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Rosario’s Garden 1
Another sleepless night.

Seems that's all he has nowadays. Forget the air conditioning, in hopes the sound of the surf could bring rest, he left the window open to the sea. What he heard instead was the bar closing crowd of Harleys at 2:00. By 3:00 there was just the sea, and the hum of the air conditioner fighting to regain control of the room.

Old people move to Florida when they retire. That's what people of his generation did. Seemed like a good idea at the time. He envisioned warm water, beaches and a place where time slowed. After a lifetime of whatever it was he had set out to do that's what he did.

What had he set out to do? So hard remember in the early morning, when all he wanted was dreamless sleep.

For lack of anything better, Niel swings his legs over the side of the bed and heads for the icebox, across a clutter-free expanse of light carpet. Nothing. Nothing there, but he grabs a styrofoam container of yesterday's leftovers for something to do. Cracks open a book that he's been trying to wrap his head around and settles in the livingroom chair.

A woman's laugh and giggle. An abrupt change of tone. "Don't."

He hears her often now. So many years ago, and a lifetime between, and she's more real now than she was then.
Posted 07/05/2003
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remembering
There was professor at RIT named Erik Timmerman. No one - no one - was ambivalent about him. Either adored or despised, he was opinionated, and in your face.

We had good conversations. I told him that he was formidable, he told me I intimidated him. (6 foot plus rotund giant that he was. Me, a chihuahua barking at a great Dane). He made it clear whether or not he thought what you said was idiotic, or just plain wrong - in class, in a crowd. But he'd also respectfully concede a point if you made a good and reasoned argument.

One Spring day - nearing graduation - I stopped by his office to tell him that I'd met two grads who'd asked after him. "Really?" He smiled and confided that Spring made him sad.

"Every year, all these students leave...and I am still here. I don't think they remember me."

Remember you? Dude.
Hard ass that you were, I remember your scant praise. Your jokes. Your presence. And whether or not my classmates liked you, I have no doubt they remember you.

All this because I I.M.'ed John Dunn this morning. Because he's graduated and I still want to know he's doing alright.

The students leave.
I remember them:
Blake Dubin, Billy Markert, Les Howell, Midge, Sally Reich, Ina, Kamel, Bryan, Chris Meenan, Andy Acello (though he's still around)...I think they remember me. I hope fondly. It goes both ways.
Posted 07/04/2003
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ping
"ping" has such nice mental overtones of tossing pebbles at windows, doesn't it?

-Liz
Posted 07/03/2003
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kiss no bite
gKiss.jpg
Posted 07/03/2003
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modest goal figuring
I'm going to be 41 in a few weeks.

Last year, I went out with my sister Elaine, and friend, Liz, with the intent of getting carded at every bar I went to. (4 for 4). Found out that we all sucked at pool and darts. Said goodbye to them then drove out to the lake with the windows down, and the music loud.

There should be some goal, some thing to attain - on the day, in the year. Nothing big...learn to swim. Go rockclimbing again (haven't since before Aidan was born)...There's Deb's triathalon next year in June - that's good. Get my shit and callouses up to where maybe I wouldn't feel stupid asking if Gerald would teach me something on the gitfiddle.

Gitfiddle...find Sheila again.

Find the floor of my office.

Do what I've been doing this past year: finding my worth. Speaking up a little more.

Learning how to ask for help, and trusting that people not only don't mind, but like to do it.

Figuring out what I want, and maybe, even, going for it.
Posted 07/03/2003
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404
404 File Not Found

I ate your Web page.
Forgive me. It was juicy
And tart on my tongue.

Translation:

The URL you requested could not be found on this server.

(Couldn't find it again if I tried. Happy that William Carlos Williams lives in the oddest places.)
Posted 07/02/2003
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contrast
It's relative- how good you got it, how much in love you are, whether or not you want to embrace someone or spit on them.

So one base line is - "I love my children." That doesn't stop me from wanting to smack them on occassion, nor feeling the other extreme that seems beyond such a limited expression. The awe at the creation of their being alive and unbelieving that you actually get to share their lives with them.

I can remember what it was like without them. And life then, was also good- not so complex, not so rich...though I clearly remember waking up whenever, making myself coffee, reading quietly and relishing the luxury of being alone. (I consciously took a mental snapshot of a morning, knowing that this simple thing should not be taken for granted. September, 1983, my very own studio apartment, grey Rochester morning, Eastman School student practicing cello down the hall...)

So different than sitting here as Gabriel hoists himself upon my lap, pushes my typing hands away, rearranges my arms until he nestles in the hollow of my crossed legs with a shit eating adoring grin. (I am both diminished and more than I was a moment ago).

It's the contrast between the two that makes meaning. The past is a background for the present.

Taking stock of past lovers makes me aware of what's good and bad about what is now. Background, foreground, context.

Ditto jobs, ditto friendships, ditto places I've lived.

Even if the contrast is just between midnight and the morning. Some lines run through it all, and they sound sweet or somber depending on the notes.

I would be an alto sax.
Sing solo.
Soar off improvising my own melodies.
Frenetic free style 'til
I tire of my own company.

I need the bass line to keep me grounded, give me a place to return to; stop me from self indulgent excesses.

I like jazz, the melody against minors and sharps. I like Nina Simone and Bonnie Raitt. I like that you can hear all the experience they've had in their inflection. The whiskey, the cigarettes, the pain, the bass line underneath, and this beautiful voice carrying it all.
Posted 07/01/2003
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ain’t but a thang
Following the previous post, Tona, called to make sure I was okay. (I am.)

She's good people. Knew it the moment I met her. Funny. To the point. And a straight shooter to boot. I'd count her among the idkeepers. She can ask me direct questions, and will call me on it when she thinks (rightly so), I'm answering with the nice thing instead of the true thing.

Tona called it "the game face". The public face is cavalier - easily amused and on constant look out for the intrinsic comedy in each moment. Fodder for amusement is rich at home, at work, at play, and most often in serious matters.

There is no schism between humor and seriousness. The various layers are still part and parcel of the whole. There's no conflict between these musings and the woman who'd rather smile at you than hit you (at least publicly). There is nothing sad about knowing you've got it good, and acknowledging there will be times you want it better.

It ain't but a thang.
Posted 06/30/2003
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inner sanctum
At the core are the things we don't even know we have - regrets, desires and fears that move us when the grown up isn't paying attention.

Who's got the key to the id? One person, maybe two, maybe you...if circumstances are right, tumblers align, and the trust is great enough. (Not me. Who knows their Self?)

But my idkeeper says, "Tell me..." And in a moment, with the adult absent, the truth burbles out, and ambushes the speaker.

So, deep down, life isn't always good. Good guys do sometimes finish last. Justice isn't the norm, and right thinking and right doing doesn't necessarily buy squat.

At the core there is disquiet, and a sense of something more that could be, if only one could feed the hunger, be selfish, abandon such nonsense as propriety, responsibility, and niceness.

But life is mostly good. And I am surrounded by better than Okay. With so much effort and risk involved to go for that phantasm of Great, what choice is really there? and at what cost? Better to dream and let inertia guide.

We who understand know the force is already in motion and will continue to move us in these paths we've chosen. There is no such thing as luck. Where we are is where we have brought ourselves, propelled to this spot, at this moment, shooting on, driven by every choice we've made, and each thing we hold dear.

The adult returns to the guard, and there will be no regret for missed opportunities or alternate lives.
Posted 06/29/2003
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blowing stuff up
From the moment we entered Pennsylvania, on through Maryland and onto Virginia...

FIREWORKS!*@#$!

We're in Virginia for the weekend. I got a carload of little testosterone units, and it's legal! "Dad, you mind pulling over into one of those?"

Dad does. Connor and Aidan hop out and immediately start grabbing rockets. 7 years old, and Aidan is already grabbing crackers bigger than his torso with the understanding that bigger is better and you get more bang for your buck.

Frightening.

The brand name on everything at the stand is "TNT".

After Connor and Aidan have alternately hit me with, "Can we get this?", each time proferring a multicolored brightly packaged enticing bomb, I tell them to step back and decide upon the smallest package they've got (17 bucks with over 20 of these things, each with cautionary printed rectangles admonishing that it be used only under adult supervision, that one should light the thing, and immediately retreat) - plus three boxes of sparklers.

That night, they dutifully eat everything on their dinner plates and we have our private show as dusk falls.

Sparkles. Whistles. Showers of light. Whizz-bangs. After the package is depleted, they run around in the dark, sparklers aloft, shouting they're kings of some magic land. I wonder if this is what fairies look like, making brilliant chaotic trails.

They love it. Even Gabriel goes "whoo!"

So worth it to watch them run round like little maniacs, shrieking - really shrieking with delight and awe, and I'm a kid all over again, plus I get to be the one holding the match.
Posted 06/29/2003
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I measure time by how a body sways
A long time ago, I interpreted "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with another sign language interpreter - male. We attended the show to begin our translations.
"We must starve our eyes
of love's food
'til morrow deep midnight"

He blinked, "Damn, a guy could get laid with a line like that!"

Okay, broken down to it's most base level, but,
yeah,
a guy could.

Words are powerful that way. Poetry more so.
So, languid days...thinking of shining bodies in the sun brings me
here...

I Knew a Woman
by Theodore Roethke

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)

Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)

Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Posted 06/27/2003
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more later…
I could be writing the rest of my presentation notes in article form, or I could do what I'm going to do, and procrastinate.

It's hot and humid.

A day like this makes me body conscious. My own. Others. Everyone.

We shed layers and reveal what lies underneath. Each body has a sheen. Form emphasized. Those who move with determination and purpose are suspect. It's a day for underwater locomotion. For grace, lemonade and shade.
Posted 06/26/2003
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Interface Design : A Virtual Dialog in Three Parts (Part 1)
<style sheet into this very page. The code remains the same, the only thing that has changed is the external .css file. Do as the authors recommend. Look at the site. Select among the various designs. The site will change radically. The content will remain the same.

The questions that should be asked in this thought experiment are these:

  • Does this affect credibility of the site
  • Does this affect my sense of the personality of the communicator / designer?
  • Which one speaks to me the most?

Theoretically, if content is paramount, your perception of the site will not change despite any design selection. Does it?

Another interesting exercise is to look at Strange Banana's random CSS generated site. Every time you visit the site, or even refresh it, you'll get an entirely different site. Again, the content remains the same. The look and feel, changes radically.

Tomorrow. Part II. The Internet cocktail party
Posted 06/25/2003
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the take away line…
Carrie Bickner's take away line from the conference...
It's okay not to use CSS if you're on crack.

(might be slightly paraphrased- but it does seem T-shirt worthy :) )

okay

now

I'm really going to bed.
Posted 06/24/2003
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HighEd Web Conference
Today, I gave a presentation at the Higher Education Web Professionals of NY conference.

Mike Axelrod, a fellow IT professor at RIT, took some notes on the sessions he attended and posted them to his blog. I'll do some of the same in the next few days as my spirit returns.

I began my session by saying, "Mr. Grant..." a la Mary Tyler Moore - reason? When I'm nervous speaking in front of large groups, I still get this quiver in my voice. Just told the audience I wanted to get that out of the way, and that I felt less stupid doing it as Mary. Then everything else went fine. Felt good, though I don't think I'll ever get over that nervousness before I open my mouth.

And now I'm beat.

So much of me gets sent out when I speak. So much energy. Some, get enervated by speaking aloud. To me, instead, it does feel like I'm sending my spirit out into the room and I have to wait for it to return.

Glad the day is done.

It was a good day.

Note to self: write about the presentation.

Liz and I had a talk after a session at Pop Tech! last year. I was saying that the talk seemed self-evident. Her response, "To you." Then gave me a verbal kick in the pants about writing and publishing some of these ideas. (I have also been dubbed Ms. Self-Evident).

That said- tomorrow, Inteface Design : A Virtual Dialog in Three Parts.
Posted 06/24/2003
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