking' that led to the tragedy in the first place.

As for whether Lori Drew created this Blogger weblog think rationally: do you really believe this weblog was created by Lori Drew? When the grief counselor came to our school last year and spoke to us… Seriously?

I have to wonder at all of those people, sitting in the comfort of their homes, making their value judgments and issuing their own form of vigilante justice–at what point in time, do facts start mattering to you when it comes to your search for justice?

However, I gather that most webloggers don't consider that they need facts. Facts are for other people. Not webloggers.

Here is a perfect example, though, of putting adult tools into the hands of children (age notwithstanding). Kids can be cruel, but in the past, such cruelty was limited to neighborhood and school. Now, cruelty's scope is worldwide, and rather than adults acting to balance the cruelty with calm and consideration, they join in.

update

I am astonished–absolutely astonished–that danah boyd would believe the "Megan had it coming" weblog was written by Lori Drew. And then to perform some form of analysis based on this belief. Absolutely astonished.

While there is no lack of criticism in the weblogging world, there certainly seems to be a lack of critical thinking.

Jonathon Delacour wrote a wonderful essay about walking based, in part, on earlier writings by Dave Rogers and Ethan Johnson, as well as his reading a book on Werner Herzog: Herzog on Herzog.

In the post, Jonathon tells of a series of photos taken by transcribing circles on a map of Sydney neighborhoods, walking the circles, and taking pictures of whatever happens to be lying on the ground at specific points. He attributes the quality of the photos less to the mechanics of the camera and approach, and more to the walking that took him from spot to spot:

That my (imagined) motivation for walking differs from Dave’s or Ethan’s matters little. Walking the dog, walking to lose weight, walking to make pictures… ultimately, our walking is a means of — as Herzog puts it — moving through [our] own inner landscapes.

This seems to be echoed at Whisky River, who quotes John Muir describing walking through the woods as moving not from the indoors, out, but from the outside, in:

I went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.

I've put my camera away for the summer, focusing, for a time, on walking for health and contemplation rather than always on the constant search for the next great picture.

With the advent of the summer heat I walk in the early mornings, in paths around town because to go out into the country is to court more bug bites. Each year I react more strongly to these, and take longer to heal, and I wanted one summer without such. I walk primarily during the work week, when I am more or less alone. On the weekends, even early in the morning, paths are packed and contemplation does not co-exist well with overheard cellphone conversations.

I listen to music turned down very low; an eclectic mix of songs pulled together into my "walking soft" and "walking hard" playlists. The music helps me keep a steady pace, but the low volume doesn't distract; I remain equally aware of interesting thought and movement in the bushes or trees.

I've noticed on my recent walks so many different insects and birds and other critters–more so than when I was taking pictures. I think by looking for static images to share, I was disregarding the moving diorama of which I am an integral part. I became observer, then reporter, rather than participant. Struggling with camera, bag, and lens; peering at the light, staring intently for this bird or that–I would have missed my chance to see sphodros rufipes–red legged purseweb spider–which is both rare and endangered.

I would have also missed the tiny chipmunks, scurrying about under last year's leaves, foraging for food. Or the bunny carefully eying me while partially hidden by bush, leaf steadily disappearing into mouth. Like magic. Like bunny appetite.

My camera with the big lens attracts no end of dragonflies–I think I look sexy to the bugs with that big gawping thing in place of my eyes–but tends to scare the birds away. Especially while out on walks, when I whip it around to take a photo. Missouri is full of dense woodland, where it's easy for birds to hide and because of this, they are typically shy. Sudden movements startle them, and you lose opportunity to take photos. More than that, though, you lose the opportunity to just stand still and enjoy their color, song, and beauty. Or their behavior.

A bird is most beautiful when you experience it as a whole: song, flight, color, movement, and interaction with the world. This morning two stellar jays, who have claimed the woods and have followed me closely, all week, like the intruder I am, had another target for their dives: a red-tailed hawk that landed not 20 feet away from me. I watched as it settled on a branch that dipped beneath its weight, dappled light picking out cream, rust, and gold on feathers that looked remarkably soft. "If only I had a camera", I thought to myself. But then would I have captured or missed the moment when one of the jays dive bombed the larger bird, grabbing at the hawk's tail feathers? Or the expression on the hawk's face of perplexed bemusement at these aggressive, smaller, pain in the butt birds? The swoosh of its takeoff, as it unfolded wings in a graceful arc and swirl that reminded me of the old movies and the dresses of chiffon that would billow out gracefully behind the dancers? I swear, I could feel the movement of air pushed away at the downbeat of wings. Imagination? Errant puff of spring wind? Blue jay flying past, seeking yet another target to threaten?

Sometimes during the walks, I don't see anything at all but the path stretching out in front of me. I'm lost in a day dream of what ifs, what could have beens, what will bes: Jonathon's inner landscape. Dozens, both mighty and meek, have danced to my whim in these waking dreams–perhaps even some of you. I once composed an entire play about weblogging over a winter's set of walks.

Of course, with the end of the walk, when one is sweaty, tired, and thirsty, one is forced to put away such malleable images and contemplate mundane reality: everyone around me refuses to be pushed and prodded into the characters of my internal plays. Instead I must bounce against each stubborn independence, like a pinball against bumpers: bounce, bounce, bounce, triple score!, and hoping life throws the flipper at just the right moment.