BurningbirdJust writing
“Essential Blogging” has hit the streets, available at a bookstore near you. O’Reilly has put my chapter, “Advanced Blogger”, online if you want a peek.
I haven’t received my copies yet. Hopefully soon.
In the meantime, I’m finishing up the writing for the RDF book in the next few weeks. Time to weblog less, work on book more.
Archived at Wayback Machine, including original comments
If programming languages could speak, really speak, not just crunch bytes and stream bits, they would have much to say that is both wise and profound. After all, the original programmers were philosophers, and programming languages were philosopher tools…
In Babble Meadow, in the twilight hours between day and night, when pesky noseeums float past on the breeze and birds rustle among leaves in preparation for bed, the programming languages would meet. And talk.
The talk would start as it always started, on issues profound and serious, focusing on the existential core that is center to all languages.
Do I exist or not? In this never-ending loop of life, when is the purpose? Where should I go, and what should I do when I get there? What comes after the end?
(It’s not easy being a programming language, in forced contemplation of the existence of Self, day in and day out.)
However, after a time the languages would loosen up. There was something about Babble Meadow — something that worked its way into their hearts and souls, loosened their threads, opened their parameters. The Meadow was magic, no doubt.
Today, though, the group was quiet, much quieter than usual, because one of their members, PHP, was not its usual cheerful self. In fact, one could say that PHP was in a true funk, if one had a mind to say something like that aloud, or within the hearing of one’s boss. Or doctor.
Why the blues, PHP, the other languages asked. All the languages that is but C, because all C ever said was “bite me”, being a rude language and hard to live with, but still respected because it was such a good worker.
And PHP answered:
All I ever do, day in and day out, is work and work and work. The only time I’m noticed is when I break, and then I’m cursed and kicked, and roundly blasted for being useless. However, when things go well, I never get a kind word.
There’s no notice of my ease of use, my elegance, my simplicity. Only my failures.
And on that dark note, PHP fell into a contemplative silence, dark cloud heavy with aggrieved sorrow.
You think you have it bad, said C++. Try being me.
Without me entire industries would fail, banks would close, ships would sink, trains would crash. Why, I virtually run the world.
Yet the only time I’m noticed is when a memory leak is found or an exception occurs, and then I’m cursed, and sworn at, and ruthlessly debugged with nary a thought for my sensibilities.
Each of the languages nodded their heads, because they knew about C++ sensibilities, it being a most sensitive language. In fact, Perl was so moved by C++’s eloquence, it felt compelled to speak, though normally at these gatherings Perl would sit quietly in a corner, consuming pattern after luscious mouth watering pattern.
PHP, C++, I sympathize with you both. My own state is a sorry one at times.
I match and match and match and match, first cryptically and now objectively, but still I match and match and match. And match after flawless match is taken for granted though I’d like to see others match with such style and elegance as myself.
Why, you can’t mention “regular expression” without my name coming up.
But do I get any credit? No.
O it’s Larry Wall this, and Larry Wall that, and Larry Wall, he’s our guy.
But it’s grab the Perl interpreter when a task is close at hand.
As Perl finished, Python and Ruby looked at each and rolled their eyes. For all that talk of matching, you’d think that Perl could at least rhyme.
FORTRAN reached up a withered hand and patted Perl’s shoulder.
There, there, Perl. There, there.
At the very least, though, you must remember that you have a place still in the world. As for myself, I am nothing more than a wisp, a ghost of my former strong and virile self.
There was never a scientific problem I couldn’t handle, or complex equation I couldn’t solve. At one time I was a master of my domain, the king of the processor.
Now, sadly, my glory days are over, and I’m doomed to live my twilight years as Legacy code.
As FORTRAN wheezed to a stop, COBOL was emphatically nodding its head, unable to speak, though, because of the oxygen tube up its nose (for which the other languages were secretly thankful because COBOL did tend to maunder a bit about its glory days).
At that the floodgates of complaints was loosed, and the noise increased and increased and increased, to the point that squirrels came out of their holes, and birds peered over the edges of their nests. Suddenly the quiet glen was quiet no more.
What about me, said Pascal. I’m only used for training. Training! What good is a language that’s only used in school?
What about me, said SNOBOL. No one’s even heard of me!
What about me, said C#. I look like Prince!
Bite me! said C.
LISP would have spoken, but it had caught a glimpse of itself in the pond and fell in when it tried to meet itself coming. And Java was too busy trying to clean a bag out of Babbling Creek.
The noise rose and rose, and the babble increased and increased until across the meadow, from the trees roared a Voice.
Enough!
I tire of your bickering, I weary of your complaints. I grow bored with your list of whims and whines and ‘poor mes’.
I thought this was going to be a party! If I knew it was going to be nothing more than a bitch session, I would have stayed home.
The languages stopped their talking at once. Who was it that called out? They counted heads and arranged themselves alphabetically (C++ having to position Basic, because it never did learn the alphabet), and counted heads again and came up with the same answer from the North, South, East, and West — all the programming languages were accounted for.
As they puzzled and wondered, the bushes at the end parted and XML walked into the light.
XML! Exclaimed C++. What are you doing here? You’re not a programming language.
Tell that to the people who use me, said XML.
I’m considered the savior, the ultimate solution, the final word. Odes are written to me, flowers strewn at my feet, virgins sacrificed at my altar.
Programmers speak my name with awe. Companies insist on using me in all their projects, though they’re not sure why.
And whenever a problem occurs, someone somewhere says, “Let’s use XML”, and miracles occur and my very name has become a talisman against evil.
And yet, all I am is a simple little markup, from humble origins. It’s a burden, being XML.
At that XML sighed, and the other languages, moved by its plight gathered around…
…and tromped that little XML into the dirt. Yes, into the very dirt at their feet. Basic tromped, and C++ tromped, and Java cleaned and tromped and cleaned again, and COBOL tried to throw a kick at XML’s head but fell over on its cane. Even LISP pulled itself out of the pond to throw loopy hands around XML’s throat, but only managed to choke its ownself.
And each language could be heard to mumble as it tromped and tromped and tromped, with complete and utter glee:
Have to parse XML, eh? Have to have an XML API, eh? Have to work with SOAP and XML-RPC and RSS and RDF, eh?
Well parse this, you little markup asshole.
The End.
Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
Though in the end, this is all I ask for: to participate briefly in the lives of others at a low level; to speak in a plain, truth-telling voice; to not take myself too seriously; and then to have done with it. Since after all, it is one thing to write sports, but another thing entirely to live a life.
No mad passion, no heights of glory, no sentiment, and no mockery — this phrase from the book is the most fitting description of the lead character, Frank, a late 30’s sportswriter recently faced with several life upheavals. And my choice of this phrase is one that I know would meet with Frank’s, and the author’s, approval.
The Sportswriter was not an easy read for me. For the first time in 40+ years I could actually believe that there are basic, fundamental differences between men and women that go beyond the mere physical; differences so strong as to make Frank seem alien to me. Outside of my comprehension.
When I finished the book, I didn’t particularly like Frank, though I appreciated the skill and talent of Richard Ford’s writing. However, during my road trip I would think about specific scenes — Frank first provoking and then delighting in a punch to the face, the car in the basement, meetings with X — and I found the character growing on me. If I couldn’t actually understand Frank, I could acccept him. There is something about Frank’s plainly honest assessment of what he is — his disengaged interest, the reluctant self-reliance, the lack of great ambition, and most of all, his ‘dreaminess’ as he refers to it — that is noble. And sad. And, ultimately, both foreign and familiar to me.
The book covers Frank’s experiences over an Easter week, beginning with the anniversary of his son’s death, and ending with other dramatic events. During this week, Richard Ford draws Frank into a series of meetings with people who are most likely quite ordinary, but with Ford’s skill, become transformed into something extraordinary. Every chance occurrence is an event, including Frank’s brief encounter and conversation with a store attendant who gives him float to help the pain of a bruised jaw and bloody knee:
“Did you ever like write about skiing?” she says, and shakes her head at me as if she knows my answer before I say it. The breeze blows up dust and sprinkles our faces with it.
“No. I don’t even know how to ski.”
“Me neither,” she says and smiles again, then sighs. “So. Okay. Have a nice day. What’s your name, what’d you say it was?” She is already leaving.
“Frank.” For some reason, I do not say my last name.
“Frank,” she says.
As I watch her walk out into the lot toward the Ground Zero, her hands fishing in her pocket for a new cigarette, shoulders hunched against a cold breeze that isn’t blowing, her hopes for a nice day, I could guess, are as good as mine, both of out in the wind, expectant, available for an improvement. And my hopes are that a little luck will come both our ways. Life is not always ascendent.
It was Ford’s ability to make even the most plain and everyday event into something interesting (not necessarily exciting, spectacular, life changing, or passionate) that make this book into an exceptional reading experience. Each person who reads this book will read something different in the actions and the thoughts and the characters, and the discussions resulting from these differences can be illuminating in their own right.
Though The Sportswriter is written from a distinctly masculine perspective, I would strongly recommend this book to all women over 40. No, better make that 35. It helps to know more about the aliens that walk among us.
Book: The Sportswriter, by Richard Ford. Published in 1986. Recommended by Jonathon Delacour.
In my trip last week, I started out with no specific destination — just a general need to get out on the road, have some time to myself, to think. I first thought about heading to Boston, but decided Spring is a better time to visit the East, so I headed west. I then thought about traveling through Canada, even driving to Alaska; however, I had forgotten my passport and supposedly you can’t re-enter the country now without showing proof of native birth or citizenship papers.
Ultimately, I found myself heading to Sandpoint, Idaho, the place that I’m sure was at the back of my mind during all my traveling decisions. Mom’s new home.
It has been years since I had seen my mother, though we talk relatively often on the phone. She hasn’t changed much, though I notice that she still starts drinking at 9:00 in the morning. Since this wasn’t anything new, and I was no longer dependent on her driving me anywhere, her early drinking was nothing for me to remark on.
Monday night Mom and I were home alone, planning on a visit to Kettle Falls the next day. Somehow the conversation veered about to Mom’s various boyfriends in the past, both the good and the bad. I really liked Jim, a forestry service employee who was comfortable and caring for I and my brother. However, Mom really liked Hernando, a Columbian bi-sexual child abuser with a brother who had a very dubious profession of “emerald importer”. Yeah, emerald importer.
Since Mom had been gently tippling all day, she was particularly garrulous about her various boyfriends, and her divorce from my father, her disastrous second marriage and violent divorce from Knut. The same Knut who would later go to prison for throwing his second wife down a set of stairs in an attempt to kill her.
During our talk, I told Mom that I was writing a book, a book about my childhood, our hometown, coming of age. We discussed some of the things I would include. I wasn’t asking permission to write these things — I was informing her of my intent. By the end of the evening I had made a decision to return to St. Louis the next day. We hugged good-bye the next morning, in mutual though uneasy accord.
Since family and writing were on my mind when I returned home, I was surprised when I read about Mike Golby’s difficulties with his family and his own writing. My first reaction was to say, “write what you want Mike, and damn the consequences”, but that’s a quick response, without a lot of thought.
Regardless of the genre or the story, the best writing always has a kernel of the writer’s life in their work. Even forms of writing such as science fiction encompass human emotions and every day events, connecting the reader to the story by placing the familiar within unfamiliar and outlandish settings.
How much the writer exposes themselves and their lives in their work is dependent on how much this exposure adds to the writing. Writing a throwaway statement that one’s girlfriend is on drugs or brother cheats on his taxes is nothing more than cheap sensationalism at the expense of others. However, exposing real pain and difficulty, in carefully considered phrases, with the express purpose of drawing the reader in with the words — this isn’t sensationalism, this is art. The truest form of art. The most difficult form of art.
Mike Golby writes about his family, the effects of alcohol abuse, his wife’s rape. Uncompromising subjects exposed to the metal. No fade away into black, no wind ruffling the curtains of the windows. This displeases his family. No, this angers his family, and they want him to stop.
In response, several weblogging neighbors of Mike have talked about the issue of families, and writing (well, weblogging but to me they’re one and the same). Dorothea wrote:
Blogging threatens such families for the same reasons it threatens PR-dependent corporations. It threatens the fiction, the public façade of perfection, the private walls around anger and pain and disagreement and error.
Jonathon continued this thought, focusing on society’s insistence on portraying families in a sentimental manner:
I’m not suggesting that happy families are impossible, or even unusual. Rather I’m protesting a pervasive myth based on what Dorothea Salo calls “clichés and polite fictions.” Nor am I saying there’s no room at all for sentimental depictions of the happy family but we live in cultures that—proportionately—offer hardly anything else: not just things that are “not entirely true” but things that are manifestly false. It’s this preponderance of family kitsch that makes a weblog like Mike Golby’s so precious. In Blogaria, most everybody aspires to be a journalist. Artists are distressingly rare.
AKMA continues Jonathon’s disagreement with Mike’s concern about free speech, writing:
Like Jonathon, I demur at the suggestion that Mike’s “right to free speech” warrants our support and intervention. I’m amenable to free speech, by all means, but (again, as Jonathon points out) the heart of the matter here concerns not Mike’s rights, but his practice of honesty (well, allowing for some occasional exaggeration). Where convention dictates that people pretend that the domestic relations of every family are jolly, cheery, polite, affectionate, sober, chaste, responsible, and commendable in every respect, Mike reminded us that few families actually live out that sentimental myth (Jonathon was right about “sentimentality,” too).
Not being a sentimental person, or having come from what one could term a ‘traditionally happy family’, I can agree with Dorothea, Jonathon, and AKMA; about sentiment, family, and honesty in writing.
However, I also agree with Loren when he writes:
Jonathon suggests the role of art is to show the truth about life, to strip away sentimentality, but I would argue that revealing the “truth” in this sense is only one aspect of art. An equally important role is to show what life “can be,” to hold up models of what we want our lives to become.
…
I would argue that both are real, and both are the domain of the true artist. The artist does not have to choose one or the other to be an “artist,” though contemporary art critics certainly seem to have come down on the side of angst and despair. Emphasizing one at the expense of the other, though, seems to be a distortion of reality, a distortion of truth, whatever that might be.
Perhaps the issue is more of rejecting that which is mawkish and maudlin, embracing instead fond reminisces and a hopeful disposition. (Though I’m not sure how fondly reminiscent or hopeful I am of Loren’s use of the phrase “pulling a Shelley” to denote putting one’s foot in one mouth.)
Mike, eloquence escapes me and I’m fresh out of the profound. I’m left with my original advice: write whatever you want, and to hell with the consequences.
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.