Category: Burningbird

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Just Shelley

From eyes, the deleted

Originally deleted from an earlier post: If only we could see each other’s eyes

A couple of days ago while traveling to my favorite walking path, I came to an intersection full of cops and firetrucks. I knew there was an accident, but didn’t know how bad until I moved around the police car blocking my lane and ended up facing on to the actual accident scene. A few yards in front of me was a small car, not unlike my own, somehow flipped on to its roof. Several rescue people surrounded it, helping whoever was inside. The firemen blocked my view of the interior of the car and the accident victims–all except for an arm, lying limp on the road.

I slowed down, at first because I was startled, but then I continued driving slowly past the spot, eyes fixated on the rescurers and that arm. From the periphery of my vision, I noticed a group of people gathered to the side, all as fixated as I was. Luckily the cop directing traffic yelled at me to “Go! Go!”, snapping me out of my revery.

Why we’re fascinated by accident scenes, or photos of hostages being decapitated, or the more gruesome reality TV, is a complex phenomena that is sometimes dismissed too lightly as ghoulish behavior. Staring at a accident or other scene of violence is actually a fairly typical behavior that crosses all cultural boundaries; in fact, not staring usually requires some strength of will. Many times people aren’t even aware that they’re staring, fascinated, at a bloody scene until they’re abruptly reminded, like I was by the cop.

On September 11th, 2001, we were subjected to one of the most significant graphic scenes of all time, and the world sat fixated for hours–days– staring at every available bit of footage available. That is until in an oddly collective moment we rejected even one more moment of looking at smashing planes and collapsing towers.

I see the same sort of fascination in play whenever there’s a violent altercation between people. Groups form around a fight in a bar, and audiences tune in to watch two people scream at each other in a talk show. Two candidates being civil to each other at a debate won’t rate a line in the newspapers; but have those same two candidates spend the entire timing yelling at each other, and it’s frontpage news.

Are political weblogs popular because they bring new perspective? Or are they popular because the topics covered can generate heated discussions in the comments, which the readership laps up like dogs drinking water on a hot day. Billmon from Whiskey Bar recently shut down comments because he couldn’t afford the time to police them–a commendable act. I am curious, though, if his readership will decrease because of it. Will he lose the readers who need the fights?

It is understandable, though not necessarily noble, to stare at accident scenes or read avidly through comments at people swinging verbally at each other. It’s true that if we were all above that sort of thing, we would reach a higher plane of existence. But I like this plane. It has lightning bugs and fat robins, and every once in a while angry writing, edged like a knife and as beautiful as a stormy sky.

However, there’s a world of difference between being a passive viewer to a violent event–or even a participant– and being one who actively encourages such events because they need the excitement or the anger.

I remember when I was in my early 20’s and living in Seattle, an event that took place one night when I and my roommate were waiting at a bus stop in the University District. The stop was in the business section and the time was fairly late, so there weren’t a lot of people about. We had been shopping and both of us had bags of stuff.

Two people were walking toward us and I glanced casually at them, looked away, and then snapped my head back to look again. The young woman was perfectly ordinary, but the man would startle a second look from a marble statue.

He was older, I would say in his 40’s. He had short hair, somewhat thin on top – blond or gray, I couldn’t tell in the streetlight. He was about 5′ 8″, and stocky, very strong looking. He wore khaki pants rolled up to under his knees, shitty tennis shoes with dark dress socks. He also wore a white T-Shirt with a khaki vest, and a white sweatband around his head. So far, nothing too out of the ordinary.

Except that he had hundreds of safety pins stuck everywhere on him. In his clothes, in the band tied around his head, through his lip, ears, eyebrows , in multiple chains around his neck– the man was a walking tailor’s assistant.

You don’t want to stare in the U District – it’s considered rude. But I was taken by surprise and I did stare for several seconds before I looked away. When the couple reached us, the young lady yelled at me, “Who the fuck are you staring at!”

I looked back at them. The woman seemed edgy, almost like she was on drugs. She was thin and jumpy, and moved about with abrupt, jerky movements. She was a pretty thing, elfin, with chin length curly auburn hair, and large dark eyes. Her tone was angry, but her eyes looked sad, hurt. Lonely.

That man, though. Well he was scary. He was looking at me, staring at me, with a half smile on his face and what seemed like lust in his eyes, but it wasn’t a healthy lust based on sex – it was lust for blood. He wanted a fight. He wanted that young woman and me to fight.

I told her that I wasn’t staring at them. I said I was just waiting for the bus, looking in their direction because that was the way the bus was coming. I used the same tone of voice I now use when I talk to the deer in the enchanted forest – low, calm, soothing. Non-threatening. And it seemed to work, she started to calm down.

That is, until the guy said something to her, something I couldn’t quite hear about how I was looking at the young woman because I thought she was funny looking or something to that effect, all the while never once taking his eyes off of me.

Whatever he said set triggered the young woman’s anger and she clenched her fists in front of her and moved closer to me, and then rocked back, and the moved forward again. I was much taller than her and she seemed afraid of me; but at the same time, in a contradiction in movement, she was also being very aggressive.

I continued to talk with her in the same soothing voice, trying to calm her down. My roommate also said something in her quiet, gentle way, and between the both of us, we seemed to calm her down, again.Her hands started to relax, to unclench. She seemed uncertain and started to move back.

Just as we thought we were in the clear, the man said something to her, again, quietly into her ear, never once taking his eyes off my face. This time when she reacted, she moved in, swiftly, and threw a roundhouse kick into my chest area.

The young woman seemed to have had some training because her kick was good form, but there was no strength behind it. All she did was ruffle the tops of the packages I was carrying, and the impact wasn’t much more than someone patting you hard on the chest.

But she did piss me off. It wasn’t so much that I have a temper, which I admit I do; it was more that after previous experience with abusive men, I had promised myself that if anyone ever touched me again in an aggressive or unwelcome manner, I was going to hurt them.

I threw my bags down on the ground and I stepped towards her, looming over her really, on the balls of my feet ready to move in, pick that girl up, and choke the fight out of her. Policemen’s hold and not letting go until she squeaked ‘uncle’. She pulled back, obviously scared, as the guy moved away from her to provide room for the fight.

I don’t know what stopped me. Several things, probably. It was the scared look in the girl’s face, and those damn sad eyes. My roommate also called my name, telling me to just walk away; that it wasn’t worth it. But I think it was that guy, and his blood lust–that look in his face. I just wasn’t going to fight that young woman for a sick fuck like him.

I grabbed my bags, and seeing a car coming down the street, I stepped off the curb and flagged the car to stop. When the driver pulled over, I asked the three guys inside if they would give us a lift. They said sure and I am my roommate got into the car and we took off. I didn’t once look back. I didn’t once look again at the girl, or the man.

But I remember those eyes. I’ll never forget that guy’s eyes and his lust for a fight. I feel them, from time to time, in the back of my mind, looking out at me when I’m reading other weblogs. If only I could see them more clearly, before I react rather than after.

Categories
Books Writing

If it’s so bad why do we love it

Michael Blowhard at 2Blowhards provides a detailed discussion about why you wouldn’t want to write a book. Among the reasons given, such as only a few hundred people make a living at it, he says that writing a book just isn’t fun:

Many people imagine that they’d “fullfill themselves” (whatever that means) if they wrote a book; or that they’d get a deep pleasure out of the craft elements of the job. In fact, writing a book is a lot of work, and often work of a very tedious kind. It’s heavy labor, more akin to building a house than puttering in your basement. (And no one builds a house purely for the pleasure of it.)
…
But writing a book isn’t something that can be done in a week or a month. It weighs on you; it’s a bear to wrestle into submission, and it’s followed by the (generally) no-fun publishing process. And then you’ve got to endure the almost inevitable commercial disappointment. Imagine going to all the trouble of building your dream house (by hand, naturally) – and then people ignore it.

I do agree with Michael – book writing isn’t done in a week or a month. And during a deadline, or if you’re having trouble with your subject, it can weigh on you. But he’s focusing exclusively on the darker moments of writing.

Sure there are times when the words feel as if they have to be dragged out of your very soul; but then there are other times when your fingers can’t move fast enough in order to keep up with your thoughts. Sometimes you get a good editor, sometimes you don’t, but when you have a good one, the editing process can be enormously satisfying.

And when you get your first copy of the book, what a feeling of accomplishment. The same feeling you get when someone is kind enough to write you and let you know how much they enjoyed the book, or how much the book helped them.

According to Michael, the only reasons why people would consider writing books are:

  • Some hope to hit the jackpot despite the odds
  • Some have a dream about being an author, or taking part in “literature”
  • Some are obsessed lunatics – ie., they feel they just gotta
  • Some don’t know better (these usually never write a second book)
  • Some have other ambitions, and writing a book is a step along the way
  • A handful are determined to be trade-book authors as a career, and know what the game consists of, and have (or think they have) the tenacity, toughness, talent, luck and energy to succeed

I am guilty. I am an obsessed lunatic.

Seriously, Michael Blowhard has good points: writing books is not an easy thing to do; it takes time, discipline, a certain kind of writing ability, and most people who write don’t make a living at it. As for being part of the literary world, well, for most of us, writing a book might get us a cup of coffee at Starbuck’s, but only at one located in a Barnes & Noble. But still, there are some of us tenacious, tough, determined, hopefully talented people who keep at it. Because in the end, the writing’s the thing. That’s one Michael forgot to include in his list.

Categories
Political Weblogging Writing

A Missouri woman heads to American Streets

Starting this next Sunday, I’ll be writing a weekly essay at The American Street–my first time as contributor to a group weblog. Each essay is a longer writing, and may or may not include links. Though the topic will vary from week to week, I hope to bring a unique perspective to each that reflects, among other things, being a woman living in Missouri. Since it’s been said by those who say such things that women prefer facts over theory, you might say I’m providing the show me sex in the show me state viewpoint.

(Speaking of which, Missouri, an important swing state in the upcoming election, is also the site of one of four presidential debates scheduled for this Fall. It’s also a popular campaign stop for both parties, as witness President Bush’s visit today.)

I’ve resisted group weblogs in the past, preferring to keep all my writing here in my own space. What changed my mind in this case–aside from the other excellent writers at The American Street, not to mention my respect for Kevin Hayden–is that I want the discipline that comes with writing in another’s space, and at specific times in the week.

I’m writing on impulse too much lately. Writing impulsivly is not the same as being fresh and spontaneous. There is an element of ‘knee jerk’ reaction to impulsive writing, and I end up regretting such writing, more often than not.

Unfortunately, there’s a lot of material lately that leads to reactive behavior, much of it political in nature. I’ve been reading the top linked stories the last few week and I’m seeing a new element entering into weblogging; we’ll call it the “Fox” element for want of another classification. You can see it with the relatively new weblog written by Michelle Malkin, who happens to be, among other things, a Fox News Contributor.

Malkin has looked at weblogging and seen what it’s done for Wonkette and others, and has enthusiastically jumped in. She’s a real pro, too, having written for the New York Post and National Review Online, as well as being trained by that media maw that is known as Fox. Though we can laugh and sneer at Fox’s lack of credibility, make no mistake–it is the highest rated news station in the country now. Fox sells here in Missouri. Fox sells in a lot of places.

Malkin has, quickly and efficiently, demonstrated how to push the right buttons with her writing. Though I am pleased to see a woman gain such immediate attention, I am less than sanguine when I read her form of journalism.

Malkin succeeds by generating impulsive reactions. Whether they are reactions for or against (primarily for, at this time), there is something about her writing that makes me, at least, want to sit down in a heat of anger and write a blistering refutation.

However, the problem with this kind of reaction is all we’re doing is responding to having our buttons pushed; instead of providing a counter-point, we’re providing a chorus. It’s somewhat comparable to Fox News and that new documentary, Outfoxed. Is Outfoxed outfoxing Fox? Or will it be outfoxed itself as Fox’s audience increases rather than decreases over the next several months, thanks in part to this documentary. The documentary and that foolish MoveOn challenge of Fox’s slogan, “Fair and Balanced”, I should add.

Rather than immediately respond to Maltin’s writings, or other events just as heated and reactive, with many postings barely controlled, I’m hoping that by picking one specific topic, thinking about it carefully and calmly and then writing about it on a specific day, to a weblog shared with other people, my writing will not only be more disciplined, but more effective. The writing can still be as passionate; hopefully, though, it will also be thoughtful, cohesive, and coherent.

(Not to mention spell checked, and carefully edited for grammar. Not, toomany, comma’s or other punctuation an grammar errors other other typos in the writing of it.)

My appreciations to The American Street folks for inviting me in.

Now, I may be more thoughtful with my political writing at The American Street, but I’ll still blather incoherently about everything else here, or in Practical RDF. Just in case you were worried.

Unfortunately, reading popular political weblogs from all sides of the fence, I have a feeling my approach is not going to gain The American Street any fans.

Categories
Just Shelley

If only parents weren’t so real

If only I had brought the camera – I could have shown you such pictures of last Monday’s storm. The clouds were furious, angry, as if annoyed at having to push against the front facing them. Yet here and there among the clouds, a break would occur and the sun shine through.

At one time I was hit with winds so hard, they knocked me back and the air was cold, even in the middle of a hot, humid day. The sky took on a green cast and I knew that a tornado would form eventually from it, and it did, but on the other side of St. Louis. For me though, it was looking up at the sky as it pushed and pulsed down towards me directly over my head. At that moment, was the closest I’ve come to wanting to believe in God.

Eventually the might of the storm was past, and as I headed back to my car, the other storm watcher in the truck was leaving, stopping first to call out, “Hell of a storm, isn’t it?” I could only agree, both of us smiling like the damn fools we were to sit there in what could be the path of a forming tornodo. You had to be there, though.

I drove home directly back into the storm, amid constant lightning that made it difficult to focus on the driving, because of the incredible crashing sound and the bright glares of light in front and to the sides.

When I got home, I stood at the back door just looking at the sky and the constant lightning. When it turned 9, and my cellphone reached its ‘free minutes’, I called my Mom to share with her the half-formed funnels and the cool fronts, the blow by blow retelling of the story. Does this seem a child-like thing to do? To call one’s mother to share a storm?. She already knew about it anyway, having checked out the weather channel. We both like a good storm.

I call my mother once a week now, or more often when something interesting or special happens. This is contrary to today’s seeming fashion to blame one’s mother or father for whatever demons the person may be battling. Or the converse: making our parents into some form of super heros, as if by having us is comparable to fighting off tigers, inventing cold fusion, or creating world peace.

Some parents are heros, but not because they became parents. And for others whose parents or guardians were anti-heros–who beat or abused or abandoned–the demons are very real.

For many years I nourished a great deal of anger at my mother for events in the past, while making my father into the Man who could do no Wrong. When my Mom would say, “You’re a lot like me”, I’d reject this statement, being nothing like her. I would tell her I found more of my father in me than her, which was a hurtful thing to say.

And I did learn much from my father: honor and responsibility, not to mention inheriting from him my good Irish temper.

As for my mother – the last of the beatniks, the free spirits; the woman who left my father when I was young, and who left I and my brother to the care of dubious caregivers, well, for years I would keep in rare contact with her; a call here, or a letter there. I used to tell my ex-husband the reason I moved so much was so my mother wouldn’t be tempted to move where we were.

But anger unfaced and unresolved is a jail of our own making, and one can’t go through life carrying our parents about like wardens holding the keys to our happiness. I know someone who talks about his narcissic mother, again and again, and all I can think of is: at what time in his life is he going to stop punishing her in his mind, and go on with his life? Or is that the point– not facing life? Sometimes we carry our ‘bad’ parents about as shields as much as iron bars.

I’ve been particularly depressed these last few years, as I watched my glory days fade out about as quickly as the unreal dot-com profits. I’ve even tried an anti-depressant, which only made me very sick; though before I broke out in hives, the medication did clear my depression. However, it also cured much in me that I use in my writing and photography. Remove the bitter from bittersweet and all that I have left is bunnies and kittens and feeling good. Medication works for some, but not all; the rest of us have to find another way to confront our ‘demons’.

Not that I hadn’t tried, especially the demons arising from my mother. In September in 2002 I made the trip back west to confront her over the past, but rather than be cathartic, the event just left me more tired, and dissatisfied. My mother was guilty of the worst form of neglect and I was justified in being angry with her. At the same time, though, I love her, and secretly have to agree with her–I am like her a great deal. Does this, then, make me the monster that I remember from my youth?

It was only after a trip to my brother’s earlier this year, to watch my father while my brother was on Spring break that I came to understand my mother better. My father talked about one time when he had to take my brother and I along with him in the patrol car to an accident, and my brother released the brake on the car and it ended up crashing down a hill– a favorite story. He ended the story as he always did, laughing about telling my Mom that she couldn’t take piano lessons again. That she had to stay home, and take care of us.

He’d told that story a dozen times. Why was this the first time I heard what he had to say?

That started a series of calls to my mother– every weekend. This time not in anger, but in genuine curiousity. I wanted to know more about the woman that was my mother before she was Mom. And the man who is Dad.

She told me that she and her brother were told they’d have to leave home as soon as they were finished with high school–they were no longer welcome. I started to tell her, I wasn’t surprised remembering my grandmother, Atilla the Grandmum. But it wasn’t my grandmother who said they’d have to leave: it was my sweet, quiet grandfather. According to Mom, grandma tried to get my grandpa to reconsider and let them stay.

This shook my world with my memories of my grandmother and her sharp remonstrations on my behavior; all the while I would be spending quiet times walking the orchard with my grandfather while he would cut slices of peach for me with his pocket knife. But then unbidden comes to mind my grandmother’s care when I had the chicken pox; or the time when we women, well we women and one little girl, were canning corn and my grandmother exclaiming, “Lands sake, child! You’re going to be taller than your father someday! And prettier than your mother!”

(Towards the end of her life she would ask about me, but I wouldn’t visit. I didn’t even go to her funeral.)

But back to my Mom. My mother ended up living with her grandmother after she left high school–a woman who was very strict and religious. This was not easy on my mother, who was very outgoing and vivacious and popular with boys and girls alike.

She worked as a waitress in a roadside cafe where she met my Dad, a cop. He was a good looking guy, secure financially, and smitten with Mom, who was a couple of decades younger than he. They married, immediately had my brother, and then, not long after, had me.

We lived on a farm miles outside of town, and my Dad was gone on duty most of the time; leaving behind a young, talented, restless wife who never did have much chance or choice in what she did with her life. There was also a lot of younger good looking guys around who were more than willing to step in and fill in gaps in Mom’s life, though my Mom never cheated on my father. No, she just eventually kicked him out and divorced him. And then she went to town.

My Mom made mistakes during that time, some pretty serious ones. Some folks might even consider some of them unforgivable. I know I did. So unforgivable that I brought them out, again and again, polishing them with recollection until they were worn round and shiny, and wore them around my neck like some kind of fancy pearl necklace.

And I made a martyr out of my Dad – a true hero. After all, he didn’t want to go, and never re-married. He loved my Mother still, and loved us, too. He was always there for us–well, when he wasn’t on duty, but can’t fault a man for not being there when duty calls.

Yet, years later, I can finally see that my Dad made mistakes, too. It’s just his were not as obvious, or as immediate. I guess what I found over that series of calls is that my parents are neither saints nor sinners.

My brother won’t talk to my mother. He’s still angry at her. She won’t visit him and the kids because she’s afraid of flying, and she doesn’t act the proper grandmother role. Of course, he won’t talk to me now, too, because I failed as aunt in my last trip. Rather than nurture my 18 year old nephew, I, among other things, called him a lazy SOB when my 93 year old father carried up a sink worth of dirty dishes from my nephew’s room. My Dad got upset because I yelled at my nephew. He said, that’s what I’m supposed to do–care for the kids. Daughter to one, sister to another, aunt to even a third.

No. No. I think not.

It’s good to spend time with our parents, and find who they are as people. For me, it’s too late to have long talks with my Dad, though. He’s old, very old, and confused much of the time. I give him the love and respect he deserves, and that’s enough; I even lie when I write him now and tell him I have a wonderful job, so he doesn’t worry about me being a writer.

And now, at 49, I have found that I like my mother. I really like my mother. We have become good friends. If only we had talked sooner, we may have reached this place sooner. But then, neither of us was ready for this talk, long ago.

I was chatting with her this weekend about this and that, including the recent discussions about weblogging and women, and I mentioned something about having my Dad’s poor eyesight, as well as his height and temper. Mom said that I had some of her, too, and I replied, yes, I had her beautiful green eyes and a little of her artistic skills. She said more than that – I was a lot like her, in personality.

I giggled and said, “You mean flaky, odd, and annoying to men?”

She responded back with, “Well, I was going to say ‘different’. You’ve never been afraid of being different.”

She paused, undecided whether to be affronted or tickled, and said. “Well, flaky will work, too.” And at that we both broke out in laughter.

I guess I and my Mom are more alike than not: we both have the same laugh.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Categories
Books Technology Writing

If only

It’s been slow going getting another book deal. The publisher I’m currently talking with about a book on MySQL/PHP wants to include a provision in the contract to bill me if I’m paid royalties on books that eventually get returned from the book stores. Normally, the returns are more than compensated for by new book sales in any given quarter, so this is a non-issue; most publishers don’t ask for this. Nowadays, though – everyone wants a sure thing.

My counter to them is to hold back a percentage of the royalites against return; any of the amount still remaining when the book’s shelf life ends is then sent to me in one lump sum. I don’t like doing this–the royalites we get are so small as it is–but I can’t be looking forward to a royalty check only to get a bill, instead. Hopefully the publisher will accept this counter-proposal.

I need a book, though. More than just the money, I need to get back into working on a book. I’m so eager that I considered, briefly, putting my name into the list of CSS Luminaries that Eric Meyer asked for recently, for work on a new book on CSS. Of course, we all know I’m not a CSS luminary; I’ve spent much of my last few years working the server-side of the development teeter totter. But don’t discount my CSS skills. Rusty they may be, but I’ve been working with CSS as long, or longer than any of the other existing stars in our web design firmament.

For instance, Eric Meyer’s first article on CSS was for the October, 1997 edition of Web Review. I was already writing on CSS, as you can see from a March 28,1997 article from the same publication. Eric stayed with CSS, while I drifted off to other technologies, such as ASP and Java, Linux, and of course, weblogging and RDF.

If only I had stayed with CSS. I think of that now, especially when I’m having a hard time finding a book. If only I had stayed with any one technology – enough to become established as a ‘luminary’ in the field. But like a blackbird, always attracted by some new and shiny thing, I would soon grow bored with technology once mastered, and look for something new and challenging.

However, I have been playing with CSS a bit more recently. I decided to do two new themes for Burningbird – one representing my feminine side, one my masculine.

The Paths: Book of Color theme represents my feminine side– with wide open areas; lack of constraints; a rejection of absolute centering; and the sensuously combined colors of purple and orange, with just a touch of crimson. Notice that the sidebar doesn’t close, either at the top or bottom. Notice, also, the positioning of the content – not completely to the side, but not centered, either. The changing character of this new theme is represented in the backdrop, randomly pulled from my “path” photos.

My new masculine theme is Route 66, and I do think it’s quite nice. The colors are rich, and subtle, and even quite adventurous. It’s also been the most difficult to create because it forces all parts of the page into a centered box, with no open spaces between the components–and this isn’t easy, as many of you know. It is precise, constrained, centered, and very controlled.

Feminine open, and masculine controlled. This doesn’t necessarily reflect common viewpoints of male and female. But I’ve always seen my femininity tied to that part of me which longs for new roads to travel; that burns with a desire to knock down arbitrary and unnecessary walls. It is the practical side of me, but also the passionate–the part of me that tilts at windmills and dragons with equal enthusiasm. My masculinity, though, is that part of me that wants to control and constrain. It is bound with my sense of honor and duty, and desire for finding order in chaos. It’s the side that says to me, “But what about the bills”. My masculine side wants to lead, while my feminine side just wants to do its thing. The only emotion both sides share is a dislike of maudlin sentimentality – the masculine because it’s contrived, the feminine because it’s cheap.

Of course, for others, the reflections of their masculine and feminine sides are as unique as the people. Some may see their feminine side as controlling or ordered, while their masculinity is loose, and unrestrained. Isn’t it funny how the same terms can mean something so completely different to each of us?

“I won’t have eleven children,” she asserted; “I won’t have the eyes of an old woman. She looks at one up and down, up and down, as if one were a horse.”

“We must have a son and we must have a daughter,” said Terence, putting down the letters, “because, let alone the inestimable advantage of being our children, they’d be so well brought up.” They went on to sketch an outline of the ideal education– how their daughter should be required from infancy to gaze at a large square of cardboard painted blue, to suggest thoughts of infinity, for women were grown too practical; and their son–he should be taught to laugh at great men, that is, at distinguished successful men, at men who wore ribands and rose to the tops of their trees. He should in no way resemble (Rachel added) St. John Hirst.

At this Terence professed the greatest admiration for St. John Hirst. Dwelling upon his good qualities he became seriously convinced of them; he had a mind like a torpedo, he declared, aimed at falsehood. Where should we all be without him and his like? Choked in weeds; Christians, bigots,–why, Rachel herself, would be a slave with a fan to sing songs to men when they felt drowsy.

“But you’ll never see it!” he exclaimed; “because with all your virtues you don’t, and you never will, care with every fibre of your being for the pursuit of truth! You’ve no respect for facts, Rachel; you’re essentially feminine.” She did not trouble to deny it, nor did she think good to produce the one unanswerable argument against the merits which Terence admired. St. John Hirst said that she was in love with him; she would never forgive that; but the argument was not one to appeal to a man.

Virginia Woolf’s “The Voyage Out”

I was thinking on this last week when that great storm brewed up on Monday. I could see the clouds when I left the house for my walk, and almost turned back for my camera. It was late, though, and I kept going.

At Powder, after finishing my walk, I could see through the lower layers of mist to this tall cloud, tall, tall, reaching up to the sky as far as the eye could see. I knew then that this storm was going to be something special. I took off in the car to find a place to watch it, but couldn’t find a place to even pull over; not until I turned into the parking lot of a medical center to turn around and found that the back of the lot opened up to a completely clear view of the entire valley. And the storm, that magnificent storm.

I parked not far from a truck also pulled over to watch the storm and several car lengths away from two cars with four young guys. The guys had been skate boarding down the hill next to the medical center; when I pulled in, though, they were all looking at the sky and one of them saw me and started shouting something about the storm, pointing up to the sky.

I walked over to them, as we watched one funnel cloud form and then break apart. And then another. And another. The front of the storm was huge, and the clouds were actually rolled under, as if they had been turned about by forces unseen. One of the guys yelled out, “Let’s get out of here! That’s a tornado that’s forming!” I yelled back, “Why leave? This is incredible!

“You only live once!”, I shouted at him.

“Yeah! Live! That’s what I want to continue doing!”

They piled into their cars and took off, as I stood in the lot looking up at the clouds as the boiled above me, thinking what an odd thing for that young man to say: being afraid of a storm after spending who knows how long riding a skate board down a very dangerous hill. Understandable though: it’s the degree of control. You control what you do on a skateboard; you have control over your life. But a storm – no man or woman controls a storm. They had chosen the masculine path. I had not.

TO BE CONTINUED…