words
thinking about
Dec 23rd
I am thinking about some of you who I know read my blog with some regularity. There are those of you who rarely comment but read. There are those of you who do comment. There are those of you who send me e-mails instead of commenting publicly.
To all of you, I want to say thank you.
Thank you for taking time out of your busy lives to give my thoughts a moment. Thank you for pausing to hear my ramblings. Thank you for taking the time to share in the joys of my life (and there are many – I’m not under any misconceptions about that) and to share in the sadness of my life (thankfully, not as much in this category).
Thank you for supporting me, for giving me a “way to go” on occasion and for giving me that kick in the butt when I need it.
Someone recently wrote to me and said that she thought I would write here even if no one read it. And that’s true. I’ve been writing in journals for decades and no one has ever read those (although, that is to change soon – I’ll be doing a Retro Saturday post starting tomorrow – just to assess how far I’ve come and what my dreams and fears were back in the day). However, you all make this much more enjoyable.
I like knowing that I’m not alone in some of my thoughts. I like knowing that there are people out there who care about me and who do the most awesome things to make sure I know that.
I have made friends through this blog. I have come to care about some of you very much and I appreciate everythign you share with me.
Some people I’ve known for years and have even met in person. Others I’ve only known through the virtual medium. However I know you, know that you are cherished and appreciated. You make this all worth the effort and the time. You make me smile (and sometimes even cry with the poignancy in which you write).
I don’t want to leave anyone out but I need to do something here. I would like to make two special mentions just because I adore these two people and they have made a huge impact on my life (and, fortunately for me, I’ve met both of them in person and they are just as wonderful there).
Sometimes those we love are having a difficult time and I want both of these people to know that I am thinking of them and sending healing thoughts to both.
ash – I love you. I miss your writings. I miss your musings. I miss my friend, sweetpea. Give the prince and princess big hugs for me and make sure their mommy knows that she is cherished. Don’t hide out for too long. I want to hear from you.
On Vancouver Island, I was fortunate enough to meet some wonderful people and to spend time in their house, enjoying the warmth of family. Last Christmas, I was there, with them. This Christmas, I want to send out special thoughts to them. J., heal well. I’m sending positive thoughts your way and thinking of you daily. Don’t let that furry goodness you’ve got bounce off of you anymore! :-) Much love to you and your family. You are loved from down here in the south.
And to the rest of my readers: thank you again. You make this all so much fun. I enjoy knowing you are here with me, sharing in all of this fun stuff we call life. Much love and appreciation.
dawn
the tools we use
Nov 22nd
In the same Harvey Keitel movie from the entry below, Keitel’s character tells another would-be writer that typewriters force writers to pay attention to each word carefully because the writer can’t backspace, highlight, and delete. The entire process is much more time-consuming with a typewriter.
So, this got me to thinking. When the typewriter was invented, did writers who wrote with ink, longhand, say the same thing to those kids who used that new technology?
“It’s not the same, kid, if you don’t get ink stains on your fingers and hands. There is more power in the word when you’re getting dirty.”
Is there validity to this? Were we more careful when we wrote with ink and a quill? Did we think about the words and choose them wisely? When we started using manufactured pens, did our words lose some of their meaning or impact? Did the typewriter allow some leniency in mastering the writer’s job? Do computers detract from the power of the written word?
Sure, there are times when I long for the simplicity of days gone by. When kids could ride their bikes after dark and parents wouldn’t have to worry that they would be abducted or assaulted. When life seemed safer. I do long for those times – sometimes.
But I’m a technology junkie. I like my digital camera (although I still have 2 manuals that I love just as much) and I love my iPod and my jump drive and my pda and my laptops and my desktops. I love technology. I like seeing the new and innovative things that arise out of someone’s need to make something work easier for him or herself.
I don’t think it’s the technology that hampers the writing. A good writer is a good writer no matter what tools are employed. It is the willingness to explore every avenue of the mind and create something worth reading that makes a good writer.
non-moving images
Nov 12th
I couldn’t really call this “moving images” or “moving pictures” since they aren’t moving (although, the shot to the right was taken while I sat in the back of my brother’s van, going down I-17 at 75mph). Anyway, I wanted to play with words and this photo did that perfectly for me.
As I’ve stated previously, I’ve been thinking a lot about identity and how we are defined by our words. I’ve also been thinking about how we are defined by the photos we publish, either as stand-alone or alongside our words. What do they say about us?
If I post a whimsical photograph of my niece and nephew, does that tell you something about me? Does it tell you that I adore them? Does it tell you that I have fun with them? Does it tell you that I want to catch them in humiliating poses that I can torture them with when they are teenagers (ha! They’ll have tortured me so much by then that I won’t have the energy!).
If I post an image of a broken window in a post about refugees, what does it add to the words? Does it make you think about the broken spirits of people? Does it make you wonder what the circumstances are? Does it add to the overall effect of the writing?
I carefully choose the photographs for my entries. They mean something to me in relation to what I am writing. For homelessness, I chose the image of a man who was sleeping on a bench in downtown Flagstaff. I was down there at 6 a.m. this summer and his snores could be heard across the square. I didn’t want to intrude but I also couldn’t resist photographing him. The way he was slumped over, his bike balanced, his solitude, it all spoke to me. When I chose that image for the piece, I felt that it fit perfectly. I felt that it added to what I wanted to say about not having a bed to sleep in.
Books are made into movies all of the time. Just this year, Jarhead, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, The Chronicles of Narnia, and more, I’m sure, are movies. How does that add to the value of the printed word? Do moving images detract or enhance our appreciation of the books?
I didn’t like Jarhead the book and I didn’t like Jarhead the movie (although I liked the movie slightly more than the book). They didn’t complement one another for me. The movie didn’t add any rhetorical value to the book for me.
The Harry Potter movies have long been a favorite. They add a depth to the books that my mind fills in. Now I get to see it in living color. The same is true of the Lord of the Rings books. I can only hope the Narnia books will be done justice (because they were favorites when I was a kid and I still own copies of them).
One of the things I love about photography is that I can capture a feeling or a sentiment that I can’t necessarily put into words. As the old addage says, “A picture is worth a 1000 words.”
refugee
Nov 9th
This weekend I watched the movie, Beyond Borders. It is the story of a woman who finds herself becoming an activist within the UN for the plight of refugees around the world. It is a haunting movie.
It made me think about being the labels we put on people and how this affects our perception of our own (and others’) identity.
Throughout Africa there are refugee camps to house the people who are escaping from oppressive (and killing) governments. There are the “Lost Boys” of Sudan who will walk hundreds of miles and for many days to escape persecution.
The news media began calling Hurricane Katrina evacuees “refugees” when they were housed in camps in Houston and elsewhere.
But I wonder about these labels. What does it do to a person to be called a “refugee?” How does that affect the way that those people see the world and how they see themselves?
I wonder about American “refugees.” Do they get some sense of entitlement from having that kind of status? (I don’t think this would apply to the African “refugees” because I think they are just trying to survive, find a bite to eat, not die from malaria, etc.) Do the American refugees feel like they are owed something for the devastation they’ve gone through and, if so, what? Or are they just exhausted and hurt and scared?
We label things wantonly. We label them so that we can get a picture in our mind of what is happening. We label so we can compartmentalize. We label so that we can say “us” and “them.”
But what does it all mean?
And who’s to say that tomorrow, you or I won’t be labeled “refugee?”
this i believe
Nov 2nd
National Public Radio (NPR) in the U.S. has been doing a series called This I Believe. It is based on a 1950s radio show.
I’ve been thinking about the things I believe in and what I would say if I entered an essay. For me, it all comes down to family. I think that one event, out of so many, really defines what that means to me.
–
Justice was born in the early morning hours of a June day in 2003. He surprised us all and arrived a month early. As his sister and I slept, waiting for a call from my brother and his wife, Justice fought his way into the world.
One call was all it took and the family phone network was in action. Family members went to the hospital to rejoice in the birth of another baby and welcome him to the world. We also went to give support to my brother and his wife.
Justice was born a month early and had a hole in his heart. He was also diagnosed with Down Syndrome. He was on ventilators and all kinds of machines for that first month of his life. When he was finally released, he had to remain on oxygen because he just couldn’t produce enough.
Sometimes the help and support of family can be too much. Sometimes it can be overwhelming. Sometimes it doesn’t allow you the space and time to grieve that you need. The entire family was caught off-guard by Justice’s birth. Friends in the disability community told me that we all needed time to grieve: to let go of that image of the healthy child we had expected and to embrace the child we had received.
Justice became our miracle baby. He fought his way into this life. He endured open-heart surgery at the age of four months. He occasionally has respiratory issues to this day and has to go back on breathing treatments or oxygen tanks.
What I have realized, since his birth, is the power of family. I have seen people rally to support my brother and his family. I have seen friends send articles about Down Syndrome from across the country when they see something that makes them proud of being in Justice’s life. I have seen a family begin to learn a new language to communicate with a small boy; a family join together to walk in the annual Buddy Walk in Phoenix; a family who cries when they hear about other people leaving their Down Syndrome children to die.
I have witnessed the dynamics of family: biological and not, coming together to support a miracle.
I have witnessed compassion and activism. I have witnessed growth and understanding.
I have witnessed love.
I believe in the power of family. I believe that they can make adversity turn into miracles. I believe that anything can be achieved when that support is there.
This, I believe.
elitist?
Sep 6th
We are reading Jarhead in one of my classes this week. We are looking at prospective audiences, themes, reasons for the writing, reasons for reading, types of language used, etc. I love all of these kinds of things. I love healthy debate over literature and like looking at things from a different perspective.
I also like playing devil’s advocate.
I found the book to be a bit dull. I found it to be sophomoric. I didn’t read the brilliance that New York Times or other such esteemed critics read.
I stated this in class today. I also stated that I felt the author used elementary language and spoke down to the audience. I have a feeling he even dummied it down for some reason.
That offends me.
My classmates took offense to the things I said. They liked the book. They liked the level of language used in it. They reminded me that the majority of Americans read at a 6th grade level. They reminded me that Marine “grunts”, for the most part, are probably not educated.
I wondered if I’m an elitist when it comes to literature.
I love William Shakespeare and Jane Austen and Langston Hughes. I also love the books that I call “beach reading” – Stephen King – Okay…I just went to my six bookcases to find some of these “beach readings” to give some titles and couldn’t find any. Maybe I sell them to the used bookstore to get other books. I dunno. But you know the ones I mean – the books you can get at the grocery store book racks. Silly, fun books that you can finish in an afternoon.
Maybe I am a snob. As I perused my bookcases, I noticed a proliferation of Margaret Atwood, Barbara Kingsolver, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker – all authors who deal with serious social issues within their beautiful prose. I noticed the rows of feminist theory, the tomes of English Literature, Romantic poetry, and anthologies of women writers.
Really, what it boils down to is that I like to be engaged. A writer doesn’t have to use polysyllabic words to engage me. It’s the nuances, the depth, the subtelties of language that draw me in. Double entendres. Symbolism. Metaphors. Foreshadowing. The classics of creative writing.
I like language and I like to see it used in an inventive way.
If I wanted something straight, we’d be having a conversation. When I read, I want to be involved.
prickly
Aug 18th
Communication online can be confusing at its best. A seemingly innocuous statement from one person will turn into a full-blown accusation to the reader.
It is only natural that we read emotions or perceptions into the words. We look at a statement from our point of view and think about how the person on the other end is responding. Is that person an emotional person? Is that person standoffish? Does that person come at issues like a bulldog or a puppy?
The job I have now relies on e-mail heavily. We are e-mailing prospective students, answering questions for current students, and assisting professors in their duties. Each word we write has significance. How we respond can make all the difference in the other person’s day.
The same can be said for personal e-mail. Do we take the same care in writing as we would with someone we don’t know at all? Do we think about the words that we lay down?
Sometimes I think we take it for granted that a friend or a loved one will understand unequivocally what we are trying to say. The nuances aren’t forthcoming in e-mail all of the time, though.
That is a consideration we need to take even when speaking with those we care about.
virginia woolf lives here
Jul 21st
A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
~ virginia woolf ~
This room has a classic feel to me. Someone who cares about detail lives in this room. Someone who pays attention to the aesthetic roams these floors.
virginia woolf lives here.
I know she does.
I can imagine her puttering around. She moves from space to space, anxious to find the *right* spot to settle, to pull herself in and get down to her writing.
She tucks her feet under her as she snuggles into the plush chair. She twirls a stray hair around her finger while the other hand holds a fountain pen, her fingers dark from ink.
She contemplates what she will put down on the page.
But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking? – the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world – a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.
~ virginia woolf ~
writing in a different way
Jul 20th
In order to continue blogging on a more regular schedule, I’m going to be taking images from other peoples’ streams on flickr and using them for fodder…much like my “found journals” of yesteryear (for those of you who remember those).
I want to push myself creatively as a writer. I’ve been given some new duties in a really wonderful group (utata.org) and part of those duties is to write. I want to make my writing more creative.
I want to take some of the things that I see through my lens and transcribe them through words.
Today’s entry is the precursor to that and not what I will be posting daily. It’s merely an introduction to what will come.
I hope you will enjoy (oh, and if so inclined, click on the image to learn about new photographers!).
reflection
Apr 3rd
click image for enlargement
Vancouver has gotten under my skin. I’m sure that part of that is who I visit while I’m there but it’s also the beauty of the place.
There are so few cities that I truly enjoy being in and walking around in. I loved London in this way. I loved San Francisco in this way.
I now have another city to add to that short list.
I enjoy the people of Vancouver. People are friendly. They talk to you. They smile. That is so rare for a U.S. city of the same size and maybe that is the beauty of Canada. The people take in the beauty around them and live that type of life.
As I wandered around downtown, I looked at everything as if it was in the screen of my camera. How would it look framed like this? Or this?
I had called Jonathan and he gave me some directions on how to find certain things, sharing some wonderful finds with me.
As I headed toward the library, I noticed this reflection in an alleyway. The angle was just perfect enough to get the little bit of blue sky that was showing that day and picked up the clock tower on the building.
It was such a wonderful surprise. It made me smile and I couldn’t resist taking this secret shot. It was if it was waiting for me to come along and shoot.
It clouded up moments later.
The day was shining upon me.
