Jesting Pilate

After making eight kinds of cookies, three types of candy, two varieties of cakes...

2009-12-23T04:50:16Z

... distributing twenty plates of holiday treats, mailing the cards, cleaning the attic, weeding the bookshelves, re-organizing the office, and wrapping the gifts -- I'm able to type:

Okay, enough of the moping.

Meanwhile, I've been able to start plowing through the massive TBR pile, and there is no reason I can't still write about books.

First up: three very different paranormal romances:

Doyle, Marissa. BEWITCHING SEASON.
Persephone Leland and her twin sister Penelope are respectively terrified and thrilled about their upcoming debut season in London, a social occasion complicated by the fact that they are secretly learning magic. Persy, who excels at spellcraft, is the far less socially confident of the pair, and her apprehension is only increased by discovering that the scion of the neighboring estate has become a dizzyingly handsome young man. The social whirl and chaste romance is soon overshadowed by the disappearance of the twins' beloved governess as part of a complicated sorcerous plot against the young Princess Victoria.
Witchcraft brewed with historical intrigue and dollop of adolescent romance ought to make a beguiling concoction, but the various ingredients never quite blended together. The magical system seemed ill-thought out and poorly grafted upon the Victorian aristocracy, the historical elements were filled with wince-inducing anachronisms, and the romance, while sweet, was marred by a too-perfect hero and an annoyingly immature and self-doubting heroine. Best element by far was the charming interactions of the devoted Leland family members, especially the twins' irrepressible younger brother Charles. I'll skip the sequel about Pen, BEGUILING SEASON; but cheerfully read anything Doyle chooses to read about Charles.

Abe, Shana. THE SMOKE THIEF.
      So many people who know my tastes have been recommending this to me, but I've been avoiding it -- yes, were-dragons (excuse me, Drakon) are inherently awesomsauce, but I am more than a little weary of emo shifters and ultra-Alpha heroes and edgy kickass heroines, and thought that this was just more of the same.
      But I was wrong.   So tragically, tragically wrong.
     Clarissa Rue Hawthorne was only half-Drakon, and a scrawny mousy fatherless girl besides -- the only thing keeping her in the isolated eighteenth century village of Darkfrith was the terrible vengeance the Tribe wreaked upon Runners who could expose their secret. That, and her hopeless crush on glorious Kit Langford, who will someday be Marquess and Alpha. But that was years ago, and now Rue is wealthy, beautiful, and free in London, living a dangerous double life as the master burglar of jewels known as the Smoke Thief. But her daring exploits have revealed her existence to the Tribe -- and Kit herself is bound by duty to capture her. Until he sees her, and realizes that he is bound by something deeper, and more primal...
    Okay, the hero was so Alpha that he was virtually pathological, and the heroine, for all her independence and skills, was surprisingly submissive to the Power of Luuurrrve. Yet I barely noticed their non-existent chemistry and strangely twisted relationship amidst the extravagant and detailed world-building, convincing Georgian England intertwined with a lush evocative fairy tale framestory. And I have already put a hold on the sequel starring Rue's young apprentice thief, Zane.
   What is it with me and these psychotic teenage boys?

Leiknes, Elizabeth. THE SINFUL LIFE OF LUCY BURNS.
     Not really a paranormal romance, but more of a supernatural chick lit, this slim barely-a-novel is a stellar debut. Not quite eleven, Lucy Burns pledged her service to "To Whom It May Concern" in order to save her sister Ellen. Now she has the perfect life: gorgeous, rich, perpetually twenty-nine, able to control minds and command miracles. There's just a couple of catches: no family, no relationships, and (oh yes) the gig involves sending bad guys (and the occasional innocent bystander) straight through the portal to the Eternal Infernal.   After making friends with her earth mother neighbor (and eek! her irresistible eight-year-old son) and falling for a charming blind creative writing teacher, Lucy wants out of the deal and back into normal life. An encounter with the has-been pop idol of her youth convinces her that there is a loophole in her contract -- but the price may be more than she wants to pay.
   The saccharine odes to middle-class mommyhood become a wee bit tiresome, and the platitudinous Moral Of The Story may thud like an anvil from the sky, but the journey there is pure frothy fun -- overstuffed with running gags, groan-worthy puns, and allusions to shallow cultural phenomena you'll simply hate yourself for recognizing (and revelling in). Even the smallest bit characters are delightful acquaintances, from the grace-dispensing carwash attendant to Lucy's deliciously EEE-ville "clients". And Lucy herself is a gift and a joy -- sarcastic and sentimental, selfish and self-aware, sophisticated and soft-hearted, sexy, stalwart, and sinfully sweet.

More if I find time to read anything else...

Kirkus Reviews to be shut down

2009-12-11T03:52:57Z

Well, nobody will color me surprised at this, although I didn't think it would happen this abruptly.

What does astonish me is the mean-spirited schadenfreude I've already seen online about this. "O Rapture!" these authors have been saying -- "Mean old Kirkus is dead!"

Yes, do dance about the corpse, folks. After all, how many people deserve to lose their jobs, because one of your books got a (well-deserved) review ten years ago? (I'm looking at YOU, David Lubar)

And the other commentaries I've seen -- "What does it matter? There are still free customer reviews at Amazon!" -- I don't know whether to laugh or to weep. Yep, the good forty hours (minimum) I would put into reading, re-reading, taking notes, and carefully crafting what I hoped would be a helpful analysis conveying the plot, style, tone, audience, strengths, weaknesses, and potential of each novel can easily be outsourced to Harriet "25 Reviews In 24 Hours" Klausner and thirty teenage girls typing "ITS OK I GESS BUT OMG DID U RDE TWILIGHT YET?"

So farewell, "mean old Kirkus." Farewell to the idea of professional literate honest reviews of upcoming literature, not beholden to publishers, advertisers, retailers, or anybody but readers. After all, this is the brave new world of crowdsourcing -- if everybody is reviewing for free online, we can just get on a thousand RSS feeds and a hundred thousand Twitter streams and the best stuff will rise to the top, right? And if we don't have the time or expertise to sort it out, well, there's always the recomendations at Amazon and Walmart!

But who will authors get to reflexively blame next?

Edit: I shouldn't neglect to mention that Nielsen is also cancelling Editor & Publisher, a trade publication for the journalism industry that has been providing excellent journalism for over a century. Indeed, in the past decade or so, they have been the gold standard and conscience for an industry that has shamefully neglected its own traditions and ethics.

I am Wrong on the Internet, Again

2009-12-02T02:52:38Z

One of the few advantages of talking out of my ass online is that when the lovely wise people who know me gently correct me, it usually inspires me to think about the topic more seriously.

Recently I spouted off about Kirkus Discoveries -- a five year old spinoff of the venerable, respected, and notoriously "mean" Kirkus Reviews-- which for a several hundred dollar fee will review books for self-published, POD, previously published, and other flavors of non-traditional publishing that the main publication will not review.

I've never made any secret of the fact that I don't much like Discoveries. I trust Kirkus enormously. The reviewers may exhibit definite biases against certain genres and styles; they tend towards the ruthless; but they are honest, erudite, literate, and informed by a passionate respect and zeal for books and readers. Kirkus's policy against accepting advertisements, and of publishing anonymous reviews, supports these admirable tendencies.

It has also caused Kirkus great financial difficulties in an industry that's already teetering on the brink of meltdown. There was no question that Something Had To Be Done, and Discoveries was (one of) the proposed solutions.

But I don't like it. Deeply, fundamentally, viscerally, I am appalled by the notion.

This revulsion (accompanied by a nasty head cold) led me, first of all, into two egregious errors, which I am correcting here and in the comment thread in which I originally posted them. The glossy paper supplements included in the main Kirkus Reviews are NOT Kirkus Discoveries, but a separate publication, including ads, intended to highlight particular genres and topics in a more "light-hearted" way. My time-constrained perusal led me to conflate "Kirkus + Ads" with "Kirkus Discoveries", which was utterly unfair to the people who put these supplements together.

Worse, I had two reviewers who do write for Discoveries contact me privately and tell me that they were NOT insulted to do so, it was honest professional work, and they gave their Discoveries reviews the same objective and careful consideration they gave all their work. Indeed, it was not difficult at all (once I thought to look for it) to find a Web filled with complaints by Discoveries authors who felt that Kirkus gave only cruel, mean, unfair reviews in return for their investment, which testifies that at least these are in fact NOT "the best reviews that money can buy."

So apologies to those reviewers, and to all who I unfairly characterized.

But the reason I am posting here is that this revulsion also led me to wonder what, exactly, my problem is here.

It's not a matter of Yog's Law here. Self-published authors (and, alas, more and more traditionally published authors) are required to take on the expenses of marketing their works, and there are probably worse "bang for the buck" returns out there than a favorable review from any source, even of Discoveries has a, shall we say, less than pristine reputation, deserved or not. It would probably be preferable to get a review from an unpaid source -- a local newspaper, an online reviewer of that particular genre. (Most of the self-published and POD material that I have purchased for both the library I work for, and for my own personal collection, came to my attention from just such sources).

But review outlets are getting more and more scarce, and the flood of printed (and e-published) material keeps rising. What Jane at Dear Authors aptly calls the need for "effective filtering and curation ... in the evolving market" is looking increasingly like a hopeless shoring up of badly worn and technologically outmoded dikes.

And this , I think, is the root of my distress with the whole notion of Discoveries. I have centered my work, my life, my religion around connecting people with stories -- and the past couple of decades has overwhelmed me with the dreadful sense that the comfortable, proven, more-or-less workable system that supports that calling is crumbling around me.

Mostly, my awareness focuses on the way that the traditional publishing model -- writer to agent to publisher to distributor to bookstore / library to reader -- seems to be falling apart. I know that there have always been problems; most notably the way that the system locked out certain kinds of storytellers, and certain flavors of stories, for being "not marketable", "too edgy", "too specialized" -- "not like us." And I have applauded innovations and daring to circumvent certain steps in the process: self-publishing, avoiding distribution by buying direct or through sources such as Amazon, e-publishing, the proliferation of online review sites, etc.

And yet along with these comes the problems of consolidation, mega-retailers, and the lopsided placed upon fewer and fewer blockbusters to provide the profit for the eighty percent or so of titles that lose money. I have seen, in just the last few years, an astonishing proportion of titles become unavailable after just a few months; increasing reliance on sameness and unwillingness to take a chance; an abandonment of even respectable midlist authors; more and more obligations -- not just to write faster and shorter, but to take upon the burdens of marketing and promotion -- heaped upon writers, lessening their time to perfect their craft; the virtual destruction of the independent bookstore and small press industries, knowledgeable and nurturing of the new and unknown.

And along with this has been the slow and steady collapse of the profession of the middlemen. The gatekeepers. The curators. The longtime editors, able to spot raw talent, polish a not-quite-there manuscript, and nurture relationships that created trusted brand identities for entire lines. (Don't get me started on what has happened to copy editing!) The dying specialty of reader's advisory, trained to tease out similarities of tone and style and expectation, to nurture a love of reading and a readiness to experiment, in favor of automated "If you like.." booklists. And yes, the cranky old reviewer, with all her prejudices and snark, who has read both widely and deeply enough to have opinions about whether this book actually works, and who cares enough to convey more than plot summaries and a tepid grade for remuneration that comes out for less than a dollar an hour -- and a vehicle that carries the trust and respect that she knows what she's talking about.

Perhaps I am just a Luddite, afraid of a changing world. Maybe I'm just clinging to horseshoes and buggy whips, because I don't trust where these newfangled horseless carriages will take me.

But I don't fear a lack of books. I don't fear a lack of access to books. I don't fear a lack of opinions about books.

I am afraid that in all the clamoring of this untrammelled horde of titles and pages and words, that it will become too hard to hear the actual stories.

Harlequindammerung

2009-11-25T16:35:36Z

As a huge fan of the romance genre, and someone vitally interested in the slow-motion of the implosion of the romance industry, I should have something to say about the recent HarlequinHorizons debacle, in which the most respected publisher of romance fiction chose to prostitute decades of building up reader and author loyalty by launching a vanity press. .

But really, after the huge-ass threads at Smart Bitches and Dear Author, there really doesn't seem to be much left to contribute. As far as my position goes, I think Rolanni sums it up nicely in her reiteration of Yog's Law.

So, I'm here to talk about Twilight: New Moon (which I saw yesterday with my daughter, both of us annoying the rest of the audience with our inadvertent snickering, guffaws, and inarticulate moans of disgust.) And love triangles.

I HATE love triangles. They always seems to require an incomprehensible level of stupidity on every corner. And once you make love a matter of winners and losers, everybody is going to get hurt.

In New Moon (I'm not going to talk about the third installment of the trilogy, in which Stephenie Meyer turns Jacob into a were-jerk), Bella is presented with two options towards Every Teen Girl's Dream of True Love.

On the one hand, there's Edward. He adore Bella just as she is: clumsy, self-absorbed, not quite finished, but with potential to be someone special. He pursues her relentlessly, insinuating himself into her life when she is feeling most lost and alone. All she has to do is surrender everything she has -- family, friends, future -- and he'll give her the glamorous dream of frozen glittering splendor. Nobody will ever really know her again, and she'll have to skulk in the night, preying on others to survive. She will never grow or change or actually really do anything to impact anyone else. But her narcissistic dreams of What Love Is will come true.

Or there's Jacob. Jacob believes in Bella. He believes in her now, and he believes even more in her future. Jacob is willing to invest himself in Bella -- he puts his time, his expertise, and yes, his capital in helping her learn and grow. But being with Jacob would be hard. Bella would have to change things about herself. She would have to accept her flaws. She would have to go out and meet new people, and present herself as someone worth knowing. And with Jacob, there's a risk of being hurt. He might find other people and duties more important than Bella at times. He might rip her to shreds. He might even reject her, and walk away. She might never find that Perfect Adolescent Romance at all.

At the end of the movie

(I suppose this is a

SPOILER

like nobody on this planet know how things turn out.)

Bella spurns Jacob to run after Edward. And as the screen went black, one man in the audience (a brave father escorting his tween daughter) shouted loudly, "You have GOT to be kidding me!"

And the rest of the audience applauds in agreement.

Oh, wait, I guess I had something to say about HHo after all.

The Internet Is For Boys

2009-11-16T01:56:06Z

So we've all been celebrating the 40th anniversary of Teh Intertubez this week.

It occurred to me today that during the almost twenty years I have been online (oh, yes, you younglings, I remember when Gopher and Archie/Veronica/Jughead were the Hot New Thangs) that I have received literally thousands of offers for penis enlargements and medications to, h'r'h'm, improve the stamina and responsiveness of my manly organ, not to mention enticing photographs of lovely young women who were eager to share their charms with me.

Indeed, I still delete on average three or four of these a day.

And never -- not once! -- has anyone sent an unsolicited advertisment for mammary enhancement, or retouched photos of attractive gentlemen (unless the GayCowboys messages I routinely delete unopened are jolly rural fellows disporting for feminine pleasure). Nor do I recall any online physician sending out abortion spam.

Hmm.

Somebody is missing a real marketing opportunity out there.

Thanks, Hank...

2009-11-13T01:52:43Z

You know that it's been a bad month when you find yourself listening to old country & western songs and nodding "Yep, that's about right."

You know that it's been a really bad month when you start searching for them on your iPod, hoping to get some good advice.

Like turning into a giant snake, that never ends well.

Something there is that hates a wall...

2009-11-04T15:40:59Z

So I had this whole post scripted in my mind.

I was going to set up this comparison with the fall of the Berlin Wall, which I watched with open-mouthed exhilaration twenty years ago, unable to believe how the entire world that I knew had completely changed in less than a year. How my children simply cannot comprehend the way I grew up, with the matter of fact acceptance that well, of course, the world was going to end with nuclear war between the Righteous U.S. and the Commie Them.

And how just a year ago, I watched another Wall get torn down, and how no one was every going to grow up again just knowing that an African American could never be elected President of the United States.

And it was going to conclude with a joyous recounting of the expected results from Maine, as one more Wall crumbled, and perhaps we were headed for a generation who could not wrap their heads around the idea that anyone and everyone wouldn't be free to marry where they loved.

Well, f*ck....

Pass me the sledgehammer, my brothers and sisters. We've got some more pounding to do.

For all the saints, who from their labors rest...

2009-11-01T22:20:35Z

... Pumpkin Crunch Cake!

Yeah, I'm not usually the recipe-posting type, but I've been feeling pretty bruised and battered the past few weeks, so here's the dessert I made today, to go with roast pork and baked apples.
.

WARNING:

The Cake is a lie! It has no redeeming virtues, except that it is fun to make with small children, and if you recently suffered catastrophic weight loss, it will fix you up right quick. Proceed at your own risk!

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Generously grease a 13 x 9 inch cake pan.

In a large bowl, whisk together:
     1 16 oz can solid pack pumpkin
     1 12 oz can evaporated milk
     3   large egs
     1 1/4 cup sugar
      1/2 tsp salt
      4 tsp pumpkin pie spice*

Pour into cake pan. Sprinkle evenly on top
     1 box yellow cake mix

Top with
     1 cup crushed pecans

Drizzle over the top
     1 cup melted butter**

Bake at 350 degrees F for 50 minutes to an hour until golden brown. It will be squishy and gloopy. Served warm is best, and with cinnamon whip cream, because I'm not going to be able to button those pants any time soon anyhow.

*I make my own with 2 tsp cinnamon, and 1/2 tsp each ground cloves, mace, ginger, nutmeg, and cardamom

**Yeah, you read that right. ONE CUP melted butter, and I do mean butter, not margarine or oleo, isn't it a little late to start thinking about your arteries or your waistline now?

It Isn't All About You -- But Maybe It Should Be MORE About You

2009-10-17T20:57:02Z

At least once a week, people come up to the reference desk and start a conversation with me that is clearly meant to be a continuation of a question they asked (a week? a month? a year?) earlier, and is a little offended that I can't pick up where the discussion left off.

My beloved spouse commented recently that he wherever he goes now, from Cleveland to Kenya, he's always sure to run into a former student or someone who attended one of his lectures, who expects him to recognize names, faces, and research interests.

Kit Whitfield ( an author I much admire, if frequently disagree with) has commented frequently upon the asymmetric relationship between writers and readers, and how when the latter has invested so much emotional and intellectual energy into the former's work, they feel somehow cheated when the author doesn't feel the same sort of personal connection.

All of these are, I guess, a consequence of the very natural human assumption that I, personally, am the center of the universe, and anything that has an impact upon me will reverberate throughout the cosmos, bestowing unforgettable echoes upon everyone with whom I interact. (And so it should be!)

But I've been thinking about how internet affects this kind of dynamic. On the one hand, it often feels very personal and intimate. Someone posts something upon a blog, and it aligns with, affects, or aggravates an issue that I take an interest in. Others comment upon it, and we agree or disagree, we laugh at each other's jokes, take offense at each other's words, admire each other's intellect, mock each other's laziness. There is a real sense of interaction, of community.

But is this all an illusion? In truth, we are far separated in space, in time, staring into our individual screens and stroking our isolated keypads. Much of that which we say, ostensibly to each other, is really spoken to ourselves, to shore up dearly held convictions, to examine questionable assumptions, to reassure ourselves that we are truly clever, and witty, and kind.

Which doesn't mean that we can't hurt each other. Lord knows I've caused pain: sometimes knowingly, because I felt something was important enough to say that I've been willing to bear the sin of another's hurt, which grieves me, and I've agonized about that here. Much more often inadvertently, with a sloppy argument, or a careless word choice, or an ill-considered joke. And I've taken hurt, too; I've got a temper, and a tendency to take things personally, and a huge array of bright shiny buttons that any number of casual conversations can push.

But once my emotional overreactions cool, I hope I've never had the hubris to really think it's been All About Me. I know I've fretted about Oh Noes! Mean People On Teh Internetz! for as long as twelve hours. Once I think I maintained an online grudge for as long as a week. But generally speaking, the world is very big, and I am very small; and I am grateful that it should be so. I don't really wish to be remembered, or called out, or taken as important enough to address personally; that's a dreadful responsibility. I much prefer to keep my tiny corner as tidy and pretty as I can, and to venture out into the Wide World without preconceptions, and to welcome such visitors as stop by with courtesy and diffidence.

My mental space is pretty much full, after all, with family and friends, and fascinating fictional characters (those created by others, and a few demanding personalities of my own). I don't have the mental energy to invest in making online acquaintances into permanent parts of my psyche (except for the pleasant sort of recognition that *this* particular handle usually indicates witty snark, that one insightful analyses, this other one frustrating incomprehensibility) any more than I count on my favorite authors to inquire into my recent surgery, or expect national pundits I read to comment on my local school board elections. I not only do not think that particular posts are aimed at me, or that particular commenters think of me, but I furthermore should be astonished and appalled if they did any such thing.

Of course, I do remember one diner that I frequented in New York City. It was cheap, it was convenient, and I fell into the habit of going there for breakfast every day at about the same time, and ordering the exact same thing.

Then one day they had my breakfast waiting for me when I walked in.

I was touched and flattered. But I was also somewhat horrified. What if I had been running late that day? What if my doctor had ordered me to give up bacon? What if I had found someplace closer that offered fresher and cheaper bagels? Would they have been out the cost of the meal? How long would they continue to make it, expecting me to show up? Was this my responsibility?

What are the obligations of an online acquaintanceship? What responsibilities am I ignoring?

*Note -- if you think this post is "aimed at you", I assure you it is not. However, if you think that the thoughts here were prompted by, inspired by your message, you're probably right. And this is the only answer you're likely to receive.

Mr. Sandman...

2009-10-10T23:57:52Z

I had a dream the other night…

Oh dear, in the annals of Four Word Segues of DOOM, I suppose that “I had a dream” ranks only slightly below “We have to talk” as an introduction I’d hope never to hear, but nonetheless, I did have a dream, and it’s been haunting me. Not in a pleasantly spooky October-ish fashion, with subliminal soundtracks and cold frissons, either. More like a badly-healed twisted ankle, which I can count on to collapse on me at the most embarrassing time, when I put my foot wrong just so.

There was a little boy, I remember and an enchanted paper doll, and extraordinarily vivid imagery of a crowded ballroom and a recurrent motif of scissors, and a fairly coherent plot (for a dream, at any rate), and simply fabulous outfits, and I’ve been toying with writing it up as a short story and sending it to my writing group. It was sad, achingly sad, and more than a little puzzling, and maybe they would be so good as to sort it out for me. (Writing-Group-As-Therapy, bien sur!)

The dream seemed to me to be all about loss, and loneliness, and the cruelty of compassion, which are rather... odd topics for me to be dreaming about, even with heavy symbolism and gorgeous eighteenth-century costumes. Not at all my standard run of neuroses, obsessions, and fetishes. Fortunately, The Ladies With No Name will no doubt assure me that is really All About Sex, since that’s what we always seem to do. No matter whether we think we are writing science fiction or horror, religion or politics, thinly disguised memoir or crackpot literary theory, we can count on each other to point out, in the most delightfully revelatory manner, that really, we’ve been writing about sex.

Unless, of course, we think that we were writing about sex. Then for some reason it turns out to really to be All About Death. Or Hope. Or sometimes Poland.

(my livejournal scheme lacks an emoticon for scribble, scribble, scribble)

Blissed out.

2009-10-04T18:35:42Z

I know I haven't posted anything for a while -- well, not for public consumption, nobody wants to see me whine.

But right now there is a cold October drizzle pattering on the windows and flue, I have Turandot on the speakers, and I am curled up on the sofa with hot sweet milky tea, a grilled cheese sandwich, tomato-basil soup, and the latest three volumes of Kaoru Mori's EMMA.

If I were any more snuggly and comfy, I'd be a baby hamster on YouTube.

Butterfly in the sky; I can go twice as high...

2009-08-28T15:54:39Z

Today Reading Rainbow ends its run on public television, after a quarter century.

I was never a big fan of the show, despite my LeVar Burton-love. I am a huge supporter of the idea of the show.

After all, the mechanics of particular skills -- reading, mathematics, drawing, knitting, ore even flying like a butterfly -- are fairly easy to teach. Evolution has pretty much equipped us with the hard-wiring for imitative behavior; I haven't seen much in educational theory that isn't a refinement of the basic elements of observation, imitation, and repetition.

The trick is teaching us how to look; and making us want to copy.

In other words, teaching us to love.

I guess there is, in the end, no way but the basics -- "Look at me love [reading / drawing / flying / learning / each other]! Now you try!"

And thus we return inevitably to the essence of the Good News...

Bully!

2009-08-03T02:20:05Z

Bullying is one of those things we are taught to abhor. I once told my kids that the one behavior that would shame me more than any other would be if they were caught bullying.

But I've been thinking this week about "cyber-bullying." Not the kind of thing yapped about hysterically on the local news -- online stalking, abusive social networking, for all I know Twitter-twitting.

We're all pretty clear on the schoolyard type, I think. A bully is someone who uses superior resources to intimidate and overbear weaker persons. The first thing that comes to mind is a physical bully, someone who is big and strong and aggressive. But any trading of childhood reminiscences soon brings up other kinds of bullies (especially among females, I think) -- bullies who uses social connections, or wealth, or beauty -- really, any kind of resource will do. All it takes is a strength, and a willingness to use it to get one's way.

But we don't tend to think of intellectual bullies, for some reason. Or I haven't until lately.

Of course there have always been verbal bullies -- those with the skill and the ruthlessness to taunt and to tease. But I'm thinking of the use of, oh, I don't know -- verbal facility. A storehouse of information. Quickness of wit. A mastery of rhetorical devices. All of which can be used, with absolute civility, flexibility, deniability to annihilate those with perfectly reasonable opinions, but not the techniques to defend and promote them.

I dunno. Obviously, there ought to be legitimate ways for different ideas to compete. Argument is probably the second oldest form of truly human entertainment.* And surely a polite verbal flaying is a better alternative to bashing each other over the head with rocks.

But where is the line drawn between a clash of ideas, and a contest of verbal skills?

I think about this, because more and more I see on the internet the Triumph of the Snark. Hell, I love it myself. And yet, somehow this week, as I witnessed a number of verbal duels, where the victor always seemed to be person with the most precise vocabulary, the most artful command of insinuation, the quicksilver riposte, the quote appropos et le mot juste... And even though I had no dog in those fights -- even though I sympathize with and endorse the victor -- I begin to smell the whiff of the cafeteria and the playground and I feel just a bit queasy.

And then I wonder is this because of an ethical objection to such tactics? Or because I recognize that this is the style of duello that I myself have so long preferred?

Or because I am unnerved when confronted by those who are even better at it than I?

*Art, they say, would be the first. But surely close on the heels of the first artist came the first critic...

Time Won't Drive Us Down To Dust Again...

2009-07-20T14:58:46Z

Once upon a time
You could hear the Saturn's roar
As it rose upon its fiery tail to space.
And once upon a time, the men that we sent out
Landed in a strange and alien place.

And as I watched them walk upon the Moon
I remembered Icarus
Who flew too close to the Sun.

Once upon a time, they tore the gantries down,
And rockets flew no longer to the Moon.
And once upon a time
We swore that we'd return
But it doesn't look like we'll be back there soon.

And as the Moon shines down
On the shattered launching ground,
I remember Apollo
Who flew the chariot of the Sun.

And I wonder of the legends they will tell
A thousand years from now.

-- Bill Roper, LEGENDS

*note: When I searched "Google Images" for "moon landings" the entire first page of pictures had tags like "Moon Landing Faked." I don't even want to think about what that means.

On The Internet, Nobody Knows You're A Sexist Asshat. Oh, Wait...

2009-07-15T20:35:50Z

So yesterday, I typed up a three-page ranty-licious GBCW about how sick and tired I was of Internet comment threads, even in the most liberal and tolerant online communities, tended to become dominated by sexist homophobic asshats, which is bad enough, but that I could no longer stand to hang out where that sort of behavior was supported and encouraged.

Alas, my access has been extremely wonky this past week, so I saved it to disk and decided to try posting today.

In which time, people in the community I was thinking of had the GALL to stop supporting and encouraging sexist asshats.

Curse you, Cox Communications! [shakes fists vaguely northward]

It's a pity, in a way. I had some really viperish snark going on, and I kind of hate to waste it. (Favorite line: Claiming that you can't say "firefighter" instead of "fireman" because the English language naturally prefers the iambic meter is the Lamest Fucking Excuse Ever. (Hint: "Firefighter" is a dactyl. Look it up. So is "Retarded.") )

But the S.A.s remain, and some of the things they have to say do make me think a little seriously.

The first is the argument that surface details about language don't really matter -- it is really more important to change individual and societal attitudes and restrictions. My reaction to that is sort of, "Well, duh. But how do y'all think we're going to change hearts and minds? By waving our Liberal Wands of Awesome Tolerance and intoning 'Accio Equality! ?"

I suspect that this may be related to a generational thing. Most of the people I interact with online are much younger than I -- they simply cannot believe that yes, in my own lifetime, little girls really were told that they could not be firefighters or soldiers or engineers because that was "a man's job." That serious news journalists really did find it appropriate to criticize women asking for simple fairness -- like access to office, or equal pay -- with dismissive analysis of their physical attractiveness, underwear, and personal hygiene. (Oh, wait maybe that was the last election?) When the words like "girl" or "authoress" or "astronette" really were used as barriers and blows. That I really was sent home from school for once for wearing pants, and ceaselessly mocked for NOT wearing lipstick.

I am glad, fiercely glad, tearfully glad, that this is simply unimaginable to so many people younger than me. I thank God and so many of Her brave and tireless creatures that the world has changed so much in my lifetime. And so I bite my lip and nod my head and try to smile, at the efforts to "reclaim our femininity" and proclaim ourselves "Info Grrlz!" and "Lipstick Librarians!" But each time I hear this usage, it claws at my heart and I cringe a little inside.

And I'll be damned if I let some snotty male programmer half my age declare that "Oh, gender neutral language is really standing in the way of a gender free society. U R Doin Ur Feminism All Rong."

Second, a word or three about "privilege" -- White, Male, Heterosexist, whatever.

The important (and really really hard) thing to remember when I hear somebody say, "Hey, that's kind of racist" (or whatever), is that this isn't an observation about me. It's an observation about what I am doing.

Doing (or saying) something racist, etc., doesn't mean that I am a racist. It doesn't mean that I am automatically relegated to stand in the corner with the Bad People waving Confederate flags, picketing with Fred Phelps, or making "Girls Gone Wild" videos.

It usually means that I have simply failed to realize that "Hey. On the whole, I've been pretty lucky, due to no merit of my own. Not everyone has had the same starting point, security, and safety that I have had. Their different experiences makes them see the world differenty."

After all, in the good ol' USofA, the default position for "human being" is still pretty much Straight White Christian Male. Being three of the four myself (well, two and a half), I've had my own ghastly moments of Privileged behavior. And it's *horrible* to be called on it. The automatic instinct is to lash out "No, that's not me, that must be YOU!"

When people talk about "X Privilege" in this context, it isn't (well, it shouldn't be) thought of as an accusation. It should never be used as a fist to pummel, to make people feel guilty. (That's when you can legitimately talk about "somebody playing the Victim Card.")

It should be used as a tap on the shoulder, to make me remember that some people have damned good reason to feel hurt or angered or frightened when I do something that I never intended to be harmful or insulting or threatening.

And here's where many people disagree with me, but I don't thing that this realization is necessarily enough to make me change my words, my behaviors, or my beliefs. Sometimes, after careful thought (and maybe a little prayer), I'll decide that a certain idea or action is just too central to me to be discarded or modified or hidden; that I am not clever enough, kind enough, to express that idea or action in a way that I know won't give pain to others, even thought that pain isn't the point; that in this case, I have to put my own sense of personal integrity ahead of the ease and peace of others.

There are times that can be the right decision. But I don't think that it should ever be the lazy decision.

Because that's when I put on my Asshat.

(shoot. Way to grim for somebody stoned on steroids. I shoulda stuck with the snark.)

Update: My priest, who has been sending us daily e-mails from General Convention, included this thought in his latest post:

Amos warned those who lived well - people like us. We are in danger before God, not because we enjoyed good things, but because we were not grieved over the ruin of others. Jesus' story about Dives and Lazarus condemned Dives not because he was rich, but because he failed to see the hurting person at his doorstep. The very fact of their hurting requires us to respond. These broken pieces of community require us to behave one way or another. There is no formula of how we should respond, no guidelines. Except God's expectation that our humanity will emerge as we respond.

There is the call to hospitality. There is God's preoccupation with the little, the lost, and the least. The prerequisite is that we actually see them. No good is possible until we do; every good is possible when we do.

That's such a lovely, generous way to say what I was trying to grope after with thoughts about "privilege."

Update II: After it was mentioned in a comment, I asked around and it seems that all of y'all who talk funny (i.e., were not brought up speaking in the dulcet nasality of Appalachia), "retarded" is actually an amphibrach. Casting about for a replacement dactyl, my daughter suggested "spankwanker," which she assures me means "more or less the same thing."

I'm inclined to doubt it, but it seems a fitting word nonetheless.

Stupid Patron Tricks

2009-07-03T03:09:13Z

Most people who work in public service eventually come to understand that people can be not only scarily dumb but borderline nasty. Srsly.
Shortly after this epiphany follows the sad realization that Good Customer Service does not permit leaping over the desk to bash the blathering moron standing before you over the head with a rock.

Public librarians – perhaps due to our determined pathological need to be Friendly and Helpful – seem to be a magnet for people who want to Share the Stupid.

Consider just this morning:

Patron A:

Nicely dressed, soft-spoken woman comes to the Reference Desk, announces that she is A Published Author, and hands me one of her business cards. I smile and take the card, not bothering to mention that it will shortly be nestled within my circular file.*
Mrs A (“But I publish under my maiden name of %”) tells me that she is doing research for her next book, and needs some information about the French Revolutionary song The Marseillaise. Very good; what kind exactly? The words? The music? The history? The way it was used?

Not exactly, she needs to find what the song means.

"A translation?"

Well… (at this point she leans forward confidentially and lowers her voice, and I began to think “Oh crud” to myself) what she really needs it to find out who the phrase “impure blood” is talking about.

"Err..." (frantically running the lyrics through my memory) "I think that was referring to the aristocratic enemy."

"Well, yes, but what made their blood impure?"

Most reference librarians develop a sense for the type of patrons who already "know" the answer to their question (or think they do), and just wants you to confirm it. So I nod and say, “Can you give you an example of what you mean?”

"Well…. I’m pretty sure they were singing about Napoleon".

Really. "Napoleon? Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"He wasn’t really French, you know. He was Corsican. And you know what THAT means."

He was born in Corsica?
"It’s a whattyacallit. An expression. For people of “coarse” ancestry. Because, you know," (and here she leans closer and her voice gets ominous) "his people were Short. And Dark."

Ai, chihuahua. Okey-dokey. I lean back a little. “Well, you know, the Marseillaise was written in April 1792 and was very quickly adopted as a revolutionary song, and Napoleon didn’t really come to prominence until later. He wasn't even in France until the next year."

A-I-Write-Under-% gives me a look of profound disappointment. “You don’t understand. I. Am. Writing. A. Book.”

Uh-huh. Got that. “Do you have a particular reason for believing the song refers to Napoleon?”

“Of course I do.” Dramatic pause. “My family is French.”

I wait for more, which doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. “Uh-huh.” During this whole conversation, my fingers have been busy with That Funky Librarian Search-y Thang. “Oh, look. There’s a book out there discussion rhetoric of violence during the French Revolution. Would you like me to have that sent here for you?”

I agree to waive the dollar inter-loan charge, since I had been so Unhelpful and Ignorant, and as she goes away I take a look at her business card before tossing it. “Bringing the Lost to the Lord through the Wonders of Story.”

Okay, I thinks to myself, surely that’s as weird as it will get this morning.

Enter Patron B:

A sweet-looking older gentleman. Bright-eyed and inquisitive, like a bald albino ferret. Deaf as a post.

(Imagine the following reference interview, therefore, conducted at top volume, punctuated with frequent interjections of "Eh?" and "What's that, then?")

Patron B wishes to know all about Lilith. "The female demon from Middle Eastern mythology?" ask I, and he nods. Swell! Something I know about! Something actually interesting!

I point out that most people have heard of Lilith from Jewish folklore, and suggest starting with one of our Jewish encyclopedias. "Oh," says he, "I've already done that."

Well, then, where should we go from there? "What more would you like to know?" I excitedly start to run through the possibilities: Lilith as a figure in psychology, feminism, contemporary spiritual practices ....
Oh, no, nothing like that. "I want the real story."

Umm. "You want to look at the Talmudic and other Semitic sources?"

"No. I want to know how Adam met Lilith. And why he dumped her."

Okay. Now I'm lost. "You've read the accounts in the various encyclopedias..." I trail off suggestively. He shakes his head. I try again. "I know that a lot of writers have used Lilith as a character in their novels..."
"Nope. I don't want any fake stuff like the story about Jesus marrying Mary Magdalene in that book by that Italian feller."

Italian feller? Right, The Da Vinci Code. "You know that the story of Lilith is a legend."

"Yes." An eye roll at me for being so stupid. "So that's why I want the REAL story."

"Er. Well. That's sort of like asking me the "real name" of Santa Claus's wife. I mean I can find you a lot of stories about Santa Claus that give his wife a name, but..."

Another pity-filled stare. Why is the crazy librarian talking about Santa Claus instead answering my simple question?

Time to try another tack. "Maybe if you could tell me what you are hoping to learn from this?"
A sigh of exaggerated patience. "Well, it's all about women and their ... animal natures, isn't it?" (I cannot at this point begin to convey the combination of disgusted growl and creepy sidelong leer). Oh. How obvious. He expounds, "About how Adam divorced Lilith because she was so argumentative and greedy and she just wanted to take his credit card and spend all his money at the mall."

Ho-kay, issues much? "I think that the story originated a little before credit cards. Or malls."
Whoops! Way to forget that the Patron is Always Right! Mr. B turns to my male colleague (who had been cravenly ignoring the whole exchange with a determined poker face), points at me and asks in a stentorian klaxon, "She's DIVORCED, isn't she?"

Time to fetch the index to the four-volume Mircea Eliade, plunk it down on the desk, and announce, "Oh, I'm sorry, I need to take my break now. My colleague here will be glad to help you answer any further questions."
Some days I really regret giving up smoking. 'Cause all that's left is for me to steam...

*Tip to authors – Want libraries to add your book to our collection? Go through a real publisher, not a vanity press. Or, if your topic is too specialized or your opinions too persecuted or your prose too, er, avant-garde, at least bring a copy of the book for me to look at, so I can tell if you have a basic grasp of spelling and grammar before I waste taxpayer money on your work of fevered brilliance. And don’t tell me “it’s on Amazon” – my dog can get a book listed on Amazon. With five-star reviews from the cat and the goldfish.

The Day After

2009-06-24T22:58:43Z

So yesterday was Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Day, and I really wanted to post something about it.

Alas, I was attacked by the Sinus Infection From Hell, and wasn't really up to being eloquent or even grateful.

So here are my somewhat belated but heartfelt thanks to

Douglas Adams

Lloyd Alexander

Isaac Asimov

Sarah Rees Brennan

Lois McMaster Bujold

Eleanor Cameron

Kristen Cashore

Debra Doyle

David Eddings

Doris Egan

Harlan Ellison

Sylvia Engdahl

Philip Jose Farmer

Lynn Flewelling

Robert Heinlein

Sharon Lee

Tanith Lee

James MacDonald

Robin McKinley

Steve Miller

John Myers Myers

Tamora Pierce

Terry Pratchett

James Schmitz

James Tiptree, Jr

Megan Whalen Turner

Kit Whitfield

Patricia Wrede*

and to hundreds of others who I am forgetting, but who have filled my brain with questions, my dreams with wonder, and my fingers with a burning desire to emulate.

You have done me the incomparable honored of letting me come visit the playground of your minds and hearts and souls. You have opened the treasure of your word-hoard, shared your stories, and thereby restored the universe.

The only way I can possibly re-pay this gift is to keep listening and reading. And maybe someday send my own stories floating down the eternal River.

(I wanted to write more about some of these authors, and how their stories changed my life, but I am tired and in pain and drugged up and frankly cranky. Maybe some other day...)

*I'd better stop this list now, and post -- every time I take a break from it, I come up with more authors...

Creamed Corn!

2009-06-17T02:04:30Z

So today my daughter had a Shoe Emergency.

After the crisis had been addressed and defused, we stopped at our local Big Box Bookstore for therapy and recuperation. While checking out, the clerk, a small round brownish type of female person, asked "Are you an educator or a home schooler?" to see if we were eligible for a discount.

My smart mouth daughter replied "Well, my mother teaches me many important things at home. For example, "Alteia" is Portuguese for "marshmallow.""

Naturally, I responded, "And it only takes ten pounds of force to pop off a kneecap."

Without batting an eye, our awesome salesclerk responded, "But it takes fifteen pounds of force to rip off a human ear."

That in itself has justified the existence of the entire retail industry.

(oh, yeah, and she gave us the educator's discount, too. w00t!)

What's so amazing that keeps us star gazing?

2009-06-11T18:44:23Z

Yesterday was a horribly depressing day. Terrorism, war, economic disaster in the news. At work, word came down of declining tax revenues and hiring freezes. At home, dog barf and dirty dishes.

But that's not what anybody wanted to talk about.

"Did you see it?" people kept asking each other. "Wasn't it amazing?" "I was driving on the Bypass when I saw it." "I was taking out the garbage when I looked up, and there it was." "I was turning on the washer, when my husband hollered at me to come out and take a look at it."

"It" turned out to be a rainbow. Not any old rainbow, but an enormous, gleaming, double rainbow, stretching in a magnificent yawp against an abalone-shell sunset of mauve and salmon and iridescent turquoise. I heard people raving about seeing it in two states and three counties.

I didn't get to see the rainbow. I was busy closing up the building at the time. But I don't feel cheated at all.

I got the very best part of the rainbow.

I got to hear all the joy and wonder and fleeting human connection with something grander in every voice this morning. What an astonishing grace that is in such dark times. I wish everyone such a gift right now.

(For anyone who misses the allusion in the post title, this is my sure cure antidote to all sorts of despair. "I've heard it to many times to ignore it; it's something I'm supposed to be...")

"And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth." (Gen 9:16)

Time and Place

2009-06-07T15:31:13Z

Inspired by this project on NPR, I remembered what I used to call "moment spots" in my childhood.

These were favorite places, minute locales, where time seemed suspended and space encased in an invisible, impermeable bubble that allowed me to listen and observe, but no one else would be permitted to intrude.

I had a number of them, as I recall. Many I only visited once: the path glimpsed through the waist-high weeds of a vacant lot, glorious with an infinite possible destinations (even as a child, I knew better than to follow it, and collapse the richness of probabilities into a single prosaic reality); the small brick house that breathed out an aura of inexplicable happiness; the empty curbside by the flagpole, chain clanking with the whisper of breeze, air hot with summer dust, the ants busy in the immense caverns of the cracked earth. A few I returned to again and again: the log by the creek, damp with moss and mud, air alive with the mosquitoes dancing over the rocks and bushes and half-submerged abandoned fridge; the fallen-down shed at the edge of the common ground, mysterious and dangerous with rusty nails, broken glass, and protruding gray-brown splinters.

None was more necessary to me than the elderberry bush.

I don't think it was technically on our property; now that I picture it, it probably belonged to the neighbors (Grrr. Susan-my-age, already a Stepford-wife-in-training. Elder sister Patty, who patted us on the head and gave us hard candy that her father brought home from work. Vince, who ran me over with his dirt bike and laughed. But I digress).

It had been planted next to a manhole cover, there in the hillside, a long-forgotten access to the sewers, perhaps. I never knew. Fed by run-off and fertilized by heaven-only-knows what nutrients, it grew huge and lush, and glossy, a five-foot-tall globe of dark shiny leaves, dotted in season by waxy white flowers and squishy purple berries. Nobody claimed it; nobody harvested it; nobody even trimmed it. It just kept to itself, and grew.

Until a bored second-grader squirmed her way inside and discovered its secret: it was hollow inside.

I don't know how many hours I spent inside that bush. I brought in dried grass from mowing, to build myself a soft nest over the chilly metal of the manhole cover. I smuggled in a small bucket, to hold ice and an occasional forbidden soda, begged from a neighboring mother. I sat there and read, squinting at pages through the dappled light, using gum wrappers and leaves as bookmarks. I sat there and hid from the neighborhood children, as they played noisy frightening games of Kickball and FourSquare and "Cinderella statues" and "Murder in the Dark", and the dreaded "Smear the Queer" -- games that always seemed to end with me laughed at and bruised.

But mostly I just sat there. I listened to the sounds of suburbia: slamming doors, faraway traffic, distant lawnmowers. I watched ants crawling over the earth, endlessly seeking, and bees humming over blossoms and fruit. I smelled fresh grass, dry earth, and rain coming up over the hills in the evening. I tasted the sour bitterness of unripe berries crushed by curious fingertips. I felt the heat of the sun burning my skin through the filtering leaves, the coolness of metal beneath my thighs, the prickle-smooth-prickle-smooth of serrated leaves against my bare shoulders as I brushed against my comforting confinement.

Then I would carefully watch for observers, and crawl out again, streaked green and purple by the passage, and re-emerge into the world where time and space could batter against me again.

Without Saying

2009-06-01T18:52:37Z

It is absurd and shameful that I should even have to post something that should go without saying.

But, since I have more than once identified myself as "pro-life" let me make this perfectly unambiguous:

The murder of George Tiller is a crime and a sin.

All murders are crimes and sins. It doesn't matter the venue of the act, the motivations of the killer, or the character of the victim. Anyone who seeks to excuse, justify, minimize, or even feel a glimmer of guilty satisfaction about this horrific act needs to acknowledge this.

But the murder of a man who has dedicated his life to the legal, professional, and compassionate medical care of women facing agonizing and life-threatening situations, a public murder in his place of worship, cannot but condemned as anything other than particularly heinous.

And if (as seems likely) this crime was committed in order to intimidate healthcare professionals and their patients, this is an act of terrorism, and should be so named and prosecuted. To call for "calm" or "restraint" in response is to endorse and enable those who would place vigilante extremism above the rule of law.

I don't know how to make this any clearer.

What has my country come to, that I should even feel the need to say any of above?

Updated for even more clarity:

To anyone who chooses to use the rhetoric of "baby-killing", "murder", "holocaust," "evil-doer" or similar extreme terminology to express opposition to legally - available abortion -- yes, you are guilty of inciting this kind of violence and terrorism. Examine your conscience; repent; and do so no more.

No longer a single parent!

2009-06-01T01:41:49Z

Much happiness !

Beloved spouse is back from a month in Kenya and Ethiopia, bearing largesse of lion-killing clubs, Coptic crosses and icons, Masai textiles, and pounds and pounds of coffee. Spouse also brings much juicy gossip about various luminaries in the Hominid Gang (none of which I would dare repeat, even in an obscure Livejournal, such a snakepit is the politics of this field) and enough blood-borne pathogens to keep the CDC happily employed for a decade. Ah well. And next month we get to start it all over again, and again...

Still, I shall be happy to be partnered up again. The children have already relaxed their alarmingly helpful and solicitous behavior. The dog has contributed a "welcome home!" puddle to the carpet. Only the parrot continues as is his wont, lurking sullenly on his bar, balefully screeching, as he plots World Domination.

I, the docile and loving helpmeet, have escaped to the office to drink wine, plow through e-mail, and take another bite out of my pile of review ARCs.

Life is, if not good, back to its accustomed rhythm.

CartCon 09 This Year In Arkansas!

2009-05-25T20:50:00Z

It feels like I’ve spent this entire month on Deep Serious Conversations about racism, the nature of truth, the doctrine of Hell, the parameters of a soldier’s duty, and suchlike very important topics.

I’m kinda tired of all that.

I think I’ll write today about shopping carts.

Yesterday, at Chez Target, my daughter commented that one of the carts in the parking lot was navy blue instead of bright red. I said it was probably a WallyWorld shopping cart that had accidentally migrated over to the wrong BigBox.

I then alluded to this classic piece of world literature.

Daughter first refused to believe this was a real book, but eventually mused about the possible existence of a group of rabid shopping cart fanciers, sparking the following conversation:

Me: WELL THATS THE GREAT THING ABOUT TEH INTERTUBES. YOU KNOW, “ON A PLANET OF NINE BILLION THERE HAVE TO BE AT LEAST SIX OF ANYTHING” AND THEY ALL HOOK UP ONLINE

Daughter: YOU KNOW THEY TOTALLY DO. ALT DOT SHOPPINGCART DOT NET

Me: AND THEY HAVE LONG INVOLVED DISCUSSIONS ABOUT WHETHER CARTS SHOULD BE CLASSIFIED BY COLOR OR BY RETAILER

Daughter: OR BY WOBBLE PATTERN. AND THEY TAKE PICTURES AND POST THEM ON FLICKR AND YOUTUBE.

Me: AND HAVE FLAME WARS ABOUT WHETHER THE FLATBED CARTS AT SAM’S CLUB ARE *REAL* CARTS

Daughter: UNTIL SOME TROLL SHOWS UP AND POSTS ABOUT HOW THOSE HYBRID CARTS WITH MOLDED PLASTIC CARS IN FRONT FOR LITTLE KIDS TO DRIVE ARE RILLY KEWL

Me: AND THEY ALL UNITE TO TOTALLY PILE ON HIM FOR BEING LAME

Daughter: AND WRONG

Me: AND THEY HAVE CART PORN

Daughter: OH NO YOU DID NOT SAY THAT. NOW THEY TOTALLY DO. RULE 34

Me: WITH PICTURES OF CARTS BEING LOCKED TOGETHER IN … INTERESTING WAYS

Daughter: YOU ARE A SICK PERSON AND I DO NOT KNOW YOU

Me: THEY HAVE T-SHIRTS AT CAFEPRESS

Daughter: THEY USED TO SAY “CARTMAN” BUT THEY GOT TIRED OF HEARING ALL THE SOUTHPARK JOKES

Me: SO NOW THEY SAY “CARTESIAN”

Daughter: THEY HAVE CONVENTIONS

Me: CART-CON 09 WITH PANELS ABOUT “WIRE VS PLASTIC” AND “WHEEL WOBBLE: INTRINSIC OR DERIVED CHARACTER?”

Daughter: AND COSPLAY

Me: AND A DISPLAY HALL WITH VENDORS. AND NO HANDCARTS ARE ALLOWED THERE FOR SWAG

Daughter: AND THEY HAVE PRECISION CART DRILLS

Me: ONE YEAR THEY FOUND OUT THE WINNING TEAM HAD SECRETLY GREASED AND RESET THE WHEELS OF THEIR CARTS SO THEY WOULD DRIVE IN A STRAIGHT LINE

Daughter: IT WAS A GREAT SCANDAL

Me: IT ALMOST WRECKED THE COMMUNITY

Daughter: THEY HAVE THEIR CONVENTIONS IN EXCITING PLACE LIKE PLAINVIEW

Me: OR RIDGEFIELD

Daughter: OR BENTONVILLE IT’S THE WORLD HEADQUARTERS OF WALMART

Me: AND THEY HAVE A TERRIBLE TIME BOOKING HOTELS BECAUSE THE CLERKS DONT BELIEVE THEM

Daughter: “SHOPPING CART CONVENTION? IS THIS A PRANK OR SOMETHING?” AND THEY KEEP HANGING UP

Me: SO THEY TELL THEM THAT THEY ARE REALLY VAMPIRE FANCIERS YOU KNOW THEY DO

Daughter: AND THEY BRING THEIR KIDS TO THESE CONS, AND THEY WHINE CONSTANTLY THAT IT IS SO STUPID AND BORING AND WHY CANT WE GO TO DISNEYLAND LIKE HEATHERS FAMILY

Me: BUT WHEN THE KIDS GROW UP THEY GET ALL NOSTALGIC FOR THE GREAT TIMES OF THEIR YOUTH

Daughter: ABSOLUTELY . SO THEY KEEP GOING TO CONS BUT IT ISNT THE SAME

Me: THE MAGIC IS GONE

Daughter: AND SOME GUY COMES INTO ONE OF THE PANELS AND LISTENS VERY RESPECTFULLY, BUT THEN AT THE Q&A RAISES HIS HAND AND ASKS “ISNT THIS ALL REALLY RATHER MORONIC?”

Me: AND THE PANELISTS ALL LOOK AT EACH OTHER AND GO “YOU KNOW HE’S RIGHT”

Daughter: SO THEY GET UP AND LEAVE

Me: AND THEY ALL GO TO THE HOTEL BAR

Daughter: AND THEY ARE TELLING ALL OF THIS TO THE BARTENDER

Me: AND HE’S NODDING HIS HEAD AND SAYING, “YEAH, I TOTALLY HEAR YOU”

Daughter: HE S ALL “I HAD THE SAME THING WHEN I WAS A KID”

Me: “MY PARENTS WERE REALLY INTO COLLECTING NAPKINS”

Daughter: “PAPER NAPKINS”

Me: “FROM DIFFERENT RESTAURANTS. THEY WOULD PUT THEM IN ALBUMS AND LABEL THEM WITH LOCATIONS AND DATES AND ALL THAT SHIT”

Daughter: AND THE EX-SHOPPING CART GUYS ALL LOOK AT EACH OTHER, AND YOU CAN TELL WHAT THEY ARE SECRETLY THINKING

Me: “NAPKINS? THAT SOUNDS KINDA COOL ACTUALLY”

Daughter: YES YOU KNOW THEY DO

Arggh. And now back to reviewing.

I swear, if I have to read one more book about the spunky daughter of a medieval lord who disguises herself as a boy and runs away to join a troupe of travelling players, but experiences the Harsh Realities of Life and the Dangers of War and Finds Twu Wuv on the journey, I’m going to stick a fork in my eyes…

Someone is WRONG on the Internet!

2009-05-16T22:31:11Z

I really really hate being wrong.

Even more, I really really hate continuing to be wrong.

Yet that’s just what I’m going to do.

Last weekend, I became tangentially involved in an acrimonious comment thread on a science fiction site. The details of the original dispute don’t really matter, I think. The important point is that a well-known speculative fiction author has written a new novel that a great many people feel deliberately excludes, excises, and negates their existence, and a number of them expressed their hurt and anger on this particular thread.

I came to the comments very late – I don’t even remember why I read them, I hadn’t read the book in question and had no intention to, despite my very great admiration for that particular author.

I had no dog in that fight, and I stayed out of it, until a comment punched one of my own peculiar buttons....

And I had to go and open my big yap.

Cue a series of hapax’s set rants about how no individual had the right to make judgments about the needs or capabilities about any reader based solely upon their membership in a particular group; about how no one should be required to read any book (especially if they found it hurtful); no one should say that any story should not be told or heard by someone else; and (of course, it being me) that the “real story” was not the story in the text but the story created by the interaction of each individual’s expectations and experiences with the text, yada yada yada.

Oh, yeah, and I think there was something in their about the different kinds of criticism of a story, between criticizing the *form* of a text and the individual *experience* of encountering it.

These comments were met with a degree of anger that frankly surprised me – but in retrospect, how could it have been otherwise? Not that I don’t hold those particular opinions, and still consider them true (and to be honest, rather uncontroversial in themselves) – but in this particular context of deeply felt personal experiences they were simultaneously too narrow and too abstract, and were practically begging to be misunderstood – or worse yet, understood all too well as products of a privileged existence with the luxury of dwelling on the meta-issues instead of grappling with the bayonets and kicks in the trenches.

I wish I could say that I had the good sense to have realized this at the time, but in truth I said to myself, “You know, I’ve got too many problems going on in my life right now, and I am spending way too much time arguing my Very Important Points with people who Just Don’t Get Them anyways. I’m outta here.”

And there the matter would have rested. Except…

One of the participants in the conversation asked me, even if what I said were granted, what is to be done about the very real racism implicit in some stories, and the equally real harm it did to people already suffering under societal burdens? And while acknowledging the toughness of the question, my answer was to return to my faith in stories. When the people hurt by racism tell their stories, sez me, including through such means as this very same criticism of this particular book, it becomes part of the experiences that the reader *brings* to the book. Therefore the answer is not to suppress this or that story, but answer it with more or better stories. (My mental model here, I believe,was Hitler’s Mein Kampf, which I believe should be easily accessible to anyone who chooses to read it, secure in the knowledge that it is virtually impossible in this day and age to pick up that text without knowing of the horrors of the Holocaust that flowed from it.)

This participant chose to respond to my assertions on her own blog, in an impressively thought-provoking and gracious way. Her answer deserves to be read in full (here), but to summarize grossly, she essentially asked “Are People of Color required to keep telling their stories of racism, over and over, just so White People can learn from them?”

An internet acquaintance sent me that link, and I read the post, and I’ve been thinking about it for days.

And my answer, damn it, is “Yes.”

I hate it that that’s my answer. It sucks that that’s my answer. It’s horrible and cruel and unbelievably unfair and it’s the wrong damn answer. If the person who posed that question should stumble upon this blog somehow and read this post, I would hope with all my heart that she would howl and spit and curse my name across the width of the Internet.

But any other answer I could give would be more wrong.

I have always said that one of the signs that we live in a fallen world is far too often we are forced to decide between an infinity of wrong choices, and somehow, by guess or by Grace, stumble upon the least wrong option.

This came up in a discussion elsewhere, on another topic as personal, potentially prone to emotional argument, and filled with a smorgasbord of Bad Options, that of aborting pregnancies expected to produce disabled children. One poster commented: "Let people make choices, even choices that bother me, and do the best to give them fair and accurate information so they don't *unknowingly* make bad choices."

And I thought, “Yes. That’s it. Substitute “stories” for “information”, and that’s pretty much the most important principle of my life!”

And then I was faced with a dilemma.

Because I had always thought – I had always *prided* myself on thinking – that the real person in front of me trumps any theoretical person and abstract idea.

And yet I am here confronted with incontrovertible proof that, after days of trying to come up with another answer, that here is a case when I privilege a principle over people.

Because my most fundamental core belief in life is that stories must be told.

That doesn’t mean that every story told is good or helpful or even honest. Stories in our world are told by people. And as that great philosopher (and unwitting disciple of St. Paul) William Steig famously observed, “People are no damned good.”

So as much as wish they weren’t, stories are going to be told that exclude people. That negate people. That diminish people. For their sex, their class, their ethnicity, their religion, for all sorts of reasons I am probably too mired in my own prejudices to recognize.

I wish it weren’t true. But the only way I can envision a world free of these kinds of stories is to imagine a world without stories entirely, and that’s worse.

So those harmful stories – stories that, intentionally or not, are fundamentally un-True – must be countered. Protested yes, but more importantly countered by True stories. Drowned by True stories. De-fanged by True stories. Inoculated against by True stories.

I can protest what I can see. (I do in fact – I can’t think of how many stories I have given bad reviews for their use of the Magic Ethnic. But see, here I go again, making it All About Me.) I can teach myself to see more widely, to see more clearly.

But far too often, I can’t counter the False story with a True story – because it isn’t MY story. And to claim it as my own would be a theft and a lie.

So, yeah. Hawthorne was wrong. The “universal thump” isn’t evenly distributed, and falls more heavily on some shoulders than others.

And I was wrong. And I will probably remain wrong. And it is shameful and sad and infuriating.

But I don’t know what else there is for me to do. Except to encourage more stories to be told, even if it aggravates and hurts the tellers.

And to try and shut up and listen to the telling.

"What is Truth?" said jesting Pilate / And would not stay for an answer

2009-05-04T03:08:41Z

So, yeah. I've changed my journal title. (Or to be more accurate, finally got around to picking one. It only took, what, three years?)

But I've been picking a lot of quarrels of late, with myself, with family and friends, in the comment space of other's blogs, and they all seem to revolve around this same question.

What is Truth?

It's pretty easy for me to say what it is *not*. I don't think "Truth" is in any way equivalent to "Fact", although there may be considerable overlap. "Truth" is certainly not the same as "Not-Lie", whether or not "Lie" involves deliberate deception or not. Since I've repeated endlessly the central role that Story plays in my search for Truth, I should think it obvious that I believe the deliberate counter-factuality of Fiction -- or more correctly, the indifference towards factuality of Fiction -- is somehow essential to whatever "Truth" means to me.

But that doesn't mean I endorse some sort of deconstructionist relativism -- "Truthiness" a la Stephen Colbert -- either. I'm a Neo-Platonist as much as I am a Christian, and Truth is one of those Capitalized Absolutes (call them "Forms" or "Ideas" or "Essences") that in Reality (which unlike mere "reality", gets its own capital letter) is self-identified by the Deity Godself. (John 14:6, for those of you playing along at home)

Truth, in other words, has to mean something. And something pretty damn important.

But what?

And here I am, like the subject of Bacon's epigram*, spending so much energy running after my quarry that I have none left to catch it. Trying so hard to create silence (as I commented below) that I forget how to listen. Focussing so hard on looking behind and around and through that I've lost the ability to look at.

The phrase comes from John's Gospel again (18:38), and in the Latin Vulgate is rendered Quid est veritas? A famous anagram renders the answer Est vir qui adest : it is the man who stands before you.

And I guess that is my answer as well, as much as anything. Except that it is a pity that the anagram relies on the specific and individual "vir" instead of the more generic "homo". Because I like playing with the two different senses.

What is Truth?
It is Jesus, the Incarnate God, the very expression of Transcendental Reality.

and

What is Truth?
It is that human being in front of you, the one you are ignoring, while you are looking upwards and outward for a more cosmic answer.

I like to think that both are simultaneously the "correct" answer. But paradox is as important to me as oxygen.**

To borrow another famous metaphor, this one from the Zen tradition, , I don't think it is a mistake to fix our gaze on "the finger pointing at the moon." The trick is to gaze at *both* the celestial object *and* the finger that points the way.

Because without that pointing finger, the "moon" would be merely a lump of orbiting rock without significance.

Because without that lump of rock, the finger would have nothing to indicate.

And like myself, this rumination circles about and comes to no particular conclusion.

* in case anyone didn't know, the quote in the subject line is from Francis Bacon's essay "On Truth", which is well worth reading, if rather tangential to anything I'm trying to say here

**in this case, a paired ox-- oh, never mind