Yeah, But I Don't Have To Watch

Would you to to a party at a guy's house if you were pretty sure he was beating his son and raping his daughter? Me neither. Some folks would say, "But you might be able to do some good while you're there, you know, convert him or something!"

The only way I'm buying that is if we go in with guns blazing, grab the kids, and kick the guy in the nuts on the way out.

Or, would you accept a five million dollar payout from a casino if they paid it to you in paychecks? If, instead of cash, they gave you the paychecks of the sorry schlubs whose brain chemistry is structured just right for their victimization? I can year the argument now, "But after you got the money, you could do so much good with it! You could feed the children of those poor bastards!" Right, and any moment Brittney Spears could open a day care for orphans. But I digress.

If we can see the idiocy of the previous examples then what in the hell are we doing in the Olympics in Bejing? China's record on human rights still isn't so good. It isn't enough that entire businesses like Hobby Lobby and much of Walmart thrive off the trinkets made in sweat shops; before the fourth of July holiday, news media reported the U.S. spent 187 million dollars on fireworks from China!

And for what? A few seconds of thrills?

Dara Tores, 41 year old mother, returns to the pool in the Olympic games. All totalled, she'll spend less than 10 minutes in the pool.

And for what? A few minutes of thrills?

This has gotten personal. Western news media will not receive permission to take cameras into all parts of China. Conditions for all Chinese will not be on our televisions. All we'll see are the happy few, strategically placed at the party by the guy who routinely beats his sons and rapes his daughters.

I can't cancel the party or keep folks from going, but I sure don't have to watch television coverage of the event, pretending that no one in the house is suffering.

It's Eudora's fault...

We're in the summer institute. Stephanie read that bit from Eudora Welty's book. Then she asked, "What was your introduction to books?" The room fell silent. Pens scratched on papers. My pen did this:

It was 1975
I fell in love
With a vessel of
Passions and
In waters churned
Lay books.

"You've never read
To Kill A Mockingbird?"
Unmockingly exhaled
As easily as
"I'm hungry."

Their bony spines
From library shelves
Stared at me
Dared me
Scared me.
"I'm not a reader"
Lovers' confessions
Intellectual pillow talk.

"They're kissing cousins,"
She mused
"Reading,"
"And sitting still."

There they were,
Caught in the
Whirling power of this
Person,

Books

And I sat still.

******************
July 15, 2008. Thirty years.

What I learned this Summer...

I just finished a really cool course in my masters work at UALR. The course was called Working with Writers and I learned a lot about working in a virtual environment. I also learned a ton of new technology including wikis, RSS feeds, and chat rooms. In my first virtual group we took on RSS feeds along with wikis, email, blogging and chat rooms. We actually made a wiki for our group and turned it in for grading. If you'd like to see the wiki we made go to:

http://coolgroup.wikispaces.com/

I feel so much more capable on the web, but I still only know a thumbnails worth!

My Toe Is In The Water

Why did I quit posting to my blog?

I felt competition.

That's first. I looked around as some other blogs. Pictures, links, contests. I pulled a Peter, started looking at the waves, got insecure, looked at my blog through the eyes of my critics. I felt like I had to pour in many hours to make it cool enough to compete, cool enough for people to like it, to like me.

And there it is.

My blog became, in my mind, another reason people might not like me.

"Have you seen that pathetic blog?"

Well, no it's not pathetic...now. But I was afraid that if all I did was put up writing...my thoughts...then it would be a pathetic blog and I wouldn't be cool. Once again, my critic has my ball sac in the death grip. She's threatening to twist it, twist and wrench, until the thing pops off in her hands, and then you know what she'll do with it?

Eat it.

Critics are never happy until they've consumed your essence.