Blog
October 2008
I am a great big blueberry
When I bought my breeches, I really only had two things in mind: they weren’t white, and they weren’t hunter puke-green.
No, they were a nice pretty navy color: conservative, but, again, neither white nor that funky khaki color. It worked for me.
You can tell I’ve lived in the north for way too long, because I obviously didn’t factor in sun fade.
My breeches are now, for lack of a better word, blueberry.
Yuck.
Actually, I’m sort of amused. This is cosmic proof that whatever higher being there is, if there is one, wants me to be a fashion nightmare. Even when I try, I can’t get it right.
(This post brought to you by the letter “I am not a programmer, and staring at code for eight hours makes my brain bleed. I start typing in italics; that’s how bad it is.)
A Plagiarist Among Us
This post has been modified because the blog that stole my content has deleted the infringing post, per WordPress, and gone private.
I stand by what I said: there is nothing flattering about someone stealing your work, and no one should be “honored” that someone “liked” their text enough to steal it.
You wouldn’t feel honored to have someone break into your house and steal your jewelry, would you? If someone stole one of your paintings, would you think they were flattering your taste in home decor? After spending hours hand-craving a wooden chest, would you calmly accept someone gouging a few new lines in it and then selling it as their own design?
I hope not. I don’t. I make my living by writing. The theft of my words is the theft of my creation, my work, and in some respects my livelihood.
In cases like this one, where not only my words but also my experiences and the insights I gained from them were stolen, it’s not “just” my work and talent that gets taken—it’s part of my identity. It’s invasive. It’s painful. The way my text was used was, frankly, offensive to me.
And, frankly, having the plagiarized text and the person who stole it mentioned on this blog was distasteful to me.
Should anyone want to see the original post, I have it in my personal archive. Contact me.
Am I the crazy stalker person?
You know those crazy stalker people who seem to have some sort of magic tracking device installed on their computer so that they can instantly show up when their pet topic is mentioned anywhere on the web, post one of their five or six standard rants, and then hang around endlessly droning on about their viewpoint?
I recently received an email that indirectly involved Crossed Sabers/Second Wind Adoption Program, and as I was writing my response, I had a sudden moment of panic that I had become one of those crazy stalker people with regards to SWAP.
I’m not, and I know I’m not (well, maybe with this post…), but it’s an important question: when do you become that crazy stalker person?
We all have our hot-button topics. Mine are IE6, 419 scams, and bling. Well, ok; those are the ones I’m conscious of. I manage to rein myself in about the bling everywhere but this blog, and if I try really hard I can keep my mouth shut about IE6, but I know very well that there are circumstances where my house could be on fire and I would sit on the couch trying to get a certain type of post in about 419 scams.
Fortunately, I live in the USA, where the dominant culture is: “I’m a freaking unique individual, and you better love me for all my individual-ness, because I’m sure not gonna change for you! And if you ask me to change, I’m gonna sue you! And then I’m gonna write a book and go on the talk show circuit! Just like everyone else!“ All I have to do is admit that I’m a crazy stalker person, and you have to admire me. Or else.
Er… that was really funny while it was in my head, but it’s not so funny on screen. Pretend it was a riot, ok?
All attempts to joke about the unearned sense of entitlement running rampant in the US aside, seriously: how do you draw the line between being very passionate about a subject and becoming a crazy stalker person?
I think we need a mutual support group. An agreed-upon wake-up slap club. Some friendly reminders that, hey, being passionate is ok, but being an insufferable bore is not. And if that fails, a friendly, derail-the-crazy-train wake up slap.
Meanwhile, I need to go find something new and refreshing to post about.
Oh! I am learning how to do a running braid. Isn’t that exciting?
Not a whole post worth of exciting, but a good positive note to end on.
Speaking of Virtual Things
This is horse related, I swear. Stick around for the ride. I’m pretty sure I’ll get to the horses bit.
So, psychology fascinates me. People, they are crazy. All of ‘em. Me, too. And the internet brings out the crazy in everyone, especially when they think they are anonymous. I don’t post much on forums, but I do read them; they are more entertaining than many novels.
There was a time I thought about majoring in psychology instead of English, to be honest. I remember the time exactly… [mist, mist, mist, sepia glow, twinkly lights, twinkly lights, FADEBACK]... So there I was, at 9 p.m., sitting down for my third final exam of the day. At that point, do you really care what you get? No, you really don’t. Exam: Psychology 201. Student’s state of mind: snarky. Question: Describe your theory of personality. Answer: I believe in self determination, which says that although there may be consequences for my actions, I still don’t have to answer this question in any detail.
Grade: A.
Well, something like that. I might have passed the class despite my answer, not because of it, by by golly I did pass the class.
Unfortunately for me (or fortunately for the world… can you imagine me as a therapist?!), I realized that majoring in psychology would involve having to deal with Freud’s legacy. I hate Freud. It’s a bunch of hogwash. I hate Freud so much, that whenever I was asked to write an English paper on a book I also hated, I’d write a Freudian analysis of the book. I proved, several times, that good rhetoric outweighed sense. It was a joke for me; I mean, I would laugh my way through writing the paper, because the whole thing was so absurd. And then I’d get an A on it. Meanwhile, people who believed what they were writing would get C’s. See, English isn’t really about believing anything. It’s about persuasion. I can write persuasively, when I want to.
So, ultimately, no psychology major for me. I just know enough to know that I find people fascinating.
You shouldn’t be surprised, then, to know that I find internet forums and chat rooms equally fascinating. They ARE psychology, pure and simple.
And so, after several years, I finally checked out Second Life, which is a chat room on steroids. You get an avatar, you wander around a 3D world, you can build stuff. I think I saw Hobbittown in one of my random jumps from place to place. It’s a virtual world where pretty much anything goes. Since you can sell the things you build, apparently people can make money on it, too, which makes it a very commercial virtual world.
I’m not kidding: there are ads all over the freaking place.
What I find fascinating about it? Not the conversation—that’s as dull as rocks everywhere I’ve gone in the world. No, what I find fascinating is that in this world of users building and scripting and creating their own little virtual utopias, there’s a riding community. I’ve seen barns with barrel patterns and jump courses. I’ve seen the horses, tack, riding clothes, barns, accessories, etc. that people have created and are selling to other users (did I mention how commercial this place is?).
I get the appeal—can’t afford a real horse? Have a virtual horse. It’s not much different than the sim-type games where there’s no real point or goal. If you’re chatting with horsey friends, why not chat while trail riding your virtual horse along the beach? It’s like any other virtual/sim/role playing situation out there.
What’s fascinating about it all is that in a world where anything goes—elvish worlds, sex clubs galore, replications of the world’s wonders, role playing key moments in history—there are people whose imagination and desire focuses on… horses. Trail riding. Simulating shows.
These aren’t elaborate sims—I don’t think you have to feed or muck out your horse or anything like that. But I do find it fascinating that these sims exist.
Or presumably exist. No one ever seemed to be around the couple times I logged in. Maybe they were created and then abandoned.
That’s humans for you: given unlimited possibilites, what do we want? The real world.
(Also, footnote: Second Life, although it has its interesting moments, contains many R-rated areas; there are areas that are not appropriate for all visitors, and areas that are sure to offend many people. Before you dive into Second Life, understand that it’s a world where anything, apparently, goes. And “anything” does not mean “anything I agree with/approve of.“
Freud would have loved Second Life. Can you imagine the fun he would have had with it?
What? I don’t like Freud, but I can appreciate situations that would have made him die of bliss.)
Ow
Today’s first lesson: revisiting opening the knee and relaxing the hip. Again emphasizing the ability to cue the horse better, sit the trot better, and get more results with less flinging the body about like a drunken monkey.
Today’s second lesson: opening the knee and relaxing the hip is great, until you get off the horse and realize you might have overstretched things, just a bit.
Tomorrow’s lesson: pain.
It really was a good lesson, in that it was one more step away from my hunter/jumper comfort zone and another step towards a good dressage seat. Unfortunately, I think I tweaked my groin muscle, given the way I was gimping to the laundromat and back tonight. We’ll see how things go tomorrow morning.
Oh, and in one of those moments that shows God or Fate or Destiny or Plain Dumb Luck has it in for me: I left Houston during Ike because I didn’t want my car to get beat up. So what happens last week? Someone banged into it and scratched off the paint on the right side. Figures. I’m annoyed, but even I can see the humor in the situation.