blogtank global consulting.
[via michael o'connor clarke]

What’s the use of this activity called weblogging? (Or, as some prefer to call it, frequently-updated cerebral kineticism, which unfortunately lacks a catchy acronym). Millions of people are alleged to do it, but Pet Rocks were a big hit once too, as was CB radio.

On the one hand, it’s about voice and writing your way, which is what makes articles and books on “how to write for a blog” bizarre and ridiculous. It is about the appeal of having one’s own voice, and of reading a variety of voices and experiences, watching them evolve, whatever.

It is not, however, about mindfulness or helping one focus on life more sharply. I used to think so, but I was wrong. I even tried to start a group blog about mindfulness, but it failed, because, I think, blogging draws one away from life. Initially it seems you are paying closer attention so you can describe something more clearly. But in time – depending on the style of your blog – you end up living for publication, for an imaginary audience. This is perhaps not true for humor blogs or thoughtful writing; it is however my experience with Feral Living. I mean, the whole point here is, “is Miguel going to get in trouble from Alpha for saying that?” I am walking a thin line between having this site enrich my life – which it does – and detract from it.

I am not going on hiatus, though. On the contrary. The biggest benefit I have had from my experiences with this medium is that I am no longer a misanthrope. People are just as stupid as they ever were, but I have met, through their words and in some cases even in person, funny, interesting, intelligent, caring and generous people who have changed the way I think about earthlings. I have become more tolerant. I won’t analyze this any more deeply, but contact and interaction (even collaboration) has been a positive surprise. This ranges from looking at the site stats and seeing who’s visiting and linking to reading and writing comments to publishing on group blogs and having IM conversations and e-mail exchanges.

New collaborations are in the works, more on that later, and it even looks as if there may be another surprise encounter with some bloggers I’ve been wanting to meet for a long time. More on that later as well.

On the other hand, it’s just blogging. I mean, who are you people? Who am I, for that matter?

Three Asian Bastard-related links in two days, sue me. This is the most ingenious links page you’ll ever see.
[First praised by kd]

I want to work for Asian Bastard.
[via twistypants]

We were trying to teach Gamma the days of the week last night and it was beginning to piss us off. I mean, you’re nearly five, man, time to start learning shit. All three of us were frustrated. Gamma had this stupid grin she puts on when her feelings are being hurt and she is embarrassed. She is so sensitive. So we both calmed down for once, Alpha and I. And put aside worries of learning disabilities etc. Because – she is only four and three-quarters. And she has never had to explicitly learn anything before.

So we tried other approaches. I tried writing down the names of the days, to give her a visual clue (she knows letters). Alpha had already tried that. Didn’t help much. I tried using her hand. Luckily Gamma has seven fingers on each hand.

Eh, okay, she has only five fingers on each hand like most kids. So we did just the weekdays yesterday, we’ll do the weekend on her other hand another time. I went through the days, pinching her fingertips lightly and repeating the names of the days. Thursday was the ring finger, visual clue – Thursday has a ring (at least on my hand).

She had the days down by bedtime, yay. And still remembered at breakfast. And even suggested using the other hand for the weekend. Hopefully we’ll think of this kind of gimmick sooner next time.

Another thing the Peasant habitually did was take care of the old folks throughout the county, the ones who’d been around since he was a boy. Mr. Sales, who lived next door, carved horses and put together halters and all the rest of their tack out of leather and metal scraps, and it was all accurate and to scale. The Peasant would hang out with him, just talk. He had draft horses and work horses and horses pulling carriages, accomplished naive folk art, dunno if it ever went beyond making stuff to give as presents to friends and neighbors and the waitresses at a local restaurant he flirted with well into his 90s. The Peasant visited Bessie often, and a couple more over in Portland, and the rest of them, and there seemed to be a lot.

Including Uncle Bill. He lived in a trailer across the field. He’d always lived there. When my mother and the Peasant and the rest of their siblings were kids, there’d been a house and a family there. Now there was just this filthy old guy and his dogs living in a rusty trailer in front of the house, which was falling down and no longer inhabitable, and several mangy ponies living in the barn next door.

The Peasant liked to take us along on our visits to Uncle Bill. He encouraged us to call the guy Uncle Bill although he was no relation because that made mother crazy. I mean, he was dirty. Mom seemed, in retrospect, to believe he was morally dirty as well, which he may well have been, this strange old hermit. But maybe not, who knows. It is true that the dogs slept in his bed, especially on cold nights. And it is true that my father came home once from having conversed with Uncle Bill, and said, “As I was talking to him, a mouse ran out of one of his pocket and around his neck and ducked back into his sweater up at his collar, and he didn’t even act as if it were anything unusual.”

Developers have bought that whole section of land and tore everything down a long time ago. Now they are fighting with the county over zoning, they want to build a mall, and put a Target right where our old house was. Uncle Bill, he’s dead now but I don’t know when he died or whether he was still living at home when he did, I suppose so. As far as I know he had no redeeming qualities, but you can never be sure about that either.

Nice design, Melanie.