Thank the Gods for Blogging
Blogs are great for working stuff out on. I can type my heart out, knowing that someone, somewhere, at some time, will read it. It helps me to know I'm writing to an audience. It forces me to be clear.
Today, thanks to Chasmyn, I'm working out my thoughts on plagiarism. We don't think twice when we write, "I just read this great thing at NewsOnTheNet (insert linkage) and I'm reposting it here, and ranting about it" Copy and paste is pretty damned easy. I'm guilty of it myself. But I never take credit for it. I link to whatever I'm yacking about, and give credit to the authors. I never pretend someone else's work is my own. Why would I? I love finding good blogs and spreading the word about them. I love visiting a friend's blog and seeing they've added someone I discovered.
Now then. All original thoughts and ideas are copyrighted. Our laws say so. Even when an author (and all bloggers are authors) doesn't state that their work is copyrighted, it is copyrighted. When you copy someone's material, and pretend that it's your own, it is plagiarism. It is theft. And you are breaking the law.
Some dirtball in St. Louis plagiarized a well known blogger. Multiple times. The well known blogger has hired a lawyer. I applaud her. The second she puts up a paypal button, I'll be donating to her lawyer fees. (of course, this blogger has a lot of integrity, and may never ask for donations. If she does, I'll donate. In pressing a law suit, she's doing me and everyone else a favor.)
The dirtball recently removed the post that was the worst example of plagiarism, but guess what? Google makes copies. It's called a google cache. And until Google re-checks that tiny little blog, his theft will live on.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Another Bush Rant but you should read it anyway
A few days ago, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections to the change in overtime thing. Bush (supposedly) never knew they were there. Last year, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections. Bush never saw them. I know he never saw them because they were kept on a side street a quarter of a mile away. This is happening all over the country!
It bothers me. It bothers me in a way I'm finding hard to express. Every other President I can think of has driven through crowds of protesters. Why can't this one? Is he afraid that someone will attempt to harm him? I doubt it. Is he unwilling to see the protesters? More likely. Will he one day declare, "Let them eat cake", being totally unaware of the plights and upsets of the citizens?
My in-laws go to Washington, and have dinner with every President. They were upset when Clinton was in office, because the "dinner" consisted of eating separately from the President, and watching He and Hillary walk past. They felt horribly snubbed because they were penned behind a velvet rope, and didn't even get to shake his hand.
(I agree, btw. It was horribly rude.)
Bush on the other hand, shook hands with everyone, let them take photos and even signed his autograph. My in-laws love him. They sent my son a framed photo montage, including a White House napkin signed by GW Bush himself.
I don't know what to do with the darned thing. L has taken it to school twice, which has only served to alienate him farther from his classmates. I think they resent him knowing someone who is special enough to go to the White House. (sigh)
I wish they'd sent the autograph of a President I like. We keep it in the closet "so the sunlight doesn't fade it". Isn't that awful?
My point is: GW will meet with other politically connected people, but he doesn't want to see anyone who doesn't care for him. I think he can't handle being disliked. I also think that if you can't handle being disliked, you shouldn't try to be President of the United States. When you're President, some people will actively hate you. Some will love you, and most will change their opinions on a daily basis. It comes with the job.
A few days ago, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections to the change in overtime thing. Bush (supposedly) never knew they were there. Last year, Bush came to St. Louis. Protesters were there, showing their objections. Bush never saw them. I know he never saw them because they were kept on a side street a quarter of a mile away. This is happening all over the country!
It bothers me. It bothers me in a way I'm finding hard to express. Every other President I can think of has driven through crowds of protesters. Why can't this one? Is he afraid that someone will attempt to harm him? I doubt it. Is he unwilling to see the protesters? More likely. Will he one day declare, "Let them eat cake", being totally unaware of the plights and upsets of the citizens?
My in-laws go to Washington, and have dinner with every President. They were upset when Clinton was in office, because the "dinner" consisted of eating separately from the President, and watching He and Hillary walk past. They felt horribly snubbed because they were penned behind a velvet rope, and didn't even get to shake his hand.
(I agree, btw. It was horribly rude.)
Bush on the other hand, shook hands with everyone, let them take photos and even signed his autograph. My in-laws love him. They sent my son a framed photo montage, including a White House napkin signed by GW Bush himself.
I don't know what to do with the darned thing. L has taken it to school twice, which has only served to alienate him farther from his classmates. I think they resent him knowing someone who is special enough to go to the White House. (sigh)
I wish they'd sent the autograph of a President I like. We keep it in the closet "so the sunlight doesn't fade it". Isn't that awful?
My point is: GW will meet with other politically connected people, but he doesn't want to see anyone who doesn't care for him. I think he can't handle being disliked. I also think that if you can't handle being disliked, you shouldn't try to be President of the United States. When you're President, some people will actively hate you. Some will love you, and most will change their opinions on a daily basis. It comes with the job.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Creativity
I love creative people. My hubby is creative, my friends are creative, even my family can be seen coming up with creative ways of doing things. When I was a child, my creativity marked me as "weird". My classmates were not interested in building a better mousetrap, and they weren't interested in seeing mine, either.
I don't know what they're doing now. I'll bet their lives are pretty mundane; whereas mine stays fresh and interesting.
Take today, for example. L got a rock tumbler for Christmas. Tonight we tossed some rough emeralds in it, along with rough grit and water, and set it to tumbling. It's really loud. L wasn't too keen on listening to it tumble away for the next several days. Heh, neither was I. :) Hubby put it under the bar in the basement. That muffled the sound some, but not enough. So he put it in the downstairs refrigerator. That deadens the sound quite nicely.
See? Only creative people would think of something like that.
I love creative people. My hubby is creative, my friends are creative, even my family can be seen coming up with creative ways of doing things. When I was a child, my creativity marked me as "weird". My classmates were not interested in building a better mousetrap, and they weren't interested in seeing mine, either.
I don't know what they're doing now. I'll bet their lives are pretty mundane; whereas mine stays fresh and interesting.
Take today, for example. L got a rock tumbler for Christmas. Tonight we tossed some rough emeralds in it, along with rough grit and water, and set it to tumbling. It's really loud. L wasn't too keen on listening to it tumble away for the next several days. Heh, neither was I. :) Hubby put it under the bar in the basement. That muffled the sound some, but not enough. So he put it in the downstairs refrigerator. That deadens the sound quite nicely.
See? Only creative people would think of something like that.
Neighborhood News
You may have seen it on the local news. I was busy doing things that were more fun than watching tv, and sadly missed it. However; I did not miss it this morning.
My days go like this: Get up, watch the sun rise, wake L, go out in the bitter cold to start the truck, drive son to school, yell at traffic, etc.
Today, as we drove down Michigan Avenue, we saw a disgusting sight. One whole corner of my neighborhood was cluttered up with stuff. I saw things neatly lining the curb, and first thought, "Oh dear, an eviction."
Evictions always bother me because people think the things are there for the taking. I actually once saw a little girl trying to guard her family's stuff, her parents frantically throwing things in a truck, while scavengers darted in and swiped things like the tv and end tables. It's theft, plain and simple, and I think it's made worse when people steal from someone who is now evicted. It sickens me, and I usually cry when I see an eviction.
So today I saw an eviction, but what was out there lining the corner went a full block. I saw a ton of black trash bags, boxes full of old magazines, and crap that looked like it had been salvaged from the dumpster. I saw at least 3 junky tv stands. The trash went down to the alley, and around the corner to the CCBF. That's the Carondolet Community Betterment Federation. It's run by some nuns from the Sisters of St. Joseph. They work their habits off to keep my neighborhood nice.
Ok. So I saw all this garbage and thought, "No. It couldn't be an eviction. Some elderly pack-rat must have died, and the landlord threw all the stuff out... I hope it's a trash day, because the CCBF is gonna have fits over this mess."
See how I turned it into a nice, comfortable story? I felt really bad for the imaginary pack-rat who had perhaps died from the cold in his or her sleep. It was a sad, uncomfortable thought; but slightly better than thinking about eviction. Then I came up with an even better thought. Maybe all the apartments were vacant, and the landlord was fixing the place up. That would certainly account for the impossible amount of trash lining the curb. Yes. That had to be it.
I drove L to school, ran some errands, and came home around 10:30. The junk was still out there. When I went to get L from school, it was still out there. When we came home maybe half an hour later, it was gone. Not one scrap was left. It looked like the sidewalk had been swept, it was so clean. I felt a surge of pride for having the CCBF taking care of my neighborhood.
Mom called at 5:00. The mess was at the top of the news. (shows how exciting St. Louis is, doesn't it?) What happened was one person was $4000 behind on his/her rent, and got evicted. It was a 20 year accumulation of stuff. The scavengers had already been there and gone by the time I drove my son to school. The city showed up with, I'm not kidding you, a front loader and several dump trucks. They loaded up all the junk and took it away. The media had a field day videotaping it. Now they're raising a ruckus about how terrible it was that this person's possessions were unceremoniously carted away to the dump. What were they supposed to do with it? Should the police have guarded the trash bags and boxes until the evictee could move it all? The news people think so.
I didn't catch the news, only the commercials, but they made it sound like a lawsuit was already in the works.
I saw what was out there. It was trash.
You may have seen it on the local news. I was busy doing things that were more fun than watching tv, and sadly missed it. However; I did not miss it this morning.
My days go like this: Get up, watch the sun rise, wake L, go out in the bitter cold to start the truck, drive son to school, yell at traffic, etc.
Today, as we drove down Michigan Avenue, we saw a disgusting sight. One whole corner of my neighborhood was cluttered up with stuff. I saw things neatly lining the curb, and first thought, "Oh dear, an eviction."
Evictions always bother me because people think the things are there for the taking. I actually once saw a little girl trying to guard her family's stuff, her parents frantically throwing things in a truck, while scavengers darted in and swiped things like the tv and end tables. It's theft, plain and simple, and I think it's made worse when people steal from someone who is now evicted. It sickens me, and I usually cry when I see an eviction.
So today I saw an eviction, but what was out there lining the corner went a full block. I saw a ton of black trash bags, boxes full of old magazines, and crap that looked like it had been salvaged from the dumpster. I saw at least 3 junky tv stands. The trash went down to the alley, and around the corner to the CCBF. That's the Carondolet Community Betterment Federation. It's run by some nuns from the Sisters of St. Joseph. They work their habits off to keep my neighborhood nice.
Ok. So I saw all this garbage and thought, "No. It couldn't be an eviction. Some elderly pack-rat must have died, and the landlord threw all the stuff out... I hope it's a trash day, because the CCBF is gonna have fits over this mess."
See how I turned it into a nice, comfortable story? I felt really bad for the imaginary pack-rat who had perhaps died from the cold in his or her sleep. It was a sad, uncomfortable thought; but slightly better than thinking about eviction. Then I came up with an even better thought. Maybe all the apartments were vacant, and the landlord was fixing the place up. That would certainly account for the impossible amount of trash lining the curb. Yes. That had to be it.
I drove L to school, ran some errands, and came home around 10:30. The junk was still out there. When I went to get L from school, it was still out there. When we came home maybe half an hour later, it was gone. Not one scrap was left. It looked like the sidewalk had been swept, it was so clean. I felt a surge of pride for having the CCBF taking care of my neighborhood.
Mom called at 5:00. The mess was at the top of the news. (shows how exciting St. Louis is, doesn't it?) What happened was one person was $4000 behind on his/her rent, and got evicted. It was a 20 year accumulation of stuff. The scavengers had already been there and gone by the time I drove my son to school. The city showed up with, I'm not kidding you, a front loader and several dump trucks. They loaded up all the junk and took it away. The media had a field day videotaping it. Now they're raising a ruckus about how terrible it was that this person's possessions were unceremoniously carted away to the dump. What were they supposed to do with it? Should the police have guarded the trash bags and boxes until the evictee could move it all? The news people think so.
I didn't catch the news, only the commercials, but they made it sound like a lawsuit was already in the works.
I saw what was out there. It was trash.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Frustrating and Depressing stuff
Sick, wounded U.S. troops held in squalor article written in October.
The Bill of Rights Defense Committee lists cities, counties and states that have passed resolutions, ordinances or ballot initiatives protecting the civil liberties of their residents. The numbers are depressingly low.
Articles relating to the Iraqi War body count, vaccine problems and poor medical care for our troops
Sigh. There's a site out there called Fear Bush. Well... we could fear him... or we could do something about him. We could try and get him impeached, or (gasp) we could vote him out of office.
Sick, wounded U.S. troops held in squalor article written in October.
The Bill of Rights Defense Committee lists cities, counties and states that have passed resolutions, ordinances or ballot initiatives protecting the civil liberties of their residents. The numbers are depressingly low.
Articles relating to the Iraqi War body count, vaccine problems and poor medical care for our troops
Sigh. There's a site out there called Fear Bush. Well... we could fear him... or we could do something about him. We could try and get him impeached, or (gasp) we could vote him out of office.
Lucid Dreaming, oh yeah
I was dreaming this morning, but I wasn't paying any attention. My alarm went off and I slapped the snooze, that being the entire reason for having it set so early, I like to con myself that I'm getting bonus sleep.
I slapped the snooze and went back to my dream, only I was awake enough to be curious what I was dreaming about.
I was dreaming about Pathways, a pagan supply store in St. Louis. More specifically, I was dreaming about two women working in Pathways. They were having a discussion about the prophecy that had been made about their store. The prophecy foretold of an Irish woman who would, if treated right, bring blessings to the store. This reminded the lucid part of my brain that I haven't been to Pathways since they moved to South County. I decided to go (dream) shopping there.
I put myself into the dream and entered the store. One of the women looked at my red hair, and I got great service. I was trying to think of an appropriate way of telling them that I wasn't who they hoped I was, without giving away that I'd over heard their conversation. Since I wasn't in the store while they were talking, admitting I knew about the prophecy would just convince them that I was who they hoped I was.
I saw a woman walking across the parking lot toward the store. She was short, round and old. She had a walking stick. She was dressed entirely in black, and her outfit was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen. It had fringe and sparkly geegaws all over it. Everything was the kind of black that sucks in light, yet as the doodads swung in the wind they were almost iridescent. Can a thing be iridescent without reflecting light? In my dream it was.
I thought to myself, "There's your Irish woman," and went to the checkout. While being checked out, the lady behind the counter asked me, "Are you, by any chance... Irish?" I gave my usual, "Nope! I'm Welsh." Both women looked a little crestfallen and a little pissed that I'd fooled them. (No, I didn't fool them. They had fooled themselves.) To make them feel better I offered, "Well, I'm a teeny bit Irish, but no more than I am Native American." And then, before I could shut my mouth, I pointed at the woman in black, who was just reaching the door and said, "There's your prophecy." I got out of the store as quickly as I could. I'd made it to the truck when I remembered I hadn't bought any herbs. I always buy herbs when I go to Pathways. So I headed back to the store. Inside, the woman in black was raising a ruckus. Literally. She was squawking and flinging shit on the walls. She had deliberately messed herself and was actually flinging the stuff around. I went in and projected calmness so I could buy my herbs in peace. Both employees were behind the counter, clinging to each other and expressing outrage. The woman in black turned and looked at me, poo in hand; and I felt her think, "That's ok, I'll wait."
I bought my herbs, got out, and pondered what I'd seen. The second the door closed behind me, she was raising a ruckus again. Part of me wanted to help the employees of the store, part of me wanted to butt out and leave them to it.
The desire to help overcame wisdom, and I went back to the store. There was something about the woman in black. I knew I should recognise her, but I couldn't place her. The store was immaculate, except for the brown patties on the walls. The woman in black stumped up to me, using her walking stick to support most of her weight. Her hands were clean. She looked up at me with glittery dark eyes and said, "You're nothing." And I laughed. I knew that I was supposed to feel bad. I knew the women behind the counter were supposed to hear her judgement of me, and agree with it, and I was supposed to feel bad. But I didn't. I laughed and said, "I'm not here to be something!"
The woman in black said, "If you stop this, I'll make sure they remember."
I said, "And I'll make sure they forget." Thinking that, with time, I could go back to flying under the radar of the St. Louis Pagan community.
Then her familiarity clicked. I said, "I know you. You're Crow!"
She smiled, showing her old lady teeth, and turned into a beautiful black crow. She flew up to my fingers, rested there long enough to shit on my hand, and flew out through the (closed) door.
Then the alarm went off again and I got up.
What an unusual dream. The women at Pathways can handle anything that comes through their door. They don't need my help. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny.
I was dreaming this morning, but I wasn't paying any attention. My alarm went off and I slapped the snooze, that being the entire reason for having it set so early, I like to con myself that I'm getting bonus sleep.
I slapped the snooze and went back to my dream, only I was awake enough to be curious what I was dreaming about.
I was dreaming about Pathways, a pagan supply store in St. Louis. More specifically, I was dreaming about two women working in Pathways. They were having a discussion about the prophecy that had been made about their store. The prophecy foretold of an Irish woman who would, if treated right, bring blessings to the store. This reminded the lucid part of my brain that I haven't been to Pathways since they moved to South County. I decided to go (dream) shopping there.
I put myself into the dream and entered the store. One of the women looked at my red hair, and I got great service. I was trying to think of an appropriate way of telling them that I wasn't who they hoped I was, without giving away that I'd over heard their conversation. Since I wasn't in the store while they were talking, admitting I knew about the prophecy would just convince them that I was who they hoped I was.
I saw a woman walking across the parking lot toward the store. She was short, round and old. She had a walking stick. She was dressed entirely in black, and her outfit was the most spectacular thing I'd ever seen. It had fringe and sparkly geegaws all over it. Everything was the kind of black that sucks in light, yet as the doodads swung in the wind they were almost iridescent. Can a thing be iridescent without reflecting light? In my dream it was.
I thought to myself, "There's your Irish woman," and went to the checkout. While being checked out, the lady behind the counter asked me, "Are you, by any chance... Irish?" I gave my usual, "Nope! I'm Welsh." Both women looked a little crestfallen and a little pissed that I'd fooled them. (No, I didn't fool them. They had fooled themselves.) To make them feel better I offered, "Well, I'm a teeny bit Irish, but no more than I am Native American." And then, before I could shut my mouth, I pointed at the woman in black, who was just reaching the door and said, "There's your prophecy." I got out of the store as quickly as I could. I'd made it to the truck when I remembered I hadn't bought any herbs. I always buy herbs when I go to Pathways. So I headed back to the store. Inside, the woman in black was raising a ruckus. Literally. She was squawking and flinging shit on the walls. She had deliberately messed herself and was actually flinging the stuff around. I went in and projected calmness so I could buy my herbs in peace. Both employees were behind the counter, clinging to each other and expressing outrage. The woman in black turned and looked at me, poo in hand; and I felt her think, "That's ok, I'll wait."
I bought my herbs, got out, and pondered what I'd seen. The second the door closed behind me, she was raising a ruckus again. Part of me wanted to help the employees of the store, part of me wanted to butt out and leave them to it.
The desire to help overcame wisdom, and I went back to the store. There was something about the woman in black. I knew I should recognise her, but I couldn't place her. The store was immaculate, except for the brown patties on the walls. The woman in black stumped up to me, using her walking stick to support most of her weight. Her hands were clean. She looked up at me with glittery dark eyes and said, "You're nothing." And I laughed. I knew that I was supposed to feel bad. I knew the women behind the counter were supposed to hear her judgement of me, and agree with it, and I was supposed to feel bad. But I didn't. I laughed and said, "I'm not here to be something!"
The woman in black said, "If you stop this, I'll make sure they remember."
I said, "And I'll make sure they forget." Thinking that, with time, I could go back to flying under the radar of the St. Louis Pagan community.
Then her familiarity clicked. I said, "I know you. You're Crow!"
She smiled, showing her old lady teeth, and turned into a beautiful black crow. She flew up to my fingers, rested there long enough to shit on my hand, and flew out through the (closed) door.
Then the alarm went off again and I got up.
What an unusual dream. The women at Pathways can handle anything that comes through their door. They don't need my help. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Duh..mbass
Some spark of clarity had me type "stories from my past" into google. Voila! All the stuff I was looking for yesterday. See, I search weird. I actually thought "autobiographical blog" would find well, a shitload of autobiographical blogs. Yeah.
One autobiographical blog, found under "stories from my past" tells the story of this poor guy's house catching fire, and the kindness of strangers. I'm bringing it up here because (heh) my life is still a soap opera. Interesting things happen around me. I'm lucky that I get to interact with life in neato ways.
Although Random Redhead is all about one decade, I have stories from my more recent past, too. The fire-victim-guy reminded me of my poor neighbor across the street.
This woman had problems. She moved onto our street after divorcing her abusive bum of a husband. She began dating a man who owned his own construction business. That's a polite way of saying he had a truck, a logo, and some friends. The man was a bit down on his luck, business wise; so he set his girlfriend's house on fire.
See why I live in the city? Stuff like that rarely happens in the county.
Living directly across the street from her, I noticed the smoke. The fire truck pulled up as I was grabbing the phone to call 911. It's nice to have a fire station a few blocks away. The firefighters did their job and drove away. Us neighbors polled each other for C's work number. Nobody had it. Nobody even knew where she worked.
I spent several hours fretting over my neighbor coming home and finding half her house gone. It just wasn't right. Somebody should tell her, and no one knew where to find her.
Around 2 in the afternoon, a Red Cross van pulled up outside her house. "How nice," I thought. I didn't know the red cross showed up for a simple house fire. I felt reassured. They would know how to council C far better than I would.
I waited. The red cross waited. C was working late. It was cold outside, and that van had been sitting there for hours. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I made a huge thermos of hot chocolate, grabbed some coffee cups and went out to the van.
The red cross comes prepared. They already had warm drinks, and everything else they needed. They were used to waiting. I was still standing by the van with my small offering of cocoa, when C finally came home.
I didn't know what to do, so I poured a cup for her and her daughter. The red cross people looked at me like I was a particularly smelly pile of dung, and I realized I'd committed yet another faux pas.
In hindsight, I think C was glad I was there. She hugged me, cried all over me, and didn't spill a single drop of the hot chocolate. She took me on a tour of her burned home, and we agreed the damage wasn't too bad. (the smell, on the other hand was awful) She didn't let the red cross help her until after she had walked through her house, drank some cocoa, used my phone and toured her house a second time. Only then was she able to acknowledge the presence of a charity.
I hope the red cross is used to that too.
Some spark of clarity had me type "stories from my past" into google. Voila! All the stuff I was looking for yesterday. See, I search weird. I actually thought "autobiographical blog" would find well, a shitload of autobiographical blogs. Yeah.
One autobiographical blog, found under "stories from my past" tells the story of this poor guy's house catching fire, and the kindness of strangers. I'm bringing it up here because (heh) my life is still a soap opera. Interesting things happen around me. I'm lucky that I get to interact with life in neato ways.
Although Random Redhead is all about one decade, I have stories from my more recent past, too. The fire-victim-guy reminded me of my poor neighbor across the street.
This woman had problems. She moved onto our street after divorcing her abusive bum of a husband. She began dating a man who owned his own construction business. That's a polite way of saying he had a truck, a logo, and some friends. The man was a bit down on his luck, business wise; so he set his girlfriend's house on fire.
See why I live in the city? Stuff like that rarely happens in the county.
Living directly across the street from her, I noticed the smoke. The fire truck pulled up as I was grabbing the phone to call 911. It's nice to have a fire station a few blocks away. The firefighters did their job and drove away. Us neighbors polled each other for C's work number. Nobody had it. Nobody even knew where she worked.
I spent several hours fretting over my neighbor coming home and finding half her house gone. It just wasn't right. Somebody should tell her, and no one knew where to find her.
Around 2 in the afternoon, a Red Cross van pulled up outside her house. "How nice," I thought. I didn't know the red cross showed up for a simple house fire. I felt reassured. They would know how to council C far better than I would.
I waited. The red cross waited. C was working late. It was cold outside, and that van had been sitting there for hours. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I made a huge thermos of hot chocolate, grabbed some coffee cups and went out to the van.
The red cross comes prepared. They already had warm drinks, and everything else they needed. They were used to waiting. I was still standing by the van with my small offering of cocoa, when C finally came home.
I didn't know what to do, so I poured a cup for her and her daughter. The red cross people looked at me like I was a particularly smelly pile of dung, and I realized I'd committed yet another faux pas.
In hindsight, I think C was glad I was there. She hugged me, cried all over me, and didn't spill a single drop of the hot chocolate. She took me on a tour of her burned home, and we agreed the damage wasn't too bad. (the smell, on the other hand was awful) She didn't let the red cross help her until after she had walked through her house, drank some cocoa, used my phone and toured her house a second time. Only then was she able to acknowledge the presence of a charity.
I hope the red cross is used to that too.
Watching History Unfold
A while back, we got a satellite dish. I've been quite pleased with it. It works great in the rain, the picture is never grainy, there is no static. We have access to all kinds of strange t.v. shows, too. Nothing good on TLC? That's ok, I can watch a cattle auction!
One of these little-viewed stations is the NASA channel. Tonight the Hubby-Man and I watched people watch their computers tell them what was happening with the latest go at Mars. Now pictures are coming in. Who needs sleep when I can look at pics of Mars? Not only do I get to view images from the rover as soon as NASA does, they have commentators! Wow.
I snicker loudly at those of you who still have cable. You'll have to wait for the pics to show up on the net. I'm seeing them now.
A while back, we got a satellite dish. I've been quite pleased with it. It works great in the rain, the picture is never grainy, there is no static. We have access to all kinds of strange t.v. shows, too. Nothing good on TLC? That's ok, I can watch a cattle auction!
One of these little-viewed stations is the NASA channel. Tonight the Hubby-Man and I watched people watch their computers tell them what was happening with the latest go at Mars. Now pictures are coming in. Who needs sleep when I can look at pics of Mars? Not only do I get to view images from the rover as soon as NASA does, they have commentators! Wow.
I snicker loudly at those of you who still have cable. You'll have to wait for the pics to show up on the net. I'm seeing them now.
Saturday, January 03, 2004
The Keychain
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
I've been thinking a lot about a keychain I once owned. That dirty white heart declaring, "My Life Is A Soap Opera!" will pop into my head at the oddest times. Mom bought it for me back in the early 80's. I kept it on my key ring until it fell apart. I kept it even when I didn't believe my life was a soap opera. I'd catch it's message while opening the door and think, "I'm trying to be special."
Now I'm doing it again. :)
RR began as an attempt to tell some amusing stories. It grew into a novel (or series of essays long enough to be a novel), and developed a purpose. To show the middle class what urban life can look like. I've hit a point that I don't really want to write about. I don't want to write about growing up. I don't want to share about discovering witchcraft, and my teen years were all about witchcraft. Not writing that feels like I'm only telling half the story, and keeping the juiciest bits to myself to boot. Adding witchcraft to the novel completely changes the direction and purpose of my tales. It drifts into the world of subjective fantasy. I would loose my audience.
Oh, I have a few stories about my teen years that would fit. I can (and will) write about sneaking out, lighting peoples butts on fire, stupid drinking incidents and ways I broadened my horizons with Rocky Horror, or meeting the male prostitutes who worked Tower Grove Park.
I find that now that I'm nearing the end of the book, I don't want to give it up. I don't want to stop writing, and I certainly don't want to put my baby in the hands of an editor. (sigh)
That's why I haven't been blogging recently. I've been busy procrastinating.
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