Category: Just Shelley

Today was an odd day. It was cold, hovering in the low 20’s (that’s F for the C among us). It was also snowing but too cold and too dry for the snow to stick. Instead, light fluffy flakes of white were falling all day but the streets were bare. The sun would even pop out among the clouds every once in a while.

I decided to drive to my river spot to see how high the river was, forgetting that today is Sunday, and Watson Road–what used to be old Route 66–is always a mess on Sundays. Monday through Saturday, drivers will move right along at 45-50MPH, which is about 5-10 miles over the speed limit. Come Sunday, though, and traffic just crawls along. This has driven me crazy for the entire time I’ve been here in St. Louis. Every Sunday, sure as bugs in August, every driver on the road, but me, is moving at or below the speed limit.

However, I’ve finally figured out the reason for it. Church.

You see most people in our area are Christians and go to church every Sunday morning. I figured the rest of the day, then, they’re in this state of godliness that, among other things, alters their normal behavior. If you go into a store on Sunday, you’ll be greeted with a benevolent smile by everyone you pass. If you go to the parks, adults and children play happily together with nary a squabble. Even the dogs running out with their humans seem on at their best, keeping to the business of running rather than marking every static item in their path.

The drivers, then, are just following this ambiance of godly goodness. This means no honking, no rude passing going at a higher speed, or running a light without even a hint of amber color. And especially, no breaking the speed limit.

Luckily everyone seems to be able to scrape off this godliness come Monday morning or I’d have to move to a more sinful city. Like Washington DC.

At the park I sat with the window open and the cold air blowing in, watching the water flow past. Though not a walk, it was close enough to restore my equanimity disrupted by nefarious digital forces and various other Things that always seemed to come from my computer.

The river was fairly high and moving fast, but nothing that I hadn’t photographed before. However, the cliffs surrounding the park had small icicles hanging from every crack and crevice so I was able to get some photos.

Coming home I remembered this time to drive in the right lane not the left and thus avoid the pothole from Hell, otherwise known as Destroyer of Cars. Another side effect of the odd warm/cold weather that can occur in St. Louis in the winter is potholes that can seriously intimidate even SUVs. However, none are as bad as Destroyer and as you approach it, you’ll see car after car swerving to the right to avoid it.

If you forget though, and are driving along lost in revery, a bone crunching jar will be your reward. I really need to take my car in for it’s 30,000 mile service. It hit Destroyer twice last week, and hasn’t been normal since.

It was nice to get out today. Cold, though, and dry. I was glad to have my nice insulated nylon winter coat on when I walked from the car to the townhouse. It was also nice to open the door to the townhouse, to feel the warmth rush out. My cat, Zoe, also rushed up to greet me and I reached down to give her a stroke.

*ZAP!*

I’m sure Zoe will be just fine in an hour. Or two.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I was supposed to be on crutches this week, but couldn’t afford them so am using my hiking stick to lean on. I was supposed to not put weight on my one foot, but I have to get up and down the stairs to get food and water, so I don’t have a lot of choice.

I am not supposed to wear my shoes for a while, but I have to go to the store today. And maybe while I’m out I’ll even go to my favorite river spot, look at the water, and listen to music.

I am injured and therefore have certain rights, such as being able to stay in bed and have a loved one wait on me, bringing me soup, fluffing my pillow, and telling me ‘poor baby’ at frequent intervals. (Properly appalled looks at the bruising on the foot and leg are also appropriate behavior in said loved one.)

But I don’t have the luxury of a loved one to care for me in my injured state. Necessity is forcing me into assessing my injuries from the fall last week, deciding which pain really isn’t endurable, and which one can I live with. Doing so, I’m finding that taking away the state of ‘being injured’ takes away some – not all, but enough – of the effects of being injured. And I get by.

In a way, the hacker last night, with his deliberate attack on me – not generic blogger me, but me – was an injury, and my first reaction was to pull back and just say, no, not playing any more.

But if I really wasn’t playing anymore, I wouldn’t do anything differently today then what I did yesterday. Turning off comments this morning, was about equivalent to me staying in bed and getting lost in the nice purpleness of my foot. Being a victim.

So I’m turning comments back on. But I am taking no measure that I wasn’t going to take yesterday anyway before the attack. A little tweak here, a simple little tweak there. Some good precautions, but no extraordinary measures – that’s just as much a dancing to the tune of the beast as turning off the comments.

So comments back on – and if the crapflooder takes down the weblog, so be it. I’ll survive. You’ll survive. All god’s chillen will survive.

And maybe I’ll even bring back a photo from the river for you.

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

One issue I’ve been debating off and of about with myself is whether to keep the Burningbird weblog. I’ve splintered off so many interests into different weblogs, and the main reason I do so is there is there is an assumption that everything I write is somehow a ‘flame’ and what I write then becomes seen in this manner. I’ve become hesitant about even making comments in other weblogs because of this.

Yes, I am a passionate writer, and yes, I can have a temper. But I’m also capable of calm reason, instances of beauty, thoughtfulness, generosity, and even playfulness. I am growing very concerned that my writing is perceived surrounded by a faint ghostly lick of flame; I wonder how much of it is truly being seen, read in its own regard, or just dismissed as so much ‘Burningbird’ burning.

I look at other webloggers who have acheived a reputation for thoughtful writing, such as Jonathon Delacour or Joi Ito or AKMA or Liz Lawley, as well as other folks both liked and, perhaps more importantly, respected. It is true that for the most part, they do think carefully before they write, and this is reflected in their writing. But I’ve seen all four write angrily, become cranky, and even get a bit snippy (and I say this with respect, so please, all of you don’t get angry with me). Of course they do, and that’s what makes all of them so enjoyable to read. I don’t want to read the writing of automatons.

Yet how much of this is perceived because they have a (well deserved) persona of being a thoughtful writer? As I have that, equally well deserved, persona of being what? Passionate? Hot tempered? A whiney, negative, self-centered, tempermental bitch with a cause?

I wrote a comment in another weblog this morning that I had hoped to be seen as thoughtful, but ended up being perceived as an attack. In fact, from the response, it was seen as me being the same old Burningbird. I wouldn’t mind being taken to task for bad writing, or a thoughtless comment — but it was painted as me being me, and disregarded because of same.

Stops me dead in my tracks.

Maybe splintering the writing into different weblogs won’t do a bit of good because it’s too late for me — I am Burningbird, and Burningbird is me. And regardless of how I write, and what I write, I’ll never been seen as anything else.