Thanks goes out to Peter Rukavina for introducing me to the Blogosphere. I will never move about the Internet in the same way again. An email from Peter pointed me to a post where I was mentioned. I was flattered. I returned the email never to hear from him, in that form of communication again -instead I was introduced to his Blog. Who needs the occasional email when you have access to daily, sometimes hourly updates from someone who writes well and you find interesting? It took some sifting to understand what I was looking at - What was this website? What was this Blogroll? What is this RSS? And hello new world.
All that said, I might have to, at least temporarily, opt-out of writing a blog. This is too bad as it seems their are not a lot of female-writer-mother-bloggers as there are, let's say, male-technical-programmy-bloggers (more on this).
Reasons I've convinced myself I must stop:
1. Pregnant and exhausted
2. Starting a business
3. Working a new part-time contract
4. Full-time mother of a suddenly challenging two-year old
5. I think I'm obligated to cook dinners and clean the house too
6. My writing has changed
Regarding number six. I've replace writing in my journal with writing in a blog. Writing in my journal was not as diary-like as this blog. Writing in my journal was collecting ideas, conversations and starting and working on short stories. Writing in this blog is diary-like, letter-like, and edited for an imagined audience. In the blog I cap lengths pick and choose topics differently and lose some of the creative pieces found in something larger, sprawling and free.
Before children I would have maintained both. Now I think I need to choose. I tried. It was fun. It made me write and rewrite and that was important. I don't know if I can really stop forever (this is a great hobby - really!) and I may start another blog on my business domain, readtv.com, once it gets going. Lesson's learned from Peter - shipping containers, the power of personal writing and fresh content - has me leaning in that direction.
And finally, to keep me in the good company of noble quitters of blogging, I offer you a link to William Gibson's Last Postcard From Costa Del Blog
Friday, December 05, 2003
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
My Neighbour Tom and Me, Your Neighbour
Listening to: Bob Dylan - Buckets of Rain
Such a sunny song for buckets of rain. That is because the sun is shining on my desk and acoustic music in the sun leans towards the warmth. Steam rises from the ground outside the window. The backyard is hard frost. Driving Thomas to playschool I saw two women with plastic juice containers of warm water hovering about wet cars. I saw four cars running, without people, in their driveways. I listened to our neighbours truck run for a half-an-hour before he left.
I can guess at our bachelor neighbour's activities most nights by the noises outside of our house. Tom is chopping wood, Tom is using a chain saw, Tom is chopping more wood, Tom has the radio turned up for a favourite song, Tom is working on his motorcycle.
Tom is young - he used to play with Thomas the Tank Engine toys when he was a toddler. He has been our neighbour for five months. He tells me of his plans for the house. He is ambitious and likes to keep busy doing house things. He is a little afraid of me because I came outside and swore at him ("Welcome to the fuckin' neighbourhood!") for revving his dirt bike (an incredibly loud and piercing sound) beside our bedroom. The anger, unfortunately for Tom, wasn't all for him. Steven and I both jumped up after the second huge rev but Steve went to the window and I went to the closet for clothes - we collided mid-jump up and in that moment my nose smashed against his forehead. It was with throbbing nose that I approached the dirt bike revvers. I didn't leave that situation without being friendly - my insecurity can't bear to have anyone dislike me for very long. Tom and I were neighbourly-friends by the time I left.
I model my neighbourly-ness after my father. A leaning on the rake or over the fence talk about the world of our houses and the houses near-by slowly stretching out to the wider world of the town but usually no wider. I have spent many, many hours chatting to neighbours - almost all of them big industrial men or smaller tradesmen. I feel I do the manly / neighbour talk better than Steven. My comfort in trades and with tradesmen attests to those skills acquired attempting to make myself into someone I thought my dad would like more. My chatty neighbourly skills, also learned from my mother, is all about giving up pieces of my life for someone else's. It's also the womanly art of asking the right questions and staying on topics of comfort and confidence for the other. I am not proud of this skill - accommodating myself in sacrifice of myself - but it does bring a hyper-awareness to the nuances of conversations and a strong knowledge of a wide variety of audiences. This is why I hate most parties - I find myself shattered about the room by the end of the night.
Note about Canada Post's Santa letter. Both Thomas and Kelsea got the same letter. The letter was poorly written and neither Thomas or Kelsea cared what it said (sparkles and smiles; Mrs. Claus making sure Santa exercises!?). It was printed on dumb paper with a dumb Santa on it. Who has writing paper with their own image on it? Too bad. I had high hopes.
Such a sunny song for buckets of rain. That is because the sun is shining on my desk and acoustic music in the sun leans towards the warmth. Steam rises from the ground outside the window. The backyard is hard frost. Driving Thomas to playschool I saw two women with plastic juice containers of warm water hovering about wet cars. I saw four cars running, without people, in their driveways. I listened to our neighbours truck run for a half-an-hour before he left.
I can guess at our bachelor neighbour's activities most nights by the noises outside of our house. Tom is chopping wood, Tom is using a chain saw, Tom is chopping more wood, Tom has the radio turned up for a favourite song, Tom is working on his motorcycle.
Tom is young - he used to play with Thomas the Tank Engine toys when he was a toddler. He has been our neighbour for five months. He tells me of his plans for the house. He is ambitious and likes to keep busy doing house things. He is a little afraid of me because I came outside and swore at him ("Welcome to the fuckin' neighbourhood!") for revving his dirt bike (an incredibly loud and piercing sound) beside our bedroom. The anger, unfortunately for Tom, wasn't all for him. Steven and I both jumped up after the second huge rev but Steve went to the window and I went to the closet for clothes - we collided mid-jump up and in that moment my nose smashed against his forehead. It was with throbbing nose that I approached the dirt bike revvers. I didn't leave that situation without being friendly - my insecurity can't bear to have anyone dislike me for very long. Tom and I were neighbourly-friends by the time I left.
I model my neighbourly-ness after my father. A leaning on the rake or over the fence talk about the world of our houses and the houses near-by slowly stretching out to the wider world of the town but usually no wider. I have spent many, many hours chatting to neighbours - almost all of them big industrial men or smaller tradesmen. I feel I do the manly / neighbour talk better than Steven. My comfort in trades and with tradesmen attests to those skills acquired attempting to make myself into someone I thought my dad would like more. My chatty neighbourly skills, also learned from my mother, is all about giving up pieces of my life for someone else's. It's also the womanly art of asking the right questions and staying on topics of comfort and confidence for the other. I am not proud of this skill - accommodating myself in sacrifice of myself - but it does bring a hyper-awareness to the nuances of conversations and a strong knowledge of a wide variety of audiences. This is why I hate most parties - I find myself shattered about the room by the end of the night.
Note about Canada Post's Santa letter. Both Thomas and Kelsea got the same letter. The letter was poorly written and neither Thomas or Kelsea cared what it said (sparkles and smiles; Mrs. Claus making sure Santa exercises!?). It was printed on dumb paper with a dumb Santa on it. Who has writing paper with their own image on it? Too bad. I had high hopes.