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Lines of communication

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

If you’ve followed this weblog for a couple of years, you might remember a time when I had classified the weblogs in my blogroll into specific categories. The categories were somewhat humorous, or not, but I couldn’t see any harm with what I did.

You can imagine how taken aback I was when one of the people in one of the categories sent me an email about how much he disliked being classified in such a a way. In fact, not only did he dislike being categorized, he particularly disliked the category I put him into because it really had nothing to do with what he wrote, or who he was.

That was my first exposure to categories in weblogging, and people’s reactions to same. Since then I’ve seen other webloggers use classification schemes to much better effect than I did at the time, but I’ve still never forgotten that reaction.

Lately, though, I’m seeing a growing increase in wanting to not only categorize webloggers, but to actually split an entire genre of writer off from the generic term of ‘weblogger’ into a separate classification of ‘journaler’ or ‘diarist’. In other words, separate out the people who participate as part of a community, from those who write online in order to publish their views to a wider audience.

I can see the viability of performing such a categorization, primarily from a viewpoint of community and self-censorship. If I see myself primarily as a writer who is publishing my works online, I may not want to be constrained by community concerns when I write. In other words, I may not want to be forced into self-censorship when I write because I don’t want to put friendships at risk.

However, I have to reject this classification and concern, as one who has written in disagreement with people who I respect and even cherish. I am finding that the people I value the most are the ones who gracefully accept disagreement, and, in fact, may relish it because a true dialog can then emerge, and from this dialog, great writing can result. Not writing from within an insulated vacuum; but writing knowing the full consequences of the impact of what’s been written.

That’s not to say there isn’t risk: I have been clumsy with disagreement in the past, allowing my passion to exceed my intellect and have lost friends as a result. However, even this, though painful, has been informative – I am learning to know when to inject passion, and when to carefully hold it in check; not in order to be conciliatory, but to be a better writer.

And I am a better writer. Oh, perhaps not in my use of proper grammar or spelling, or in measures of popularity and links, but in the only way that truly matters to me: I feel I am a better writer.

Returning to the issue of weblog categorization, Danah Boyd and Liz Lawley published a note about a face to face meeting they’re organizing at the upcoming O’Reilly etech conference, the purpose of which is to explore weblog categorization. Much of the impetus for this effort is derived from Danah’s own perception that …blogs and journals are different.

One issue that I raised was that the circumstances of the meeting precluded participation from the majority of bloggers. In effect, by having a meeting at a US-based, relatively expensive conference composed exclusively of technical folks, the results of the meeting can’t help but be anything other than skewed in outlook and ultimately results. Additionally, though I can also understand that Danah feels a need to get together with some folkand have a face to face, my own response is that if we tout the power of weblogs to aid in communication, then shouldn’t discussions about weblogs be held in weblogs?

However, neither Liz nor Danah were asking for opinions about having this face to face at etech – they were issuing invitations and plotting out their course of action. When they publish their work It’s then up to us to look at the factors surrounding their work, and the work itself, and form our opinions accordingly. Hopefully without any hostile perceptions.

Regardless of approach, I have no doubts that Liz and Danah and the other participants have the best intentions with their effort. There has been conjecture that there aren’t that many women tech bloggers. Well, perhaps the reason why is that the categorization of ‘tech blogger’ isn’t well defined. There has also been discussion that women tend to be ‘journalers’ not ‘bloggers’. Well, this of course begs the question: define blogger? Define journaler?

However, if Liz and Danah have the best intentions, not everyone who wishes to propagate the concept of categorization does. I am noticing a disturbing trend lately to separate those who write about our interests – poetry, family, music, pets and each other – from the more ’serious’ bloggers in our midst. Serious in this instance being, we most only assume, those who write about politics, money, tech, and power without the taint of ‘community’. By creating this dichotomy, this enforcement of ‘insiders’ versus ‘outsiders’, there is an attempt to cut off those of us who write …of shoes and ships and sealing wax; of cabbages and kinds from the ‘personal publishers’ in our midst.

I put the blame for this squarely on the coverage of weblogs in the media. Never an article on weblog goes by without the Journalist writing it mentioning, as an aside, a definition about bloggers that usually begins with, … ‘weblogs, or ‘blogs’, as they are usually called, are daily journals chronicling the life and interests of the blogger, and can cover topics as diverse as what the blogger had for lunch, to the war in Iraq. However, a new genre of blogger is emerging, the political blogger, who is beginning to have a strong influence on politics…”. Well, you get the point.

We writers who write about shoes and ships and sealing wax – and politics and what we had for lunch and yes, even our cats – are pissing in the pool the other more serious bloggers want to swim in.

Jeneane Sessum wrote on this recently in the beautifully titled essay, “When the comment spammers are more of a community than we are”. She wrote:

Yes, I do think a divide is emerging within a medium that attracted us initially by its flatness–no one really weilding any more power than another except through the quality of their writing and ideas and the strength and power of their individual voice.

You see, there was nothing to gain through blogging in the early days. It was my voice informing her voice informing his voice: our whole was greater, but our parts were pretty cool too. There was nothing to lose, specifically, or to benefit from. There weren’t as many pundits and VCs and CEOs and politicians and top dogs playing. WE were all top dogs by virtue of being someplace those types weren’t.

According to the classification discussed in this writing, Jeneane would be a ‘journaler’, not a ‘blogger’. Tell her that, though, and be prepared to be cut off at the knees. That’s the thing: we may classify all we want, but that won’t make it real.

But classifications, applied diligently, can have adverse impact over time.

If we see ourselves as serious writers but become classified in various schemes as ‘party’ people because we engage in conversations within our weblogging communities, will this not, over time, impact on the perceptions about our writing by those following these classification schemes?

If we designate me as a ‘poetry weblogger’, and you come here and I happen to be writing about technology, won’t this generate conflict between the classification and the reader’s perception – conflict that may lead to rejection of my writing, overall?

I would say that weblogs are self-healing and that we write around classifications such as these. However, I’ve been around weblogging enough to know that memes, such as categorization, applied consistently enough, and broadly enough, can have an impact.

I will follow efforts in this regard as it progresses, both with Danah and Liz’s effort, in addition to others because this is a topic that interests me. I would say that this, then, makes me into a ‘metablogger’, if it weren’t for my inconvenient photographs, asides into politics and women’s writing, as well as discussions about purple feet from time to time.

Speaking of which, who wants to see a photo of my purple foot?

(Another conversation along a similar theme formed in comments to a Joi Ito post tangentially related to this topic. Joi has the most amazing ability to build conversational hooks into his posts.)

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Good news for MoveOn

Good news for MoveOn, according to Sheila Lennon CBS has denied the organization’s request to air the winning Bush in 30 seconds ad, because supposedly the ad focuses on an ‘issue’, and CBS won’t take issues-based advertising during the Superbowl.

Already people are expressing outrage, particularly since, according to Sheila:

CBS will however run anti-smoking ads during the game and, for the third year, an entry from The White House’s Office of National Drug Control Policy (remember the “drug use aids terrorists” ads?).

I like the MoveOn ad. I think it’s wonderfully orchestrated, and beautifully filmed. However, about the worst place to plunk this ad would have been during a Superbowl, to a lot of people sitting around in a party mood, drinking beer, and eating too much. The same people who want to forget the problems facing this country for a few hours during a sports game, and who are going to react negatively to having said problems forced into their face during their time of ‘escape’.

Now, the MoveOn ad will get publicity because of CBS’s denial, and it won’t cost a penny. More importantly, it will be viewed in the more appropriate context – as a political statement, within the context of a political statement.

Perfect.

Dan Gillmor had talked about this in a humorous, slightly catty posting earlier:

Or maybe it’s all a plot by the CBS outpost of the Liberal Media Conspiracy ™. Here’s the idea: Turn down the ad, which will generate a firestorm of publicity, and then the ad will get played on all the news shows – free advertising and a much bigger bang for the buck. Maybe CBS is plotting with MoveOn.org! Ooooh, those clever lefties.

However, it’s genuinely gratifying to discover that CBS actually has some standards. That’s not obvious given the quality of the network’s programming.

Meow!

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Connecting Critters Travel

Borders, boundaries, and birds

Walking along the Riverway walk in San Antonio, I ended up at a large set of steps where a member of a local conservation group was introducing a golden eagle to the crowd.

While she was talking with people, answering questions and posing the bird for photographs, I was captivated by the identical expression on her and the bird’s face and was able to capture a picture before she turned away to leave. What caught my eye wasn’t that she looked like the bird, with piercing gold eyes or hooked beak; it was the serene confidence and fierce independence present in both their faces. It mesmerized me and I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful image (people walking in the background notwithstanding).

birdandfriend.jpg

As I traveled this past week, driving through city and county and state and even nations if you include the reservations, I was in a continuous state of crossing from one border to another, one boundary to another, and would have to adjust my driving speed or behavior or what I did and when I did it — small changes at times but they existed. Sometimes the only indication that I had crossed a boundary was a sign saying, “Welcome to ______”, but the sand was the same, the sky no different, the asphalt didn’t vanish beneath my wheels (though at one point it did abruptly change from dark gray to a light tan).

Boundaries. We are surrounded by boundaries and it seems like there is very little room left for the individual when faced with all these boundaries. Instead, though, the individual stands strong and proud, just as the woman with her bird — unique within the boundaries both were born with and that fate had thrust around them.

The woman was born a certain sex with a certain eye color and certain talents and once was a young girl thinking young girl fancies. The bird was born with beautiful wings and keen eyesight and once flew the winds of the deserts. But the woman now had grey hair and the bird could no longer fly — time stepping in for one, a bastard with a gun for the other.

They stood there, faces profiled, formed by the boundaries around them, but you don’t see a cage made by borders — you see something else. Something extraordinary.

The woman could have dyed her hair, or been a bank president, or disliked birds and people and disdained both. The bird could have chosen to die when shot, or to peck at the woman’s eyes as she held him on her arm, but each chose a direction in the everlasting maze of life. Within the boundaries they had choice, and what they were at that moment, proud, strong, beautiful, was the product of the choices not the restrictions of the boundaries.

We are all born differently, but we share one common characteristic: we are all given boundaries from birth. We are born a certain color, with hair and eyes and facial traits and physical framework formed for us from genetic cookery that takes a bit of this, a dab of that and throws it into a container that becomes us. We can do nothing to change this. We are also given boundaries of language and culture and religion, and though some may see these as impermeable walls, they are malleable for those with sufficient resolve.

Years ago, the world was large enough that groups could form rigid boundaries around themselves and be content (unless a neighbor became overcome by avarice and smashed the boundaries using force). The ideal for humanity is respect for boundaries: language, culture, national, and religious. I know that as a child of the 60’s, a flower child, one who danced about and loved all mankind equally, respect for others’ boundaries was deeply ingrained in me. In many of us.

Today, though, the world is much smaller — the boulder has become a ball has become a marble and is now a pretty speck of green and blue and brown. One person’s religious practice results in another’s oppression; another person’s cultural fears result in less freedoms for others. Our belief, and it is noble, that a person’s religious, cultural, and national boundaries should be respected is crumbling in the face of a world with too many people and too little resources. These resources are drifting away like sands in an hourglass; where we should all be working together, trying to preserve that which is precious, instead we push and shove each other away, losing much in our greed and in our belief in our boundaries.

I listened to the talk on the radio about this Christmas present or that and Christmas sale after Christmas sale before the 25th, and after Christmas sales following. I watched as a man holding a sign begging for food at a stoplight in San Francisco, stood looking impassively into the car window of a Mercedes, at the man inside who was looking straight ahead, talking on a cellphone and oblivious to his surroundings. I looked in the paper at a woman crying because her entire family was killed in a quake in Iran because the buildings were not reinforced; they were not reinforced because the woman’s government was too proud of its boundaries to seek help and other countries were too determined to take down those boundaries to offer it.

We have formed another boundary, the most terrible boundary of all: that of wanting more. We want beyond the limits of our needs, whether it is in possessions or power or souls; we go beyond satiation to saturation, and we have brought up our children to either seek, or, if denied, to take. Hands fighting at, pushing against, other hands as the sands slip silently past.

Like the woman, though, and like the bird, within this boundary — within all the boundaries — we do still have the ability to make choices. It’s just that now, the boundaries are becoming so very strong and the choices so very difficult.

choices.jpg

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Bittersweet

I am in the midst of travels, just completed one trip, about to head out on another. I hadn’t planned on writing to the weblog during these trips except that I heard from a friend who asked if I was on Blogger Strike. Since that was one of my more asinine ideas, I didn’t want to leave the impression that I was sulking at home, on strike, waiting for someone to notice that I wasn’t talking; there are enough voices raised in mockingbird song or magpie chatter to cover the silences that issue from all of us at one time or another. That’s just the way weblogging is.

If nature abhors a vacuum, nature also abhors silence and when silence happens from one direction, noise, living noise rushes in from other directions and fills the void. That’s just the way life is.

My trip last week was related to family, and ended up being a difficult time, circumstances of which I have no interest in relating, and you have none in hearing. Combined with other things, I have been in a melancholy mood (yes anther melancholy mood, and if I continue, I am destined to be a poet and live a short, angst-filled life), and another reason for not necessarily wanting to write. On the road, I was listening to one ‘life done me wrong’ song after another, drooping further and further down into the seat of the car until all of me still visible to other drivers was two hands on a steering wheel; the ghostly hands that terrify drivers the world over, and normally the hands of that small, old person too shrunken by the weight of time to see over the steering wheel. You know the type.

The weather on the road was not good and I kept getting buffeted about by the wind, sliding a bit on the slick roads. The interstate was filled with semis and I’m used to being the small bird among the elephants except that one was acting mighty peculiar. It was a dark blue older semi, hauling what looked like farm equipment on an open bed, speeding like mad to stay behind me in the fast lane. He kept turning on his brights and turning them off, honking his horn, until a break in the music let me hear him and I came of my funk long enough to see his brights in my rear view mirror.

When I pulled over into the right lane and slowed down, he pulled up beside me, frantically pointing down at my wheel. I hit my emergency light indicator and started to gradually slow down, pulling over on to the shoulder, as best I could because it was a very small shoulder, and the freeway was a very busy, fast freeway. Getting out of my car, I could see why the driver was so determined to catch me – my driver’s side rear tire was flat, and I had no idea, thinking that the problems I was having driving were due to the wearther, and frankly, not paying enough attention to what was going on around me.

Well this was a first for me and I pulled my manual out, and looked at the little tire wrench and the little temporary they give you, but soon realized that I had no interest in playing “Kiss my Butt” with all the semis driving past. I called 911 who sent a tow truck out to haul that selfsame butt to a tire place to get butt’s tire fixed. Seems I ran over a nail somewhere. Also seems that if I had continued as I was in the bad weather, according to the tire person, I might have run into considerable problems.

Thank you, Mr. Truck Driver, who ever and where ever you are.

Getting home yesterday later than expected and tired, I do what I usually do in the evenings and caught up with the weblogs I enjoy reading, including Loren Webster’s It was the Worst of Times, following from his earlier It was the Best of Times. In his first essay, Loren talks about Christmas past when he was a child and getting his first train one morning, and the joy he felt, and I felt tears in my eyes because I remember that same type of Christmas, but in my case it was a tricycle. I then read his second essay where he talks about Christmas spent in sadness and despair, in pain and in loss. He writes:

Unfortunately, I have even had some relatively sad Christmases after these two, Christmases without parents who had recently died, Christmases without children who were on the other side of the state. By now, Christmas has been permanently tinged with bittersweet memories that are now as much a part of the day as the magical moments I spent in the comfort of my parents’ home, untouched by divorce or tragedy for nearly twenty-two years.

Bittersweet memories. It was as if Loren had reached into the core of me and exposed the sadness and loneliness I was feeling as the holiday approached, bringing with it faint shadows of happier Christmases past; forcing me to face my increasingly dark mood.

Each year at this time, whether we will it or not, Christmas memories are exposed, laid out until the beginning of our time like the rings of a tree blasted down by lightening but never dying: this year was a good year, that year was not. But I didn’t want to look at Christmas this year, or to add another sad Christmas memory.

I sorrow with friends at their losses this year – Doug losing his father, Liz losing her brother-in-law – and I kick a bit because it doesn’t seem fair that these losses should happen now. However, as much as I felt sorrow for Doug and Liz, I felt pity for myself, more, and this is a darksome thing at any time of year, much less Christmas.

Isn’t there some kind of life guarantee, that Christmas is only supposed to be happy?

At times, life’s bitter threatens to overwhelm us with the sadness and the loss and the despair, but there is something within us, that echo of the child on Christmas morning, or the beginning of Chanukah, or the feasts of Eid al-Adha, or Dewali, or Kwanzaa, or the Lunar New Year, that brings with it the hope and the joy: the sweet that complements the sadness, as the sadness complements the sweet. Though joy is, as Loren writes so beautifully, fragile and ephemeral, it is enough. It must be enough.

No guarantees with life, you get what you’re given, including bitter events thrown our way, like the nail in my path on the road. But just as with my guardian angel warning me of my flat, or a train on Christmas morning, life also throws us joy and hope and goodness. We have no control over life’s losses or disappointments or gifts; the only control we have is how we live: whether we choose to embrace the bitter, or the sweet. Ultimately, that is the measure of all of us.

I will spend my Christmas on the road, alone, this year and this memory will form another ring and overall add to the texture of a life – and this is good and a gift. First, though, I have to get my tires checked and make sure they can handle a long journey – that the repair will hold, though I have no doubts it is good.

When my tire was repaired, the person who fixed it brought me the nail they found. He chuckled a bit when he pointed out the shape of the nail, which I decided to keep, as a memento.

candycanenail2.jpg

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True gifts

Years ago, as soon as Thanksgiving ended I would be scouting for the best Christmas tree, or up on the roof hanging lights, or in the kitchen making enumerable trays of cookies for friends and co-workers. I would have planned to have all my Christmas shopping done before Thanksgiving, but never did and about now I would be with the crowds going from store to store looking for the best presents.

Years ago when I had less money, I would spend more time wrapping the presents, creating cut outs and designs in the ribbons, making packages that people would open last because they were so pretty. As I became more successful I had more money to spend on nicer presents but less on cooking and wrapping and eventually I would find the professional gift wrappers and have them wrap the packages for me as I continued to shop in a mania of buying.

Then in 1997 we moved to a home on a couple of acres of land on an island in Vermont and I again had less money but more time because I was devoting myself to writing, my beloved writing, rather than working on yet another application that would be dull before the edge was finished cutting. In this old ranch house with its huge kitchen and big windows looking out on an old apple tree, I would bake little fruit tarts made of buttery pastry, candy grapefruit peel to use for baking and eating, and decorate cookie after cookie – gingerbread, sugar, date balls, oak leave cookies, or ones flavored with lemon or chocolate.

We had a tree in the foyer in front of the front door because in the country, no one comes to the front door, they always go around to the side to the mud room. We also had a huge beautiful fir tree in the middle of the field, surrounded by two feet of crystalline white snow, that we decorated with old fashioned fat bulbs that didn’t blink or play songs, but just glowed with rich colors – ruby red, sun orange, lime green, and that deep cobalt blue. We strung the same lights around the eaves, and smaller lights around the windows and that night we turned it all on and stood outside a moment looking at the home, on a snow covered hill overlooking the frozen lake, lights shining out in the dark. Then we went in and had hot mulled cider made fresh not from a mix.

We’ve not really celebrated Christmas since. Sometimes I miss it – baking cookies for friends, sharing warm times and cool egg nog with people I cherish. I also miss the scent of cranberry candles mixed with that of orange and pine, but I don’t miss the shopping and the presents. Especially the presents.

In California, I bought a poinsettia and turned on all the lava lights and lit a candle and made fudge, but that was a reaction to the loneliness not the season. It was at that time I looked around at all the expensive things that crowded my small apartment, and remembered the blur of shredded wrapping paper of the years previous, and wondered at what age did I learn that at Christmas it is excess we embrace and kiss under the mistletoe.

This year I decided to again celebrate Christmas, but there will be no tree and no lights, and definitely no gaudily wrapped presents. But there will be gifts.

Next week I go to Indiana to spend a week with my father so that my brother and his wife can have a holiday. Dad and I will share afternoon tea like we did when I was younger, and I’ll listen to stories of the War, and hear them again for the first time.

When Mike returns I’ll head home but am off almost immediately for additional travels. Contrary to my usual custom, I plan on traveling less than 10 hours a day, and taking frequent breaks. I’ll drive more slowly, and pay attention to my surroundings rather than trying to read the map while I drive.

For my Mom, I made this book of my favorite essays and photographs. Is this a childish thing to do? Possibly, but at her age and mine, shared time sparkles more brightly than another useless crystal bowl.

I have a bag of quarters and everytime I pass a red Salvation Army pail, I’ll throw some in. It might be more efficient to send a check, but if I were a bell ringer, I’d rather have the quarters.

For others, I’m going to shut up. I’m going to listen. I’m going to forgive. I’d also like to hold my hand out to the people who I’ve hurt or disappointed this year, but I hesitate because they may not reach back and then I’ll have to buy a poinsetta and make fudge again, and the lava lights are gone. So instead, I’ll just give them space, with a clear view of an open door.

No, I won’t be shopping at Wal-Mart, so that it may continue abusing its employees. And I won’t be buying another geegaw I don’t need that will only collect dust, or expensive trinket to impress friends and family. I will not begin to build a new mountain of debt, nor will I feel sadness at not getting what I secretly wished for come Christmas morning. I will stop wanting.

However, I am not completely without avarice. I might treat myself to a new music CD, and nibble a gingerbread cookie and sip a cup of hot spiced cider while I listen to it. Maybe I’ll even splurge on a candle scented with pine, and cranberry.