Category: Just Shelley

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Just Shelley

All work and no play

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I have been a busy little worker lately. I spent all weekend reviewing the hard copy of the Unix Power Tools book — all one thousand pages of it — looking for problems, as well as pulls for the book’s web site.

I also made a stab at my first chapter for my online book, but I’m very unhappy with it. Very. The problem with reading wonderful writing by truly great authors is that my own writing suffers, dramatically, in comparison. Everything I write lately just sits on the page, flat, dejected, and suffering. If there was such a thing as a gun for words, I would shoot each of mine and give them a quick and painfree end.

I took a break from writing today to interview at two different consulting companies. If all goes well, I should be back in the land of the employed by month’s end.

Between company appointments, as I was sitting at the computer trying to think of something less than dismal to write into the weblog, my cat Zoe wanted up on my lap for snuggles. Considering that I always interview in a black suit, I wasn’t too happy about her jumping up and getting silvery hairs all over me. I snapped at her, yelling at her to get off my lap.

She left the room and when I went looking for her later, I found her curled up in a small, sad, hurt little ball of fur on my chair down in the living room. What does she know of work? What does she know of suits? All she knows is that I yelled at her just for coming in for snuggles. I felt like such a heel.

She’s sitting on my lap now. She says Hi to everyone.

Zoe

Categories
Diversity Writing

Mockingbird

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Years ago I watched a movie that would have such a profound effect on me, that I could later flag memories by their occurrence in time before or after this event. The movie was To Kill a MockingBird, starring Gregory Peck. Unfortunately, the local library didn’t stock the book, so reading the actual story had to wait until we moved to Seattle. However, the book, as with the movie, became a personal favorite.

The strongest memory I have from watching the movie when I was younger, was the rabid dog and Atticus’ killing of it. Somehow, the violence associated with the dog, it’s madness and the necessity of having to put it down, became connected in my mind with the other acts of violence. The dog, the lynching crowd, Bob Ewell, the conviction of Tom Robinson — all acts equally mad, though some events were varnished with the pine-tar scent of righteous justice.

I also felt an identity with this movie, odd as this might sound. I grew up in a small town, though mine was in Northeast Washington rather than the South. Like Scout, I was a also a tomboy — spending my summers in adventure, wearing dresses only under protest, and able to out wrestle many of the boys my own age. In addition, I had one older brother and like Scout, would spend much of my free time unsupervised, supposedly safe within the boundaries of the mind set of a small town in the 50’s. There were also other similarities between Scout’s tale and mine, but I’ll leave that for my online book Coming of Age in John Birch Country.

(I am such a tease.)

For now, I want to direct your attention to Loren’s wonderful multi-part review of the book, beginning with his astute introduction:

If Harper Lee had limited her portrayal of prejudice and discrimination merely to the trial of Tom Robinson, a victim of the most virulent form of racial prejudice, To Kill a Mockingbird would probably be little more than a historical footnote. Wisely, though, Lee manages to tie racial prejudice to the many other forms of prejudice we all face every day of our life.

You’ll have to scroll down to get to the first part. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a movie, an old favorite of mine.

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Just Shelley

Jet through the trees

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

My roommate decided I needed exercise for my painful back yesterday and took me to the Sculpture Park near our house for a gentle walk. Aside from the fact that I was walking somewhat like Frankenstein’s Monster (arms rigidly at my side, stiff backed, movements accompanied by occasional non-verbal grunts) and that we were prey to every West Nike infested mosquito for miles, the walk was very pleasant.

The park has several trails, some paved, some rough dirt, each with sculptures appearing in clearings and glades, across streams, forming pyramids. Fascinating, and very peaceful.

As we walked back to the car, a siren started to sound, first in one part of the park, then another, and another, until we were surrounded by the sounds of synchronized sirens. As one siren would soften, another would take up the cry, each echoing around us among the trees. It was probably one of the most astonishing sounds I have ever heard.

And then, as I was standing listening to the sirens, just ahead through the trees at the top of the hill we were climbing, I saw a jet fly past.

“Rob! Did you see that jet!”

“No. Where was it?”

“Through those trees over there”, I said, pointing, walking as quickly as I could to the top of the hill, past the trees only to be met with more trees. No airport, no runway.

When I arrived home I went online and searched everywhere for information about the Sculpture Park, the sirens, the plane. I could find nothing other than a description of the park and the statues.

I know there is a prosaic answer to what I saw. The plane was most liky from a nearby airport, its closeness an illusion caused by incorrect perspective. As for the sirens, they’re most likely an exhibit at the park or a test of the local emergency tornado warning system. Every question has an answer, a reasonable answer.

However, the experience I had yesterday is made magical by not knowing, not having the facts, and leaving the questions unanswered.

(And if you have the answer for my mystery, keep it as your little secret. Let me have my moment of magic.)

Update: photo of the dangerous West Nike mosquito.

Categories
Just Shelley Weblogging

Arghh

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I somehow hurt my neck and upper back along the spine and am unsure of how long I’ll be able to stay online. Even laying down, trying to type into the computer just isn’t working out.

If you email and I don’t respond, I’m not being rude and ignoring you. Same with comments to postings.

In the meantime, check out the webloggers song in the making.

Update: AKMA, I’m not sure why your emails to me are bouncing. If it continues, drop me a note in the comments to this post and I’ll see if I can find a problem in my email server. I definitely don’t want to miss your emails, and I’m keen to keep up with your important research.

Open question to my Etherworld friends: anyone else’s emails to me bouncing?

Categories
Just Shelley

Arggh

I somehow hurt my neck and upper back along the spine and am unsure of how long I’ll be able to stay online. Even laying down, trying to type into the computer just isn’t working out.

If you email and I don’t respond, I’m not being rude and ignoring you. Same with comments to postings.

In the meantime, check out the webloggers song in the making.

Update: AKMA, I’m not sure why your emails to me are bouncing. If it continues, drop me a note in the comments to this post and I’ll see if I can find a problem in my email server. I definitely don’t want to miss your emails, and I’m keen to keep up with your important research.

Open question to my Etherworld friends: anyone else’s emails to me bouncing?