Category: Burningbird

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Just Shelley

At the edge of change

My Dad did give me one last gift, and it’s one that would make him happy, too. This week I received half of his savings minus the expenses we’ve had. This combined with the increased writing I’m doing–finally–and the contracting work and the honorarium for the Kitchen, I’m finding that for the first time in two years I’m not worried about being able to pay the bills next month.

Seems trivial when the world is going to hell around us, but this is a significant event for me; unless you’ve been in this state, especially when you’re older, you don’t know exhausting it can be to be worried about money, constantly. If you have been in this state, you’re probably nodding your head right now– not emphatically, but sadly, ruefully.

More than the exhaustion from worry, you lose your self-respect, and begin to question your worth as a human being. In the last post we talked about wanting respect more than fame, but ultimately in the end we discovered that seeking respect from without can be just as limiting and constraining as seeking glory. Respect has to come from within, and self-respect is something I’ve had in short supply the last several months.

My birthday is in a few weeks, and I’ll be 50, and stretched beyond that, the future had become muddy and unclear. My Dad died, and he left me a gift – enough time to breath and rediscover hope. Is that a callous thing to say? That my Dad died, and it doing so, left me a gift? He wouldn’t think so. He loved me, beyond doubt and hopes and dreams, to the very core of him. He didn’t understand me most of the time, and he didn’t agree, and sometimes he would be angry with me– but he always loved me.

So now I have time to breath and I’m not going to waste his gift. I’ve been given a second chance and it’s up to me to make it grow into something good. To redraw the future.

One major change I’m making is in my lifestyle. Since my fall last Spring and badly hurting my ankle, I’ve not walked as much as I should, and it shows. More than that, my diet has been, frankly, atrocious–full of all those comfort foods that may give comfort today, but weigh you down tomorrow. Have you ever noticed that most comfort food is high in starches and fats and calories? Well, my favorites are, and they not only put the pounds on, I’m finding this type of food leaves me not feeling good.

I’ve been running my own tests the last three months, varying my diet among foods and I’ve found an important fact about me and food: I feel better when I eat a whole lot less simple carbohydrates These are the pastas and the potatoes and the candy and the cakes and the breads – oh the breads! I love the breads, but I also have an enormous sweet tooth, and I’ve written about my love affair with chocolate in the past.

However, in the last three months, whenever I’ve eaten pasta or the cheese bread from the deli or chocolate or anything of that nature, I don’t feel as good. In fact, when I’ve eaten lean meats and vegetables, usually cauliflower and brocolli and tomatoes or zuchini, I feel really good; not only after the meal, but for the next day or two. The change in energy is rather amazing.

A bit of research around brought me to the South Beach Diet, and reading about it, I found that my own experiments with my body, and having it tell me what it does and doesn’t like (not what I, the id, like and don’t like), coincides quite closely with the South Beach Diet. Unlike Atkins, with the reliance on fat-laden foods, and absolute abhorence against any carbohydrates, South Beach stresses lean meats (or meat substitutes) and plenty of legumes and green, leafy types of vegetables. In addition, after the first shock period when you eat no simple carbohydrates at all, you can begin to add in breads and chocolate and fruit–fruit’s the kicker for me, I love fruit–but in moderation.

Moderation isn’t a option for me, it’s a necessity. When I quit smoking years ago, my doctor, a wonderful person and the best doctor I’ve had, said that I was one of the lucky, unlucky ones in that I had an amazingly healthy metabolism. The benefits are that I have low blood pressure, low cholesterol levels, high resistance to illness, and various other things that make me generally a very healthy a person – well, when not brought down by depression, as I have been this last year. An unfortunate consequence of such a metabolism is that I can look at food and gain weight. I’ve had to avoid food magazines at all cost. A cookbook will send me into a bloated coma.

Joking aside, I can live on about 1000 calories a day when sedentary, which for someone close to six feet tall, is rather amazing. Luckily, I like fairly strenuous activities, such as working out in the gym or hiking. But this year, in part because of surgery last year and injury, but mostly because of depression, I’ve sat at home more often than not. Too much time on the Internet, and in books, and movies, trying to find some semblance of a life in other’s stories, rather than enforce the discipline to pick myself up off my butt and find my own damn life.

Finding life, such as finding work. It’s not that I haven’t looked for work. I’ve applied for customer service jobs at a couple of the local parks, and various other jobs that aren’t even remotely connected with computers, writing, or photography. Most only need a high school degree, if that. I’ve even looked at truck driving. I’ve had a couple of nibbles, but they look at my resume, and say something to the effect that there must be plenty of opportunity for me in my field, and I really am overqualified for their jobs.

I talked with a recruiter recently who was looking for J2EE people, and I said that I haven’t worked in this for so long that my skills have atrophied (not to mention, which I didn’t mention to the recuiter that I now find that J2EE, for the most part, has been a huge ripoff perpetuated on an unsuspecting world). I asked him what else he had and one of the jobs he mentioned was for a PHP/MySQL developer for a local university system. I jumped on it, but he said they weren’t paying much. I said, that’s okay. He said they wanted a junior person, someone they could ‘train to the job’. I said I was quite adaptable, but he replied, one look at my resume and the school would not be interested–I was too qualified.

Now, thanks to good people who I have met online, I have work and that’s encouraged me to try writing again, and I’m working on my first article in such a long time. Thanks to my Mom for the camera, and my Dad for his last gift, I even have the opportunity to pursue photography more seriously. I have a second chance.

But, I’m looking down at my sad ‘almost 50′ body and going, oh my God, who snuck in and left the Pillsbury Dough Girl. We are too weight concious in this culture, and trying to be skinny or to look like the ladies in the magazines or movies is unhealthy. But so is allowing your weight to get such a point, or should I say, your general condition get to such a point, that you find yourself restricted from activities you love; much less losing respect for yourself for letting yourself go to seed. We don’t have to be thin, but we do need to be fit. Right now, if I tried even a five mile moderate hike, I chance harm to my knees and ankles by lack of good conditioning. And that’s not acceptable.

Hence the change in lifestyle, and diet. And a goal: being able to do a level 5 fifteen mile hike I’ve been wanting to take, before the next Spring’s bugs pop out to do havoc. I also want to canoe down the ‘Sip.

And if my proposal gets accepted for O’Reilly’s Etech, I want to go and kick some male techy butt. Now, that would be wonderful exercise, and a very worthy goal.

Categories
Writing

What is good journalism

Recovered from the Wayback Machine

Taking a break from ‘what is good radio’, I wanted to point out what I consider to be good journalism.

Dave Winer is on a tear against the professional news organizations because of an appearance of Jon Stewart on Crossfire. I listened to a recording of this (managing not to hotlink directly to the MP3 file), and I enjoyed many of the quips between the participants, and found Stewart to be both funny and clever at times; but I also found him to be disingenuous and rather cheap.

(Transcript here.)

Stewart kept iterating that they, the Crossfire folk, are “…hurting America’–they in this case meaning, we presume, journalists. No, they aren’t. Americans are hurting America. We’re hurting America because no matter what we hear, no matter how factual the reporting, we’ll believe what we want to believe or what suits us to believe. Americans would rather listen to hyperbole and rhetoric than to fact. Not just Americans – the same can be said of the average citizen of most countries.

“You are hurting us.” “You are hurting us.”

Sounds like Arnold before he learned to act. Oh, wait a sec….

When Dave Winer uses the Stewart appearance as a segue into an exposition that reporters should be paying more heed to their customers, as iterated in this Bloggercon question (in which he insults most of the people who do him the courtesy of responding), I damn near choked on my coffee. If anything, reporters should be listening to their ‘customers’ less.

On any given day I can find at least one example of excellent journalism. It’s sophisticated and chi-chi clever to sneer at the professional news organizations, but if you keep your eyes, and your mind, open, you’ll find that many of these organizations do as good a job as their ‘customers’ allow. And in some cases, a better job than their ‘customers’ deserve.

Take this piece I found in the Houston Press (via a post made today in Fodor’s Travel Blog). No, its not about Iraq, or the Presidential race, or the contaminated flu shots. It’s about osso bucco.

A food critic questioned the osso bucco he was served at a local restaurant and was told, “If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Pay your bill and go. And don’t come back”, by the restaurant’s owner. He was also challenged about his knowledge of osso bucco.

This should be enough to earn a completely negative review; yet the food critic actually followed on the chef’s challenge and researched osso bucco, educating both his reading audience and himself on what to look for (what the restaurant served was not it). And even after being thrown out of the restaurant, he made a qualified recommendation of it because of the freshness of the fish served. Most importantly, he never took himself completely seriously, as you can see in the humor of his writing, particularly with the description of the busboy and his fake accent:

If you get the spiky-haired young waiter who reads the specials off the blackboard with a phony Italian accent, resist the temptation to ask where he’s from. (He was born in Galveston and reared in nearby Santa Fe.) If you play along, he’ll do this goofy Italian accent all night long for your entertainment.

Not to point fingers, but if Robb Walsh was a weblogger, he would have blasted the restaurant, daily, for three weeks; accused them of a conspiracy; nicknamed the whole thing ‘osso buccogate’; suggested that this action in Houston just demonstrates Bush’s Texan disregard for the voters; posted the restaurant’s phone number for people to call and harrass the spiky haired busboy; and then got all of his readers to Google Bomb the place with the words, “This Restaurant Sucks!”

Of course, this was only about food, but if I continued my morning reading of all the publications I check out from throughout the world, I’ll probably find decent reporting in many, and about more significant stories. As for the bias, it’s up to me to spot it where it exists–that’s cuz I is smart, and I rede good.

But if there is bias in a publication, it’s because the customers put it there. Fox got where it was by listening to its customers. What we need is less customer intervention, not more.

Hmmm. I wonder if all of this would sound better as a podcast? Should I start it with the NY Loose song, “Hide?” Is that copyright free?

From the notes I read at the other weblogs, such as Norm’s most people don’t necessarily share my viewpoint. I respect Norm, but don’t agree with him that Stewart is a hero.

When did taking a sanctimonious cheap shot become the

Categories
Writing

Lessons learned from radio

Recovered from the Wayback Machine

Before people run off into the wilds of technology with the newest and latest way to communicate, in this case podcasting, a few lessons to be learned from predecessors in the art.

When was the last time you read something that was written a year ago or longer. Recently? Did you quote online from it, or use it to make a point in something you were saying?

Okay then, when was the last time you listened to a radio broadcast that was over a year old?

Don’t be so eager to dump the written word – it works marvelously well, and comes one size fits all.

Categories
Writing

Perhaps a fall after all

Off to the Ozarks today to see if the color has progressed there. A few more photos from my recent excursion. I can only process a few at a time as my disk space is maxed on my computers, and the Nikon RAW image format, NEF, takes up an enormous amount of space.

I need to burn CDs of the photos on my machines and clear them out, but I’ve not had time recently with working on the IT Kitchen and other projects.

I’ve not had much time lately for poetry, either. Most other writing, too, other than technology, and politics, and weblogging. I feel as dry and dusty as the Missouri forests were before this week’s rain. I look to see if starved and desperate insects hover over me as they do the shriveled late summer blooms amidst leaves dying on the trees. I must begin drinking again.

As Mark Strand recently won the Wallace Stevens award, I thought something of his would be appropriate. Something that seems to suit the photos.

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

The Coming of Light

Categories
Books

Spirit Cane

My brother asked me what I wanted to keep of my father’s and I answered without hesitation, his cane. Upon further reflection, I also asked for his books, and I’ll borrow the photos long enough to make digital copies.

I bought Dad the cane years ago when he starting slowing up a bit, at the youthful age of 75 I believe it was. He just needed a little support from time to time, but he hated the canes you get at the doctor’s office. Said they made him look old.

We were out shopping at a store that specializes in hand crafts when I saw an umbrella stand and in it, several walking sticks known as spirit sticks; so called because each is a solid tree branch that is finished smooth, and the face of the spirit in the wood is carved into the rounded knob at the top. We gave it to Dad and he loved it instantly. It stayed with him, always, up until the very end; even then, he would fret about where his cane was.

I love this cane, with its real wood feel, and smooth finish; to look at the pattern in the grain and the bore hole of some insect; the cut off end of a smaller twig that had sprung out from the side of the branch. Most of all, I love it for the wise face of the spirit. And since Dad and I were pretty close to the same height, it’s a nice fit for me if I ever find the need for such…some day when I’m 75. Or so.

Spirit Cane

The books have alternated between being a treat and a puzzle. My dad was very much into mysteries and suspense, so I am now the proud owner of every John le Carré book written, in addition to every Robert Parker book and several by Grisham, Elizabeth George, and so on. Though detective and mystery books are not my favorite, I love a good novel and I’ll have plenty to keep me busy on these increasingly cold evenings. After all, is there anything better than curling up in a warm bed with a good book on a cold evening? Especially at the end of a day of hiking, and an excellent dinner, perhaps shared with another?

Among the books, though, were some surprises. There was one book called The Book of Virtues by Richard Bennett. It’s a odd book that features a different virture, such as courage, discipline, honesty, and so on, each chapter. The author then publishes works that reflect this virtue, ranging anywhere from philosophies of Plato to poetry to the children’s story, The Velveteen Rabbit.

I sampled some of the pages on discipline and courage, the morals of compassion and responsibility and can already tell that I hate it. I mean, I really hate it. Can’t stand it, finding myself almost repulsed by it. I am thus compelled to read it thoroughly and share it with all of you.

I also found Frank McCourt’s Tis among all the whodunits. It’s the memoir of McCourt’s journey from Ireland back to New York, and his experiences re-adapting to his native land. In light of recent news, I particularly liked the following passage from the book:

No, I might be able to confess in the darkness of an ordinary church confession box but I could never do it here in daylight all swollen with the mumps with a screen round the bed and the priest looking at me. I could never tell him how Mrs. Finucane was planning to leave her money for priests to say Masses for her soul and how I stole some of that money. I could never tell him about the sins I committed with the girl in the refugee camp. Even while I think of her I get so excited I have to interfere with myself under the blankets and there I am with one sin on top of another. If I ever confessed to a priest now I’d be excommunicated altogether so my only hope is that I’ll be hit by a truck or something falling from a great height and that will give me a second to say a perfect Act of Contrition before I die and no priest will be necessary.

Sometimes I think I’d be the best Catholic in the world if they’d only do away with priests and let me talk to God there in the bed.