floor to ceiling

>In the morning, I lie on the floor of my cube and do yoga poses. Lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling tiles, I find myself truly immersed in my thoughts for a fleeting moment. I breathe in and I breathe out. I try to examine my thoughts objectively and I often fail. I try to clear my mind of the swirling eddies of worry, of frantic obsession, of irrational feelings of inadequacy. On the floor, with my back flat against a hard surface, looking up and not around, I feel a brief few minutes of control out of a long weary day. I savor this one moment when I take off my own self-constructed target, deflecting for a few precious seconds the darts dipped in my own poison sap.

an army in the trees

Red sentinels watch over this wooden womb, as breaths taken in fill with sorrow and exhale to unkind frigid air. A hollow place in heart and mind, an empty space once full of life for so long. This weight, though, shall lift one day; this fresh wound will slowly suture shut. And always keep in mind, too: our lives all circles, never lines…there is completion, life will renew.

run

When in doubt, run. Run long, run far, run until you hurt. And then stop. Look up at the sky, look around at the trees, breathe in, breathe out. Remember why you did this before. Remember what it got you through, and how it made you feel. Alive. Remember what you need, and stop keeping it from yourself. Do not go to sleep standing up. Ever again.

losing my appetite for information

Today I heard, for the first time, the phrase “information snacks,” which refers to small easily digested chunks of information that readers gravitate toward because they’re too lazy to read an actual article. As with most terms related to the commodification of information, generally in reference to Web content, this one immediately turned my stomach. It sounds like the sort of phrase that someone in Knowledge Management (i.e. watered-down librarianship) would throw around during a meeting. “Let’s think of our website as the table, and our fat slovenly readers have just wedged their guts in between it and their office chairs. They are already beginning to salivate onto their keyboards, so what can we serve them as starters? Information wedges with ranch dressing, anyone?”

Since I have been doing way too much data entry lately for a person with a master’s degree, I have been thinking about automation and its role in information production, collection, retrieval, and dissemination. Inevitably, the more automation is introduced into information management, the greater the risk is of so-called “dirty data,” or information that has been soiled by the presence of odd characters, extra spaces, and other aberrations as a result of importing and exporting between different platforms and/or programs, the automatic populating of fields, etc. Cleaning up these aberrations is usually no small task, and therefore, to my knowledge, infrequently done. Many people consider the savings they gain from dispensing with personnel no longer needed to input data to be worth what they see as a minor loss in quality. These people think it’s more important to get more information out on the table than for that information to be in the best “digestible” condition possible. I think of these people as the fast food vendors of information, and frankly, they disgust me. They are usually people who have wormed their way into positions of influence regarding how information will be disseminated without having the proper credentials for doing so (e.g. training and education in librarianship). Often they are people with sales, marketing, and advertising backgrounds who think that the package the information comes wrapped in is more important than the information itself. Never mind that once you’ve opened the package, you can’t find what you’re looking for, and if you’re lucky enough to finally do so, it’s marred by weird characters and gaping holes in the text.

I realize I’ve begun to ramble here, but there is a point. Much like what happened to manufacturing with the Industrial Revolution is happening now with information. The Web has transformed how people think about and interact with information, and more than ever before it is being thought of as a product to be marketed and sold. In manufacturing, when transition occurred from handmade products to machine-made products, there was a tremendous increase in production numbers, but with an accompanying loss in quality and durability. This loss was considered to be of a collateral nature; it was offset by the huge increase in profit. Now, we see the same thing happening with information, but what are the implications of a loss in quality when it comes to information? It seems to me that there are potentially even more far-reaching effects than those that resulted from the Industrial Revolution. Often, the consumers of flawed information on the Web have no idea of the flaws, and so they take this information at face value. From working in a public library, I know that many people are indiscriminate in their consumption of online information. They do not know how to evaluate where the information is coming from; they think it is all legitimate. Getting them to the point where they can effectively evaluate the quality of the information is one step. But then it becomes even more important for the “respected” information purveyors (I’m thinking mainly of libraries and academic websites in general) to act responsible in terms of the information they are disseminating, and how easy they are making it for their users to discover.

Everyone is always looking for corners to cut, particularly where there is money to be made. Well, some things shouldn’t be done faster and more efficiently. Books should be cataloged by people, and catalog records shouldn’t be dumped into a library’s catalog from another source without first adapting them to local practice. Articles should be indexed by real live human beings using keywords from a thesaurus that was also created by humans. Search interfaces should be powerful, yet easy to use, and allow for searching with accuracy and precision. And the resulting information should be displayed in a clean and legible format. Is that so much to ask? Apparently it is.

>monday mental fun

>As a point of unlikely interest, I keep writing “Untied States” while inputting data. As a point of even unlikelier interest, a long time ago I sang in a punk band and wrote a song called “U.S.I. (United States of Interference).” A decade and a half of troubling efforts to reconcile these states in the mind, both consciously and subconsciously.

“Orange Crush” comes on the headphones and suddenly I am sitting in Biology II again. I’m 16, R.E.M. is one of my favorite bands, and I’m harboring a smoldering 3-year crush on my good friend K. It’s a crush that never goes anywhere, just like so many other crushes. Curiously enough, when this song first sent the synapses twitching and flickering on their merry way, I did not consciously make the connection between the song title and the memory. Perhaps less curious is the fact that “Orange Crush” is not about that kind of crush.

Back in 2007 I ponder the idea of the past as a closed book. Is this ever a good idea? Is a person who treats their past like a closed book being true to their present selves? Painful though it might be, our past is part of who we are today. And sometimes taking a peek back at those pages is worthwhile. I am embarrassed at this metaphor, but there you go.

dilation

>All of a sudden the leaves show their colors. I walk under a sugar maple, its yellowness bright and enveloping to my dilated eyes. I fill the sunflower seed feeder; it empties in a day’s time. I watch the goldfinches clinging to the finch feeder. I see the woodpecker hammering in the trees, swiftly moving from spot to spot. And, just when I was thinking I haven’t seen any cardinals at the feeder in a while, an entire family of them drops in for a meal: females, males, and even a couple of juveniles! Yes, this is what gets me excited these days. Because the birds keep secrets. And no one but the birds can know them. Which is how it should be. But guessing at them still holds strong appeal. Especially for a housebound frustrated writer like myself.

a moment preserved

>Riding through the old ‘hood one night awhile back, I heard a youthful female voice over on the sidewalk sing out, “Dance, dance, dance to the radio.” I cocked my head to the left, wheels spinning, and then the deep dark disembodied voice of Ian Curtis floated out through the night air, “Radio…live transmission.” I pedaled on, a smile turned inward on my soul, through intersections and over speed bumps, up hills and past houses, cars, and trees…constant motion and what we see, hear, feel while in it: that, with the odd pause to reflect, is what I hold here in my hands and heart.

improvement?

So yesterday was better than Friday in that productivity was higher, although general satisfaction levels still hovered in the mid to low range. Today was somewhat of an extension of yesterday, with a slightly higher level of satisfaction, despite the persistent fog of malaise that continues to linger. It being Sunday evening, the impending doom of Monday has crept forth from its desolate lair and now squats smugly before me, its red demon eyes narrowed and its curved yellow fangs dripping with the juice of the last few wasted hours of freedom.

leaving the house was a big mistake

Now, I could provide an extensive explanation of why today was a complete and utter disaster, but there would be no redeeming value in a post like that. Instead I will tell you why Bank of America sucks. Or at least one reason among the five million other ones that are already out there floating around. Today I attempted to go to a new (to me) branch of BOA that, during a recent run, I had noted as being close to my house. So I ride over there on my bicycle, lock it up, and then discover that this BOA branch is a drive-thru bank only. Well, okay, I think, I will just walk over and get in line behind these five cars and wait my turn in the drizzle. I wait and wait, and then when I finally get up to the drive-thru teller, she tells me that she can’t serve me because I am not inside a vehicle. Whoah. The appropriate expression of frustrated outrage immediately spreads across my face as I brusquely reply with the question of, “Well, then, where is the closest bank that I, as a pedestrian, am permitted to patronize?” Down the street, she says. Back on my bicycle I get then, and ride my way down the street through the rain. Having already endured multiple setbacks since beginning my quest to do something productive with the day, my irritation with this one felt more like a blunt object hitting the back of my head multiple times in slow motion than the rapid-fire bee stings and snake bites of earlier in the day. Here is the issue at hand, though: several years ago, I lived in a town that had the same type of BOA branch, where only the drive-thru lanes were open. And every other week I walked up to them with my paycheck and was warmly greeted and served by the tellers. So obviously this is not a BOA national policy. The only possible explanation I can think of for not serving a walk-up customer is that it’s a safety issue. However, if I were to, say, decide to point a gun at the teller and demand all the bank’s money, I’m fairly confident that I would have a better chance of escaping in a car than I would on foot. Maybe that’s going out on a limb, but I’m willing to go there. So not only does this policy make no sense, it is also discriminatory, in that a person who cannot afford a car or chooses not to use one is prohibited from using this particular bank. Now, as a virtually full-time bike commuter and pedestrian, I have often felt discriminated against in this car-centric society we live in here in the good ol’ USA, but I have to say that this one today totally blindsided me. To live without pessimism in this type of hostile environment is a near impossibility. And with that, I will retire to my bed with a book, having turned my back on this day and the forces within it that have worked against me so tirelessly.

>sluggish

>A cold and rainy Friday disengages me from any potential action. It’s cold outside and cold inside, with nowhere in between to crawl into and hide. It’s not that I don’t want to accomplish anything. Because I do. There are many things I need to do. But half my body has already shut down again after only a few waking hours. I drag it along with me around the house like some aggregation of useless appendages, flopping around and weighing me down. So I look in the dictionary for answers and find this word that, although depressing in nature, accurately describes something that happened to someone last week:

afterclap n. An unexpected, often unpleasant sequel to a matter that had been considered closed.

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