Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Journalism - On Zoe Quinn and Eron Gjoni

Journalism - On Zoe Quinn and Eron Gjoni

The internet has been exploding of late, with a lot of drama around the situation of Zoe Quinn and Eron Gjoni.  For better or for worse, some ugly laundry has been aired, a lot of shots (proverbial) fired, and a tremendous amount of internet hate.  I've read several articles, including the original and whatnot, and everywhere is a sort of combination vitrol, and incredulity without focusing on the actual issue.

Until I stumbled on this comment, posted by amphigouri, at this website.  It summarizes many of the journalistic questions we have about the issue, and thankfully does so without the venom.  I recommend reading.

There are some parts of the post I disagree with, so don't take it at face value entirely.  Certainly I disagree with the concepts of slut shaming and calling out the action.  I never really advocate for internet trolling or abuses, and still firmly believe that internet threats should be considered in all seriousness alongside real threats.  I don't advocate for violence being done to people, especially essentially strangers, and it's fundamentally weird as a society that we tolerate, accept or even ignore that this happens.  But otherwise it's a solid series of thoughts.

EDIT: I also have to add, that I kind of hate when we collectively, as society simply accept that "The internet will be the internet."  The sort of idea that the worst of people will always be attracted to shaming, abusing or attacking others.  There are plenty of safe havens on the internet for intellectual discourse, it can, and frequently does happen.  That's not to put rose colored glasses on it, but when at some point do we look at each other and say, nah, we really can do better?  I hope it's soon.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Grief - Waves

Grief - Waves

/u/GSnow once wrote something that I have read during hard times.

He said:

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life. Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Hope that helps. Im sorry for your loss.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Rant - Trolling

Rant - Trolling

Let's declare a cessation on the word 'trolling' and call it like what it is. Criminal harassment. Verbal Abuse. This frontier of digital assault should be in the twilight of its days now, not becoming worse and worse with every passing day. Let us get the names of these people, who hide behind monikers and anonymity. Let us have their faces, and let them stand trial for their actions. Let them speak in a public forum and defend themselves, and let the rest of the world know that there is no defense for these terrible actions.

"In the name of a joke, or Just Kidding" is no longer a defensible excuse for not being an upright human being.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Drabble - Empty Book

Drabble - Empty Book

She hands me an empty book, and bids me read from blank pages.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Drabble - Me

Drabble - Me

It's not you, it's me.  It's never you, it's always me.

It's me.


Me with an imperfect belly.  The wrong curve to my hips.  The wrong smirk.  The wrong eye color.  Me, with too-frizzy hair, and eyes that are a little too wide-set.

Me, with the eccentric need to eat too-hard boiled eggs in the morning.

Me who cooks pasta in unsalted water.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who wears socks to sleep in summer.  Who packs a rain coat on a clear day.  Who pats every dog, shies away from every cat.

Me who reads sad romance novels, and the funnies on sundays.

Me who dances with two left feet, who drives a little too fast, who mismatches purse and sandals.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who blinks during photos.

Who spills ice water at dinner.  Who uses the fork in the right hand, and the knife in the left.

Who writes too much, and stares at the stars too long.

Who isn't right for you.  Who won't be what you want.  Too fat, too thin, too tall, too short.  Hair too straight, too curly, too much moustache, not enough beard, too muscular, not tan enough.

It's not you, it's me.  Me who is all wrong for you.  Me who tells myself it will never work.  That your eyes glass past mine every time.

It's not you.  It's me.

It's always me.