Categories
Weblogging

Pulling a Shelley

Recovered  from the Wayback Machine.

There are several webloggers I admire not just because of their facility with writing, but also because they stand by what they write. They may debate their words, but they don’t retract them, and rarely regret them.

In particular, I’ve always liked Jonathon Delacour’s tenacity when it comes to his writing. His work doesn’t always follow the popular path (and I don’t always agree with what he writes) but he stands by his writing with humor, elegance, and skill and without becoming belligerant or defensive when it’s questioned or even attacked.

(Does anyone remember You and I both know, Dave, that the breathtaking hypocrisy of “Where Men Can Link, But They Can’t Touch” isn’t going to get “looked at” any time soon, not by the BlogSisters nor by anyone else in the blogging universe?).

When AKMA writes about confidentiality, or Dorothea writes about self perception and ugliness, neither is taking a “popular” view on their subjects, but both are writing from the heart. They stand by their writing.

Loren once used the term “Pullling a Shelley” to denote putting one’s foot in one’s mouth — writing something regreted, which is then either pulled or apologized for. And I agree with Loren, that I have been “pulling a Shelley” far too frequently. However, my use of the term is perhaps not in the sense that Loren intended.

Lately I’ve been writing more and more “from the heart”, but then I don’t have either the strength or the courage to stand by what I write. And if people I like or respect disagree or question what I write, or I don’t get positive feedback and lots of comments, I tend to equivocate, explain, retract, or apologize for my writing.

My last posting is a classic example of “Pulling a Shelley”. By putting myself into an apologetic stance within the comments, by ‘explaining’ what I was trying to write, I didn’t stand by my writing. And what I wrote was lessened because of my wanting to ‘please’ my audience, even though my audience wasn’t asking for either a retraction or an explanation — they wanted a dialogue.

I think if there is one trait I have that can be said to be stereotypically ‘feminine’, it’s fear of alienating people I like, or whom I want to like me. Unfortunately, this fear of losing affection carries over into my writing.

Earlier today, I caught myself in the act of “Pulling a Shelley” in comments attached to one of Jonathon’s postings. In the them, Mark Pilgrim wrote:

“Work that is accessible in every sense of the word” is such an incredible weasel phrase. It’s like a philosophy freshman who is losing a philosophical argument and falls back to the “dictionary definition” of some technical term in order to make their point.

I’m becoming Stallman. I can just see it.

I wrote in response, You’re not in danger of becoming Stallman, Mark. But you are in danger of becoming intolerant in your zeal.

Later in the afternoon, I found myself going back to Jonathon’s comments, wanting to attach, if not an apology, at least a softening of my comment. Yet, there’s no need for such prevarication — my statement wasn’t a personal attack on Mark and wasn’t said to hurt him or antagonize him. It was my honest opinion based on his statement — why do I feel this need to apologize for it?

There’s a difference between writing to antagonize — to generate buzz or to deliberately create controversy — and writing from the heart. If one writes from the heart, no matter how difficult the writing is for our audience, then we have an obligation to ourselves and to our readers to stand by what we write — not in defensiveness, but with openess and honesty.

Time for me to stop “Pulling a Shelley”. Perhaps I’ll try “Pulling a Loren”, instead…

Categories
Political

Already feeling the effects

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Today, President Bush will address the nation with his rationale for a pre-emptive strike against Iraq. I would say that if the increase in noise of this issue is anything to go by, I expect to see a strike sooner rather than later. And I still don’t understand the frenzy associated with Iraq, and with our having to strike now.

The likely invasion of Iraq is polarizing this country as it hasn’t been since the Vietnam war. And along with the moral, civil, and legal implications of our launching a first strike against Hussein, we can now add an economic impact: in my area at least, several major employers have halted hiring at this time, awaiting ‘further developments’.

For someone who opposes a hasty first strike against Iraq without UN support, careful thought and pre-planning, and a very real consideration of the lives that will be lost, this situation is disturbing. Being unemployed only makes the situation even more frustrating. If that makes me selfish, I guess there are others who are also selfish — or is worried the better word?

Categories
Just Shelley

Death by a thousand paper cuts

I’ve always had this thought at the back of my mind that we would live forever if it weren’t for life intruding.

Aside from the effects of our environment, of gravity and solar radiation and our proclivity in fouling our own nests, we could live much longer than we do except that we keep persisting in wanting to kill ourselves off with life.

If we didn’t care about about geographical boundaries, we wouldn’t fight to preserve or gain them. And if we didn’t believe in religion or philosophy, we wouldn’t feel the need to protect them with our lives. Or the need to fight to force others to believe as we believe.

And love. If we didn’t love others we could live ever so much longer. There would be no worries, no care, no long nights and silent mornings. No grief when love dies, no sadness and loss when love goes unfulfilled. An eternity stretches out in front of us if it weren’t for love.

We connect to others in friendship, and this is a real danger to life. Every time we become concerned about others—feel their pain, listen to their stories—we take away a minute, hour, or day of life.

Death by a thousand thousand paper cuts.

There should be a disclaimer attached to life:

Warning: When you care about others, your life will be well lived.

Categories
Burningbird

Visual hints and clues – original

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I modified my Movable Type template to display a small graphic associated with the subject (category) of an posting next to its title. Those who are uninterested in my technology writing can avoid postings with a CD next to the title (as shown with this posting); those who are uninterested in politics, can avoid that graphic, and so on. (My friend Chris at Empty Bottle also uses graphics to designate categories. However, his graphics are a lot more sophisticated than mine.)

I thought about creating multiple weblogs and focusing each on a different topic, but I wouldn’t write more (or less) on any subject just because I split them out into different weblogs. All I would do is scatter my thoughts about like dried bits of corn on a dusty field, forcing my readers to take on the visage of Crow, pecking about hoping to find that edible kernel among the dirt.

Besides, my thoughts don’t split cleanly along subject and topic, neatly categorized into discrete buckets. I’m just as likely to throw new photographs or a bit of writing whimsey into an essay on RDF, or mix a little technology into an essay on the Environment. My weblog reflects my writing, which reflects my mind: muddied waters of blended interest.

Categories
Just Shelley

Sounds through an open window

The weather is cooler and we’re able to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. With the cool breeze comes the sounds of the neighborhood, normally blocked by the glass.

In the night was the sound of the train, whistle fading, lowering as it moves away. The train travels close enough to hear but not so close as to hear too well.

This morning, I was awoken far too early by the truck picking up the garbage — a cacophony of crashing gate, motor whine, and the melodious clang, break, smash, and smoosh of garbage sliding into the maw of the damned beast. I put a pillow over my head until the bin is lowered and the truck begins to drive away. Relieved, I snuggle back under my comforter, prepared to continue my rather interesting dreams, only to hear the same process repeated at the bin a block down.

Mid-morning a mockingbird sits in the tree next to the townhouse and sings for whatever reason mockingbirds sing, and the sound is wonderous. And unusual as the bird switches between different types of song at the drop of a, well, feather. So much song for such a plain little gray bird.

The people across the way have guests, and when they arrive, there are cries of delight among them, each voice dripping with an accent as thick as molasses on pancakes. I look up quickly, wondering why Dolly Parton’s here in my neighborhood. Not Dolly, but surely kinfolk of hers.

Tonight, the neighbor has friends over to watch the game. I don’t know what the ‘game’ is, but there is much yelling, cries of “All right!”, and hands slapped in high fives, accompanied by great gulps of beer, punctuated by enormous belches.

Well, I didn’t really hear the hand slapping and the beer guzzling and the belches, but I know they’re there, just beyond the range of my hearing.