The Interweb is an amazing space. Long ago in graduate school, I would spend an afternoon at the library browsing all the journals. I’d walk down one display aisle to the next, picking up whatever caught my eye. For those publications closest to my anticipated trajectory, I’d open the lid behind the display and thumb through a stack of the past year’s issues. Back then, Science Education had red construction paper covers. There were only 6 issues per year, one of which was entirely dedicated to summarizing all science education research from the previous year.
Now I not only read journals from home (albeit not being able to access copies published during my doctoral years -- presumably because they are far too old) but I receive automated updates of new issues. As I was composing this entry, a little chime indicated that the the latest issue of Mind, Brain and Education is now available. Once upon a time, I marveled that an author could cite someone else’s work that was “in press” because that meant it was possible to have pre-publication access. Now, that’s also a routine process for anyone in the field.
On the other hand, there are terrible things one can find online — images that make you wish for a bottle of eye bleach. I have become wiser about not clicking out of fear. For example, some news page indicated that girls are posting videos of cutting behavior for others to see. Not wanting to judge whether these are calls for help or exhibitionism, I really did not want to have those images seared into my visual cortex. I apply similar caution when puppy commercials or dog rescue stories appear on the television set. I am not strong enough and by changing channels or leaving the room, I insulate myself.
One of the great treats these days is when Zero posts a new blog entry. The announcement appears in Google Reader. Most of the time I pounce on it; other times I use it as my reward for moving more mundane tasks from the inbox to the outbox. Today, the subject line was a warning to avoid clicking too hastily. The more I thought about it, the more worried I became. The title sounded more like an elegy* than an entry that would fill me with delight. Instead, something cold and sinister lurked beneath the blue-cheery link. What I was feeling was dread. In a similar vein, I discovered a poem by Robert Frost that gives me chills for its finality:
Now I not only read journals from home (albeit not being able to access copies published during my doctoral years -- presumably because they are far too old) but I receive automated updates of new issues. As I was composing this entry, a little chime indicated that the the latest issue of Mind, Brain and Education is now available. Once upon a time, I marveled that an author could cite someone else’s work that was “in press” because that meant it was possible to have pre-publication access. Now, that’s also a routine process for anyone in the field.
On the other hand, there are terrible things one can find online — images that make you wish for a bottle of eye bleach. I have become wiser about not clicking out of fear. For example, some news page indicated that girls are posting videos of cutting behavior for others to see. Not wanting to judge whether these are calls for help or exhibitionism, I really did not want to have those images seared into my visual cortex. I apply similar caution when puppy commercials or dog rescue stories appear on the television set. I am not strong enough and by changing channels or leaving the room, I insulate myself.
One of the great treats these days is when Zero posts a new blog entry. The announcement appears in Google Reader. Most of the time I pounce on it; other times I use it as my reward for moving more mundane tasks from the inbox to the outbox. Today, the subject line was a warning to avoid clicking too hastily. The more I thought about it, the more worried I became. The title sounded more like an elegy* than an entry that would fill me with delight. Instead, something cold and sinister lurked beneath the blue-cheery link. What I was feeling was dread. In a similar vein, I discovered a poem by Robert Frost that gives me chills for its finality:
"Out, out…" §
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
I suspect that the “a press release in the hands of my mother” will be similarly dreary and disheartening — a moment of greatness and celebration adeptly minimized and mocked with an offhand comment. As I consider that highly likely possibility, I just sigh. Were I to actually read it, I suspect I would cringe and moan. I probably can't resist forever. But I certainly will wait until a warm, sunny and sober moment.
- - - - - -* The elegy--the traditional poem for mourning--began in ancient Greece as a sad song lamenting love and death, often accompanied by a flute and written in a specific meter.
§ Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
~ Macbeth
