Monthly Archives: December 2009

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Online fires

It’s almost exactly two years old at this point, and it links to a post at the Old Blog that I have long since taken down at the request of the guest blogger, but this post by our friend rrp remains one of the most cogent and thoughtful essays on blog discussion dynamics I have seen. The essay has to do with blog wars, but it’s relevant to the less unpleasant aspects of online relationships as well, and to other facets of writing for an online readership.

Starting off with a description of some of the real-life meetings, good and bad, in which she’s taken part, rrp moves on to the blog world.

Put three posts side by side. Make A a calmly argued, logically structured, even beautiful essay. Make B a full on emotional diatribe, making sure to keep it somewhat coherent. It can’t read as flat-out insane. Make C a sardonic, clever piece of wordplay that manages to make any opponents look like fools. How will they rank? Well based on my experience C will get the most attention, B next and A will come in a sorry last.

This rings true. I’ve written all three of the above, if you stretch rrp’s definition of “A” just a little bit. The posts that fall into category C are the ones that still get spasms of blog traffic, even years later. I’m really good at writing C, whether it’s snarky one-liner reductio “Shorter” comments on other blogs, or rewriting Eliot’s poetry to make fun of wingnuts. I lately feel kinda sick to my stomach when I look at some of those old posts, most of them written in a form of anger that I can only describe as something akin to the abuser’s mindset.

Writing in category B is a little healthier. Rants are often provoked by righteous anger, as opposed to the curdled, denialistic loathing that taints much online snark in category C. Bad things happen, and anger is an appropriate response to them. Anger expressed in public will always draw some attention. A couple weeks ago there was this thing floating around Twitter that basically said “either you go wade into this blog fight on the same side as me or you don’t care about the lives of trans people,” and some smart and thoughtful people helped spread the message despite the manipulation and the bloody-shirt-waving. Prairie fires of this sort of anger lick back and forth across much of the political blog world a lot these days. In the desert, fires like that have a peculiar effect, changing the structure of the landscape. Wildfires tend to favor grasses, which can burn and grow back. After a few seasons, the fires don’t hurt much as they periodically burn over the same spot for the dozenth time. Of course at that point, not much interesting grows there between fires.

rrp really gets down to business when she contrasts offline behavior with online, a topic on about which I have been known to yammer:

What does this have to do with online political work? Well, take an audience that’s predisposed to regard the medium as entertainment and primed with the dynamics I’ve described and it’s a recipe for disaster. The behaviors that lead to the worst real-world meetings are the following:

  • Rigidity
  • Insecurity
  • Loud, Obstinate Ignorance
  • Concealed Motives
  • Poor Faith Arguments
  • Unexamined Motives

In the online environment (and out here in the world too) all of these are lethal to progress, but the last three are especially guaranteed to derail and destroy useful discussions. It’s easier to construct snappy comebacks when you don’t believe in what you’re writing (poor faith arguments) It’s easier to pour out an enraged rant when you’re reacting and typing first, without thinking about why a particular post is making you crazy (unexamined or concealed motives).

But thinking through your own reactions takes training and it takes time. And time is at a premium in a online discussion. …[I]n an online discussion, you have to hit it quick or the moment will have passed you by. That wonderful thing you were going to say loses its context and relevance. It will disappear without an answer, without an echo, without a sound. So there’s every incentive to type fast, to type first thing that comes to mind, to type the words that will have the greatest impact.

You’ll probably type what you feel not what you could have thought if you had a day or so. You’ll probably type out of your reactions rather than your principles. And you’ll type for your audience, wanting to please, instruct, anger, enlighten, and entertain.

There’s more.

It’s a year and a half since I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t wade into the slagfights anymore. I haven’t, mostly. I still watch them, partly out of interest in the issues being fought over, and partly out of self-defense—my name still gets dragged into the things now and then, despite my long absence from the roster of combatants. There are plenty of crucial issues at the center of these fights: human rights, respect, justice, peace, taking place across seemingly intractable divides of gender and race and ethnicity.

There are, I have no doubt, people learning hard-fought personal lessons amid those fights. I wouldn’t say nothing is gained in the fighting. But I still see a lot more flinch-apologies than I do dialogue, a lot more defensive bluster than listening: fire-adaptations any ecologist will recognize handily.

In the meantime, I have spent this last year trying to get my writing closer to what rrp describes as category A, generally forsaking the other stuff. Despite rrp’s well-argued analysis of the dearth of response such writing gets, I’ve heard from plenty of you — rrp included! — that you find some value in the attempt.

That response from all of you was a good thing in 2009, and here as the year ends, I want you to know I’m grateful for it. Thank you.

Sheep Pass

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Yesterday, around 3:00 PM. Driving on Park Boulevard, Joshua Tree National Park. We drive past a sign that says “Sheep Pass Campground.”

Me: You know, I bet you could get a really good night’s sleep there.
The Raven: [near-silent groan]
Me: You know, because of the sheep passing…
The Raven [interrupting]: Uh-huh.
[pause of 45 seconds or so]
Me: See, it’s hilarious because you could count…
The Raven [interrupting, a bit more emphatically]: Right. Got it.

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Stripped clean

Yesterday a blue-eyed storm blew through Los Angeles. The wind had been out of the desert for some days, calm and a bit warm, and then Tuesday morning we were buffeted. It got cold, for Los Angeles, and the wind reached 30 miles an hour at times.

The wind stripped dead fronds from all the streetside palms. They formed drifts at the curbs. Piles of tire-shredded mulch built up between the lanes.

A few nights ago I ran the same route, saw Orion and Canis promenading across the sky, saw a bright Geminid meteor outshine the smoggy night. A barn owl screamed at me as I ran, block after block. The nest in palms, come out to hunt the rats and squirrels.

Tonight it was still cold, for Los Angeles. I ran anyway. Today the air was filthy, and reaffirmed my desire to leave before the next year is out, but tonight was clear: a dozen stars glinted feebly above the sodium vapor lamps. I ran headed for Rigel, for Sirius bright in the south, then south of Santa Monica Boulevard I turned west.

A moon one day shy of first quarter was setting, orange-tinted, at the end of the street. I ran toward that for a while, through piles of spent and shattered palm fronds.

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Arcane and mysterious texts, deciphered

There’s a cultural document with which you are almost certainly familiar that for most of my life has occupied a place central to my cosmogony — the nature aesthetic, the trickster worship, the sharp inhalation of joy that each new moment in life brings. I’ve held this work dear since I was, oh, three or four. And yet there has always been a mystery at the very core of this work, a stream-of-consciousness flow of unintelligible information that informs the text of the work. It is interpreted within the work itself, if a bit unreliably. You can enjoy this work for years — you can understand it very well indeed, for Pete’s sake — without deciphering the mystery.

But the mystery is there, and prominent, and I have puzzled over it almost since I first encountered it. I have tried to work it out myself for years. I have taken my share of lumps in the process.

The other day I realized I had the key I needed to unlock the mystery, right here on my desk.

Here it is, complete with a flaw the authors placed there, expecting no one would ever notice. Feel free to — as they say in the large predator business — help yourself.

 

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A sweet little wistful nostalgic love poem

I wish that I had never met
the one who set my heart aflame.
All the decisions I regret
I made after I learned her name,
excepting those I’d made before.
I used to long to hear her voice.
I never do that anymore,
which seems to be the wiser choice.
I wish that I had never found
myself enmired in talking late.
I wish I’d been more tightly wound,
my basal metabolic rate
less prone to fluctuation when
her silence took that certain tone
and I would tread eggshells again,
dallying desperately alone.
I wish I had avoided all
our shoulder-hollow-knotting trysts
that etched away my stomach’s wall
and made me want to slash my wrists.
I wish that I had been the one
to call it ended, when it seemed
her fantasy had come undone
and I was not the man she’d dreamed.
But I was me, for ill or good.
I rode it out until the end,
when finally I understood
what failed in love would fail as friends.
I wish I never knew her, yet
there isn’t much real there to mourn;
trivial pleasures I forget,
the chaff blown off of last year’s corn.