So, it's your way or the highway, hmm?
What you're saying is that I'm wrong and you're right?
What you're saying is that I have to do things your way, and the problem I am having now is because i don't agree with the way you do things, so - to quote you exactly - I'll just have to get over it.
THAT's the solution to my problem. To get over it and just do things your way.
Not for a second do we entertain any other possible option.
Unfortunately, I can see your point. It's a bad habit of mine. A need for balance. I can see how things must look from your side of the argument.
But you don't see mine. We don't try and understand how things look from my side of the argument.
And so i just say, Ok, I'm over it, I won't mention it again.
What I'm really over is this dead-end conversation and this is the easiest way to end it.
And so it seems i've just caved in and taken the easy way and accepted that you're right. Your belief in your utter rightness is confirmed. Vindicated.
I wonder what it must be like to be inside your head. So black and white. So simple and easy. You're right, everyone else is wrong. No further thought or agonising required.
I think I envy that.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Please stop yelling at me
I open my email.
There are messages from facebook directing me to messages from friends so i click thru to my browser.
Scanning the long list of status updated on my homepage I note links to at least 3 interesting articles, blogs, videos. They look to be interesting/useful/ relevant-to-my-field information to click thru to; things I should read if I'm in this industry and want to keep up with current knowledge.
There are two email newsletters from recruitment companies who regularly send out editions seemingly full of interesting information, dozens of links to blogs, online articles, survey results.
I make a mental note, to go back and read all those articles later.
One email contains a link to that whitepaper I ordered. Must read that whitepaper sometime.
Must read those other 4 that I downloaded last week too. The one I just finished reading has 2 pages of references - all URLs for further research and info. I add those 2 pages to my list of links to look at later.
Next, I open my browser and see all the open tabs, lined up along to top, representing interesting things that I haven't yet read so have kept the tabs open to remind myself to look at them as soon as I have a spare moment.
I decide to create a spare moment and choose one tab. It's an interesting blog, with dozens of posts I've not yet read, which then link thru to further information, other sites. I follow one to a very cool site that might be of interest to colleagues. Email them the link. Groan. Now I've just added to THEIR email overload. So easy. A click and keystroke or two.
I follow a link in an FB status update to what looks to be an interesting post about Flash and iPad. Turns out to be one person's skewed and logic-free rant. The best reading was all the comments by readers, mostly tearing shreds off the author.
Another trail of clicking leads me to an online newspaper article purporting to be about a new global phenomenon/trend –– based entirely on anecdotes about 3 of the author's friends.
. . . . .
It's just too friggin' easy for someone to have an opinion about something and to stick it up on the web, then put a link to it in their mail out/social network feed and make us think we all absolutely have to read it. Because The barriers to entry that somewhat limit book and press publication, don't exist here on the interwebs. You want to publish something, all you need is internet access.
And people like me feel inadequate because we can't possibly read it all. I, and several people I know*, are email phobic now. The list of unread emails, that scrolls for pages, is a nagging statement of how behind we are, how we have failed at keeping up. (*i don't speak for the whole population, only myself and those several friends)
Fact: There aren't enough hours in the day. And when I do try and create the hours and attempt to read it all, I soon see that it's just someone spouting their own often uninformed, unexpert opinion.
EXACTLY as I am doing now.
I could easily start a new blog entirely on this theme, selling it as THE place to go for expert commentary on all things digital. I could crap on about what I think about iPad (along with the billion others already at it), just as now I am crapping on about what I think about information overload.
And you don't even have to really create any of your own content. Posting links to other content is even easier. Spend enuf time online following the trails and you'll soon see the same stuff coming up again and again. So there's not only more rubbish info out there, there's more of the same, just repackaged and repackaged.
I feel like I'm at a party - a RAVE party in a huge warehouse crowded with friends, colleagues, acquaintances and mostly total strangers - and EVERYONE is yelling at me, to get my attention, to be heard.
I wish they'd all shut up.
And maybe you wish you'd read something more interesting/useful/relevant-to-your-field than this.
There are messages from facebook directing me to messages from friends so i click thru to my browser.
Scanning the long list of status updated on my homepage I note links to at least 3 interesting articles, blogs, videos. They look to be interesting/useful/ relevant-to-my-field information to click thru to; things I should read if I'm in this industry and want to keep up with current knowledge.
There are two email newsletters from recruitment companies who regularly send out editions seemingly full of interesting information, dozens of links to blogs, online articles, survey results.
I make a mental note, to go back and read all those articles later.
One email contains a link to that whitepaper I ordered. Must read that whitepaper sometime.
Must read those other 4 that I downloaded last week too. The one I just finished reading has 2 pages of references - all URLs for further research and info. I add those 2 pages to my list of links to look at later.
Next, I open my browser and see all the open tabs, lined up along to top, representing interesting things that I haven't yet read so have kept the tabs open to remind myself to look at them as soon as I have a spare moment.
I decide to create a spare moment and choose one tab. It's an interesting blog, with dozens of posts I've not yet read, which then link thru to further information, other sites. I follow one to a very cool site that might be of interest to colleagues. Email them the link. Groan. Now I've just added to THEIR email overload. So easy. A click and keystroke or two.
I follow a link in an FB status update to what looks to be an interesting post about Flash and iPad. Turns out to be one person's skewed and logic-free rant. The best reading was all the comments by readers, mostly tearing shreds off the author.
Another trail of clicking leads me to an online newspaper article purporting to be about a new global phenomenon/trend –– based entirely on anecdotes about 3 of the author's friends.
. . . . .
It's just too friggin' easy for someone to have an opinion about something and to stick it up on the web, then put a link to it in their mail out/social network feed and make us think we all absolutely have to read it. Because The barriers to entry that somewhat limit book and press publication, don't exist here on the interwebs. You want to publish something, all you need is internet access.
And people like me feel inadequate because we can't possibly read it all. I, and several people I know*, are email phobic now. The list of unread emails, that scrolls for pages, is a nagging statement of how behind we are, how we have failed at keeping up. (*i don't speak for the whole population, only myself and those several friends)
Fact: There aren't enough hours in the day. And when I do try and create the hours and attempt to read it all, I soon see that it's just someone spouting their own often uninformed, unexpert opinion.
EXACTLY as I am doing now.
I could easily start a new blog entirely on this theme, selling it as THE place to go for expert commentary on all things digital. I could crap on about what I think about iPad (along with the billion others already at it), just as now I am crapping on about what I think about information overload.
And you don't even have to really create any of your own content. Posting links to other content is even easier. Spend enuf time online following the trails and you'll soon see the same stuff coming up again and again. So there's not only more rubbish info out there, there's more of the same, just repackaged and repackaged.
I feel like I'm at a party - a RAVE party in a huge warehouse crowded with friends, colleagues, acquaintances and mostly total strangers - and EVERYONE is yelling at me, to get my attention, to be heard.
I wish they'd all shut up.
And maybe you wish you'd read something more interesting/useful/relevant-to-your-field than this.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Monday evening after work
I sat on the kitchen floor, leaning against the sink. Staring at a corner of the room, feeling tired, achey and heavy. I felt the weight of gravity pushing down on me. I had an unhappiness, the feeling like I wanted to cry, but is was somehow inaccessible. Like a radio paying from another room, that i couldn't make the effort to drag myself over into. I could only sit on the floor and moving at all was too hard.
On my way home I'd been slightly annoyed by an oblivious skateboarder in my path, who I'd had to ride a big circle around. I 'd heard ambulance sirens up at the freeway intersection. I'd had interesting interactions with traffic and a cluster of buses on a steep downhill, that in retrospect made me slightly wince at the element of luck involved in getting home without incident. And near home I'd seen crowds standing on corners, staring at the chaos and group huddled on the road around the unconscious skateboarder in the gutter.
The evening was sunny and pleasant. Nothing bleak about my aspect from the fridge across to the sunlight on furniture, and out to blue skies, treetops and ocean sounds beyond. I sensed the difference of this sadness, this sense of - now that I think about it - depression. I didn't recognise it at first because of its different flavour. It was the grief of those around me, those close to me. I'm daily steeped in it, colouring my own sense of loss, which is milder, manageable, more subtle and hard to grasp - and therefore put aside - waiting to leak out in unexpected ways.
On my way home I'd been slightly annoyed by an oblivious skateboarder in my path, who I'd had to ride a big circle around. I 'd heard ambulance sirens up at the freeway intersection. I'd had interesting interactions with traffic and a cluster of buses on a steep downhill, that in retrospect made me slightly wince at the element of luck involved in getting home without incident. And near home I'd seen crowds standing on corners, staring at the chaos and group huddled on the road around the unconscious skateboarder in the gutter.
The evening was sunny and pleasant. Nothing bleak about my aspect from the fridge across to the sunlight on furniture, and out to blue skies, treetops and ocean sounds beyond. I sensed the difference of this sadness, this sense of - now that I think about it - depression. I didn't recognise it at first because of its different flavour. It was the grief of those around me, those close to me. I'm daily steeped in it, colouring my own sense of loss, which is milder, manageable, more subtle and hard to grasp - and therefore put aside - waiting to leak out in unexpected ways.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Broken
"I wake up
And the day feels
Broken"
--Bjork
The alarms woke us but we couldn't wake up. We were dragged out of bed by an awful necessity. It seemed to take a long time to get ready.
There was a time of just sitting and waiting for others to arrive so we could all drive together to the crematorium. Conversation was impossible. We shared a few words about the oppressive weather and how we felt heavy, tired, dazed and dull.
Then there was the waiting and loitering outside the crematorium, having slow, subdued, almost muttered exchanges with various people as they arrived, but also keeping to ourselves. Sometimes clustering for comfort, sometimes taking time alone.
The sight of the coffin was surreal. The concept of what was inside inconceivable. The expressions on the faces of the pallbearers however was very real; A complexity and transparency of grief, disbelief, of knowing that they were being watched and of trying to maintain a stoic face; of focussing on the task of carrying the weight, walking together in time, in step; keeping it smooth. There had been no rehearsal. The ceremony was moving. Both difficult and calm. Perfect speeches. Amazing displays of strength. We laughed and we cried collectively. There was that time of stillness as the curtains drew across in front of the coffin and a final song was played; A love song that for me is now rendered simply beautiful, and will now always make me cry.
At the end, the widow was required to exit first. Walking down the aisle, accompanied, in the opposite direction to a new bride. Her face was set in an attempt to show no emotion; holding her breath. A mask. As she neared the end of that long walk, she took a huge breath, rolled her head upwards and closed her eyes in a moment of thank god i made it thru. A private moment of her cracking open for just a second. I was unravelled.
Afterwards there time spent in road-accident traffic waiting and waiting for something to move, for the policewoman to wave in our direction and let OUR lane progress for once. Frustrating gridlock with the next venue almost walking distance.
But we were not late. We arrived not long before the hundreds of guests were due so we rushed, rushed, rushed to organise the flowers and trestle table, the DVD, signature books, souvenir cards; put out containers of nibblies; see to the caterers; grab a glass of water before dehydrating. And another glass. So thirsty.
People started arriving and from then it didn't stop. We stood and talked to each other, hugged, laughed, reminisced, commiserated, bemoaned the loss, the unfairness, the pain; looked up, looked away to choke down the tears that unexpectedly wanted to spring out; assessed life and lives led; the sum of a great life - the regret of its ending and the celebration of so much achieved in just 54 years. Looked wide eyed and happy and excited to unexpectedly meet old friends we'd lost contact with; talked fast to catch up on everything; met new people, made new friends. Saw whole other parts to a life, of which we'd each only known a sliver.
Cried when the party over in L.A., via satellite link, gave speeches so simple and from the heart, unrehearsed and at times lost for words, that is was impossible not to share their grief openly.
We talked and mingled, and listened to speeches, raised our glasses to toast a great man greatly missed.
Moving in and around the great hall, out to the garden area, out the front, into cars; cars followed each other like a train across the city and down to a restaurant and we sat and finally- for the first time that day - ate! and laughed and at a random comment felt sad, but kept the banter going non stop in order to ward off any maudlin displays.
I reached a kind of pinnacle of over-extroversion––almost frantic––having talked and conversed and been around people all day in a state of deep grief, in a deeply personal encounter with everyone. We had all hugged and kissed, cried and consoled each other in a far more intimate way than ever before or after; a special––and temporary––breaking thru of certain physical and social barriers. People I'd seen a few times in the last year only now told me very personal things. Now it was appropriate to talk about the loss of family members, wives, closest loved ones.
The day had trundled on non-stop. Intensely.
When I finally drove home my head was hot. It felt like it might explode.The headache i'd woken with, came to bed with me; then drifted off sometime in the short night.
And soon it was tomorrow.
And the day feels
Broken"
--Bjork
The alarms woke us but we couldn't wake up. We were dragged out of bed by an awful necessity. It seemed to take a long time to get ready.
There was a time of just sitting and waiting for others to arrive so we could all drive together to the crematorium. Conversation was impossible. We shared a few words about the oppressive weather and how we felt heavy, tired, dazed and dull.
Then there was the waiting and loitering outside the crematorium, having slow, subdued, almost muttered exchanges with various people as they arrived, but also keeping to ourselves. Sometimes clustering for comfort, sometimes taking time alone.
The sight of the coffin was surreal. The concept of what was inside inconceivable. The expressions on the faces of the pallbearers however was very real; A complexity and transparency of grief, disbelief, of knowing that they were being watched and of trying to maintain a stoic face; of focussing on the task of carrying the weight, walking together in time, in step; keeping it smooth. There had been no rehearsal. The ceremony was moving. Both difficult and calm. Perfect speeches. Amazing displays of strength. We laughed and we cried collectively. There was that time of stillness as the curtains drew across in front of the coffin and a final song was played; A love song that for me is now rendered simply beautiful, and will now always make me cry.
At the end, the widow was required to exit first. Walking down the aisle, accompanied, in the opposite direction to a new bride. Her face was set in an attempt to show no emotion; holding her breath. A mask. As she neared the end of that long walk, she took a huge breath, rolled her head upwards and closed her eyes in a moment of thank god i made it thru. A private moment of her cracking open for just a second. I was unravelled.
Afterwards there time spent in road-accident traffic waiting and waiting for something to move, for the policewoman to wave in our direction and let OUR lane progress for once. Frustrating gridlock with the next venue almost walking distance.
But we were not late. We arrived not long before the hundreds of guests were due so we rushed, rushed, rushed to organise the flowers and trestle table, the DVD, signature books, souvenir cards; put out containers of nibblies; see to the caterers; grab a glass of water before dehydrating. And another glass. So thirsty.
People started arriving and from then it didn't stop. We stood and talked to each other, hugged, laughed, reminisced, commiserated, bemoaned the loss, the unfairness, the pain; looked up, looked away to choke down the tears that unexpectedly wanted to spring out; assessed life and lives led; the sum of a great life - the regret of its ending and the celebration of so much achieved in just 54 years. Looked wide eyed and happy and excited to unexpectedly meet old friends we'd lost contact with; talked fast to catch up on everything; met new people, made new friends. Saw whole other parts to a life, of which we'd each only known a sliver.
Cried when the party over in L.A., via satellite link, gave speeches so simple and from the heart, unrehearsed and at times lost for words, that is was impossible not to share their grief openly.
We talked and mingled, and listened to speeches, raised our glasses to toast a great man greatly missed.
Moving in and around the great hall, out to the garden area, out the front, into cars; cars followed each other like a train across the city and down to a restaurant and we sat and finally- for the first time that day - ate! and laughed and at a random comment felt sad, but kept the banter going non stop in order to ward off any maudlin displays.
I reached a kind of pinnacle of over-extroversion––almost frantic––having talked and conversed and been around people all day in a state of deep grief, in a deeply personal encounter with everyone. We had all hugged and kissed, cried and consoled each other in a far more intimate way than ever before or after; a special––and temporary––breaking thru of certain physical and social barriers. People I'd seen a few times in the last year only now told me very personal things. Now it was appropriate to talk about the loss of family members, wives, closest loved ones.
The day had trundled on non-stop. Intensely.
When I finally drove home my head was hot. It felt like it might explode.The headache i'd woken with, came to bed with me; then drifted off sometime in the short night.
And soon it was tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
