Elizabeth Moon's Blog, page 32
December 20, 2011
Table by Day
Fairly early this morning, I went back over to gloat (yes, gloat) over New Table and take pictures of it in enough light, really. Also to check how the spacing of chairs went with five on a side (thus seating 12), check spacing with the overflow table, check how much room there would be for serving dishes between place settings, and...to gloat. Of course.
Overflow table is on the right with a white cover. New Table is set up for ten, but with all leaves in. Overflow table will actually be another few inches away from the big one. There's a...um...mild difficulty when robust people are sitting back to back at the two tables and someone needs to go up the "aisle" between them. Every inch of clearance counts. (This room wasn't built for what we use it for, but if I built such a room, it would be at least 24 feet square to allow easy clearance around and between tables no matter the size of diners. And I'd probably add a few more feet lengthways to have an uninterrupted serving counter--20 feet of it--along one or both ends. But I'm very luck to have the use of this room, so not planning to tear it off and start over.)
Gently set some plates, a turkey platter, and a vegetable bowl on it to see what that looked like and how serving dishes would fit with various spacing of place settings (picture taken between adjustments, so it looks a little strange, maybe.) Of course, when actually eating there, the table will have protection--place mats, runners, or tablecloth, and trivets for serving dishes with hot stuff.
Finally, a comparison of the "five chairs a side" (near) to the "four chairs a side" (far) with the table at full length.
Then I ran my hands over the top of it again, and sat down at it...yes, gloating again...before heading back to work. Well, work after the pictures were up.
Overflow table is on the right with a white cover. New Table is set up for ten, but with all leaves in. Overflow table will actually be another few inches away from the big one. There's a...um...mild difficulty when robust people are sitting back to back at the two tables and someone needs to go up the "aisle" between them. Every inch of clearance counts. (This room wasn't built for what we use it for, but if I built such a room, it would be at least 24 feet square to allow easy clearance around and between tables no matter the size of diners. And I'd probably add a few more feet lengthways to have an uninterrupted serving counter--20 feet of it--along one or both ends. But I'm very luck to have the use of this room, so not planning to tear it off and start over.)
Gently set some plates, a turkey platter, and a vegetable bowl on it to see what that looked like and how serving dishes would fit with various spacing of place settings (picture taken between adjustments, so it looks a little strange, maybe.) Of course, when actually eating there, the table will have protection--place mats, runners, or tablecloth, and trivets for serving dishes with hot stuff.
Finally, a comparison of the "five chairs a side" (near) to the "four chairs a side" (far) with the table at full length.
Then I ran my hands over the top of it again, and sat down at it...yes, gloating again...before heading back to work. Well, work after the pictures were up.
December 19, 2011
TABLE!!!
New table arrived after dark, and even with the top lights on, the flash couldn't quite deal with the length. This is with all leaves in.
Before assembly, with no leaves in--at 72 x 42 : it's sitting flat on the floor, and already I know the color is perfect for that room.
Before putting the leaves in--the crossbrace with the two holes showing here is for the fifth leg. The fifth leg can be removed when we want the table down to its basic size.
And a view from the other end:
No more wobbles. No more mismatched heights and widths. There's actually room for five chairs down each side, but I didn't have all the chairs over there..
Daylight pictures will be added when it's...daylight.
December 11, 2011
Photographing Knitting
As with everything else at all technical around here, I'm trying to document my return to knitting, especially for things I'm making up as I go along, or where I want to check stitches against a pattern.
Yesterday's knitting was relearning ribbing--not a hard thing, but something I hadn't done since at least 1971 and more likely '69 or 70. I wanted pictures of this yarn (worsted weight, recommended needle size 7) made up into 2x2 ribbing on size 10 needles (the size 10 needles making it easy to check my stitches while working and making a "looser" knit. I could see and feel the ribs forming, but the first pictures came out like this:
I had the swatch positioned near the window to get some shadows, but also had the top room light on. It's cloudy outside. Even though the image was clear--and even in closer-in images--it was hard to see the ribs as the flash washed out the shadows between them. I turned off the flash and the texture showed much more clearly in this one:
As with any other subject, there are tricks to getting the photograph you want, for the purpose you want.
The yarn is Berroco's "Blackstone Tweed" color 2608. Not the kind of color I normally choose, but I want a wool vest to wear when out on the land in dank weather, and it shouldn't show dirt too easily. Not for this winter (I'm slow) but maybe by next winter. I actually kind of like it done on the size 10s. We rarely get the kind of cold where I need dense knitted things, and the looser knit would give better air circulation if I wore a light jacket over it. I'll do a swatch on the size 8s, just to see which I prefer. I know the 8s would show the ribbing more "sharply" but here the point isn't looks but utility for my (not average) uses. Clearly, I've relearned how to do ribbing (though there's a mistake in this swatch...lucky it's just a swatch. I can keep using this yarn for trying out other things where I might use a different color...of course if I use this ball up I'll have to go get another one (oh, pity, pity, pity...)
The nice people at the friendly yarn shop told me more than one thing I didn't know, one of them being that lace knitting isn't necessarily done with teeny-tiny needles and thin-as-spiderweb yarn, but with needles that are larger for the yarn's diameter. That any yarn (though the mind boggles at doing it with a super-bulky) can be made into "lace"; it just makes bigger patterns. I had sworn never to try lace because both hands and eyes rebel at teeny-tiny needles and teeny-tiny stitches...but they showed me a shawl someone had done with 7s that was lovely. My mother never did lace knitting (that I know of; she made warm sweaters and socks) so this was a whole new concept, and (though I will try to repress the urge to experiment with the really big needles and this workaday tweed yarn) I already know I'll have to try some more lace-looking patterns at some point.
Yesterday's knitting was relearning ribbing--not a hard thing, but something I hadn't done since at least 1971 and more likely '69 or 70. I wanted pictures of this yarn (worsted weight, recommended needle size 7) made up into 2x2 ribbing on size 10 needles (the size 10 needles making it easy to check my stitches while working and making a "looser" knit. I could see and feel the ribs forming, but the first pictures came out like this:
I had the swatch positioned near the window to get some shadows, but also had the top room light on. It's cloudy outside. Even though the image was clear--and even in closer-in images--it was hard to see the ribs as the flash washed out the shadows between them. I turned off the flash and the texture showed much more clearly in this one:
As with any other subject, there are tricks to getting the photograph you want, for the purpose you want.
The yarn is Berroco's "Blackstone Tweed" color 2608. Not the kind of color I normally choose, but I want a wool vest to wear when out on the land in dank weather, and it shouldn't show dirt too easily. Not for this winter (I'm slow) but maybe by next winter. I actually kind of like it done on the size 10s. We rarely get the kind of cold where I need dense knitted things, and the looser knit would give better air circulation if I wore a light jacket over it. I'll do a swatch on the size 8s, just to see which I prefer. I know the 8s would show the ribbing more "sharply" but here the point isn't looks but utility for my (not average) uses. Clearly, I've relearned how to do ribbing (though there's a mistake in this swatch...lucky it's just a swatch. I can keep using this yarn for trying out other things where I might use a different color...of course if I use this ball up I'll have to go get another one (oh, pity, pity, pity...)
The nice people at the friendly yarn shop told me more than one thing I didn't know, one of them being that lace knitting isn't necessarily done with teeny-tiny needles and thin-as-spiderweb yarn, but with needles that are larger for the yarn's diameter. That any yarn (though the mind boggles at doing it with a super-bulky) can be made into "lace"; it just makes bigger patterns. I had sworn never to try lace because both hands and eyes rebel at teeny-tiny needles and teeny-tiny stitches...but they showed me a shawl someone had done with 7s that was lovely. My mother never did lace knitting (that I know of; she made warm sweaters and socks) so this was a whole new concept, and (though I will try to repress the urge to experiment with the really big needles and this workaday tweed yarn) I already know I'll have to try some more lace-looking patterns at some point.
Political Phone Calls
As a Democrat in a GOP-controlled state--in a Congressional district with an entrenched GOP-idiot Congressman--I get political calls from both parties. It's annoying enough that the party I support calls me with the attitude that if I contributed $5 to a campaign two months ago, I can now contribute more than that every month...but at least these callers are real people, not tape recordings, and even if they sound intent, they don't sound hysterical.
The GOP calls are recordings (mostly including a message from my Congressman) and the callers *always* sound hysterical. Including my Congressman, whom you would think was fighting off an invasion of king cobras slithering under his desk, from his tone of voice. Hysterical fear, is what he sounds like, and that's not something I want in my so-called representative. It's been obvious for years the man can't think, can't do anything but mouth the party line in defiance of both facts and logic, and maybe he really is that terrified of reality, but does he have to sound like someone with a snake up his pants leg?
Yesterday evening's call was just as hysterical as usual, though I'm not sure it was him (I had the volume turned down on the answering machine, so missed the first part of the spiel; it sounded like him, but then terrified people sound more alike than their normal voices.) The cause of the fear as "Obama" and "Obamacare" which the hysterical male voice wanted me to call my Senators about right away so they'd vote to repeal it. My Senators are just as braindead GOP as the caller could have wished for, and what they get from me has no effect on them at all...I point out the factual errors and lies in their position, with references, and they send me bland "responses" (not responding to any of the points I made) reiterating their love for America and their clear intention to pay no mind to anyone who disagrees. So no, I wasn't going to call them.
But the real kicker was what came next, past the point where I usually hang up the phone. A female voice came on, not as hysterical as the male voice but speaking very rapidly, giving instructions for how to "authorize" the call center to put my name on a petition by just punching one of two numbers. In other words, the GOP are a) determined to get names by any means possible--if I hadn't listened closely, I would not have realized that *either* number would put my name on that petition--and b) so terrified of talking to real people that the whole damn thing was a recording. This goes along with their policy on meetings: GOP candidates hold "meetings" that are stuffed with their people and anyone who attends and expresses a contrary opinion is an intruder (in one case was arrested for attending a supposedly public meeting and asking an awkward question...the only time a "dissident" has a chance of speaking directly to a GOP politician, apparently.) It leads up to the disgusting displays of viciousness by the audience at the GOP candidates' "debates" where it's clear GOP supporters will cheer for deaths of sick and injured, and boo-hiss serving military personnel with whom they disagree.
I'm sick of the fear-mongering the GOP does, that preys on any latent racism, homophobia, paranoia and increases it. I'm sick of the ranting, hysterical tones of voice that make grown men sound like screaming toddlers faced with something scary to a toddler. I'm sick of the plain damn lies they tell, too. And most of all I'm sick of the meanness, the viciousness, the willingness to harm fellow citizens, the hatred of everybody but themselves.
So while the recorded female voice was going on about how EASY it was to push the button, I said "Go to hell" very distinctly and hung up. It was unnecessary, of course. They're already in the hell they made and they like it so much they want to drag the rest of us in there with them.
The GOP calls are recordings (mostly including a message from my Congressman) and the callers *always* sound hysterical. Including my Congressman, whom you would think was fighting off an invasion of king cobras slithering under his desk, from his tone of voice. Hysterical fear, is what he sounds like, and that's not something I want in my so-called representative. It's been obvious for years the man can't think, can't do anything but mouth the party line in defiance of both facts and logic, and maybe he really is that terrified of reality, but does he have to sound like someone with a snake up his pants leg?
Yesterday evening's call was just as hysterical as usual, though I'm not sure it was him (I had the volume turned down on the answering machine, so missed the first part of the spiel; it sounded like him, but then terrified people sound more alike than their normal voices.) The cause of the fear as "Obama" and "Obamacare" which the hysterical male voice wanted me to call my Senators about right away so they'd vote to repeal it. My Senators are just as braindead GOP as the caller could have wished for, and what they get from me has no effect on them at all...I point out the factual errors and lies in their position, with references, and they send me bland "responses" (not responding to any of the points I made) reiterating their love for America and their clear intention to pay no mind to anyone who disagrees. So no, I wasn't going to call them.
But the real kicker was what came next, past the point where I usually hang up the phone. A female voice came on, not as hysterical as the male voice but speaking very rapidly, giving instructions for how to "authorize" the call center to put my name on a petition by just punching one of two numbers. In other words, the GOP are a) determined to get names by any means possible--if I hadn't listened closely, I would not have realized that *either* number would put my name on that petition--and b) so terrified of talking to real people that the whole damn thing was a recording. This goes along with their policy on meetings: GOP candidates hold "meetings" that are stuffed with their people and anyone who attends and expresses a contrary opinion is an intruder (in one case was arrested for attending a supposedly public meeting and asking an awkward question...the only time a "dissident" has a chance of speaking directly to a GOP politician, apparently.) It leads up to the disgusting displays of viciousness by the audience at the GOP candidates' "debates" where it's clear GOP supporters will cheer for deaths of sick and injured, and boo-hiss serving military personnel with whom they disagree.
I'm sick of the fear-mongering the GOP does, that preys on any latent racism, homophobia, paranoia and increases it. I'm sick of the ranting, hysterical tones of voice that make grown men sound like screaming toddlers faced with something scary to a toddler. I'm sick of the plain damn lies they tell, too. And most of all I'm sick of the meanness, the viciousness, the willingness to harm fellow citizens, the hatred of everybody but themselves.
So while the recorded female voice was going on about how EASY it was to push the button, I said "Go to hell" very distinctly and hung up. It was unnecessary, of course. They're already in the hell they made and they like it so much they want to drag the rest of us in there with them.
November 26, 2011
Knitting Update
In the past 10 days, fitting in a row here and a row there (and sometimes several) between rehearsals, holiday prep, writing...I managed to finish two scarves, made with Berroco's "Link" yarn (one skein to a scarf, simple pattern with v. short rows that uses stockinette's desire to curl to make the scarf roll into a clever "rope" shape.)
The one on the left is in the color mix "Lake Victoria" and the one on the right is (I think) "Oasis." I had made two of these earlier, both in "Eventide" (which I personally call "Thunderclouds" because my friend Ellen and I think the colors are Texas raincloud colors.) Although the pictures I took then look rather like "Oasis", it's not the same color (I think the flash made them all look at little darker, actually. Even in the picture above, where I lightened it a little, the chair cushion isn't that dark a blue, and there's more purple in "Oasis")
The ads say you can make one of these in an hour. A better knitter could, maybe, but the bulk of the size 35 (20mm) needles slows me down. I was knitting on the "Oasis" scarf on Thanksgiving (one of the North Texas contingent was knitting, too.) Friday I started the "Lake Victoria". My online supplier is backordered on almost all the Link yarn colors (including the ones I'd like to try) or I'd undoubtedly have ordered some more. (And I now know, for absolutely-certain-sure, how to do knit yarnovers and purl yarnovers.
I feel like my return to knitting after the long hiatus is going well. Granted that these scarves are pretty quick to do, I'm still up to five completed scarves since I started in the spring, with almost half of another non-quick scarf (like this one) now on the needles, as well as Project #1, which is limping along slowly as I find it much easier to work in a short row between other things than a long (LONG) one. At least I've finished a few things...and it is helping my hands recover from typing so much.
The one on the left is in the color mix "Lake Victoria" and the one on the right is (I think) "Oasis." I had made two of these earlier, both in "Eventide" (which I personally call "Thunderclouds" because my friend Ellen and I think the colors are Texas raincloud colors.) Although the pictures I took then look rather like "Oasis", it's not the same color (I think the flash made them all look at little darker, actually. Even in the picture above, where I lightened it a little, the chair cushion isn't that dark a blue, and there's more purple in "Oasis")
The ads say you can make one of these in an hour. A better knitter could, maybe, but the bulk of the size 35 (20mm) needles slows me down. I was knitting on the "Oasis" scarf on Thanksgiving (one of the North Texas contingent was knitting, too.) Friday I started the "Lake Victoria". My online supplier is backordered on almost all the Link yarn colors (including the ones I'd like to try) or I'd undoubtedly have ordered some more. (And I now know, for absolutely-certain-sure, how to do knit yarnovers and purl yarnovers.
I feel like my return to knitting after the long hiatus is going well. Granted that these scarves are pretty quick to do, I'm still up to five completed scarves since I started in the spring, with almost half of another non-quick scarf (like this one) now on the needles, as well as Project #1, which is limping along slowly as I find it much easier to work in a short row between other things than a long (LONG) one. At least I've finished a few things...and it is helping my hands recover from typing so much.
November 25, 2011
Thanksgiving Pictures
One of the guests, Jim Attwood, took pictures of our Thanksgiving celebration (but none of the knitters or fencers in action, or at least none that got on the website and not quite all the guests.) There's no picture of us all toasting Anne McCaffrey's life and influence, alas. Still tired (lots of cleanup today) and it's late, so more on the whole thing later.
Discovered this morning...this lovely rose blooming...
It's a Madame Alfred Carriere, from the Antique Rose Emporium, planted last spring as a replacement for one that died (very weird winter and freak winter storm that killed a lot of their roses, too.) It survived the summer, and greeted the (finally) cool air of late fall with three roses in the last week and a half.
Discovered this morning...this lovely rose blooming...
It's a Madame Alfred Carriere, from the Antique Rose Emporium, planted last spring as a replacement for one that died (very weird winter and freak winter storm that killed a lot of their roses, too.) It survived the summer, and greeted the (finally) cool air of late fall with three roses in the last week and a half.
November 23, 2011
Thanksgiving Eve
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free...cloudless sky, light breeze has died. It was lovely all day. But...it's Thanksgiving Eve and I have wonderful friends coming tomorrow, so my day was not spent lounging about the yard enjoying the cool, crisp air and sunshine. Instead, it was spent inside, frantically trying to cram two days' work into one, because along with time lost to Messiah rehearsals in the middle of my planned T-day prep, there were other complications. One falls under Miss Manners' heading of what one never discusses and even Suzette Hayden Elgin considered a guaranteed bad topic. The other was merely...interesting.
One of the two non-matching dining room tables that we put end to end to make a long one is the dining table of my childhood--it's over 60 years old. I flipped off its protective sheet and discovered that sometime in the past year it had delaminated on the underside of the leaf, leaving a flap of veneer hanging down ready to hit a guest's knee. Spouse's trip to the city allowed him to pick up some Gorilla Glue (tm) and yesterday evening we glued & clamped it in place. This picture was taken after removing some of the clamps, this morning. Yardsticks were used to brace the clamps on the end, and catalogs on the side.
The other table presented a different problem. It, too, is made of two tables placed end to end. But I made those tables out of 3/4 inch plywood (42 inches wide, 48 inches long) with metal folding legs screwed on below, and painted on top. I had at one time two additional tablecloths long enough for the dual-table coverage (on either pair)--a light green and an autumny rust-orange. I really liked using a dark blue on one table and the burnt-rust-orange color on the other for Thanksgiving, and white on one and green on the other for spring parties. I couldn't find either this week. Finally spouse recalled that he had moved various things down to the storage unit (mostly books, but also other things) while I was finishing a book last year....and thinks he may have put them in a box because they were just sitting folded on the tables. The only other tablecloth remotely long enough is a beige one that lacks an inch of reaching end to end. We didn't have time to drive to the storage unit (in another city) and dig through all the boxes "in case" they were there. So...I made a design out of not having a tablecloth long enough. Two similarly light-colored plaid tablecloths, folded in half, to cover the ends and hang down the right amount, and another tablecloth folded and placed in the middle to set off the center decoration.
The center decorations this year are little bitty herb gardens that were at the grocery store I like--I'll plant the herbs in larger post, but meanwhile they look interesting on the tables. With the other table back together and its cloth on, this is what the whole thing looks like at the moment.
Once everything's laid out, plates and serving dishes and so on, it'll be quite festive, and the 19 or 20 we expect to show up tomorrow will have better chairs than last year. (No folding chairs anymore--got rid of the collection of old, non-matching, creaky, about-to-break folding chairs we'd used for years. This year everyone gets a real chair. With a cushion on the library chairs.
And now--the pumpkin pie's about ready to come out of the oven and there's lots more to do. (Already baked today: brownie pie, two apple-gingerbread upside-down cakes, a gingerbread/apple/walnut loaf.)
One of the two non-matching dining room tables that we put end to end to make a long one is the dining table of my childhood--it's over 60 years old. I flipped off its protective sheet and discovered that sometime in the past year it had delaminated on the underside of the leaf, leaving a flap of veneer hanging down ready to hit a guest's knee. Spouse's trip to the city allowed him to pick up some Gorilla Glue (tm) and yesterday evening we glued & clamped it in place. This picture was taken after removing some of the clamps, this morning. Yardsticks were used to brace the clamps on the end, and catalogs on the side.
The other table presented a different problem. It, too, is made of two tables placed end to end. But I made those tables out of 3/4 inch plywood (42 inches wide, 48 inches long) with metal folding legs screwed on below, and painted on top. I had at one time two additional tablecloths long enough for the dual-table coverage (on either pair)--a light green and an autumny rust-orange. I really liked using a dark blue on one table and the burnt-rust-orange color on the other for Thanksgiving, and white on one and green on the other for spring parties. I couldn't find either this week. Finally spouse recalled that he had moved various things down to the storage unit (mostly books, but also other things) while I was finishing a book last year....and thinks he may have put them in a box because they were just sitting folded on the tables. The only other tablecloth remotely long enough is a beige one that lacks an inch of reaching end to end. We didn't have time to drive to the storage unit (in another city) and dig through all the boxes "in case" they were there. So...I made a design out of not having a tablecloth long enough. Two similarly light-colored plaid tablecloths, folded in half, to cover the ends and hang down the right amount, and another tablecloth folded and placed in the middle to set off the center decoration.
The center decorations this year are little bitty herb gardens that were at the grocery store I like--I'll plant the herbs in larger post, but meanwhile they look interesting on the tables. With the other table back together and its cloth on, this is what the whole thing looks like at the moment.
Once everything's laid out, plates and serving dishes and so on, it'll be quite festive, and the 19 or 20 we expect to show up tomorrow will have better chairs than last year. (No folding chairs anymore--got rid of the collection of old, non-matching, creaky, about-to-break folding chairs we'd used for years. This year everyone gets a real chair. With a cushion on the library chairs.
And now--the pumpkin pie's about ready to come out of the oven and there's lots more to do. (Already baked today: brownie pie, two apple-gingerbread upside-down cakes, a gingerbread/apple/walnut loaf.)
November 16, 2011
With a Voice of.....Error
With writing, you can revise before anyone else sees your mistakes. The same is not true for singing. Especially not in a voice lesson. In a voice lesson, one-on-one with your coach (mine's blog-name in Svengali) there's no place to hide and every error will be dealt with. (This is a good thing. If I'd had a good voice coach years ago, my bad singing habits wouldn't be nearly as hard to shake.)
The week before the Faure performance, I was given a new piece to learn, that I fell in love with: "Qui Sedes..." from Vivaldi's Gloria. I even sight-read it much better than I've sight-read other things. It's not easy--but I think it's enormous fun to sing. So I took it home, and worked on it, and didn't have a lesson the day after the Faure or the next week either--so kept working. Count-singing it, working on it section by section, etc. Came into the lesson feeling confident.
You can see where this is going. Warm-up and vocal exercises started well--I've been working on those, too--and Svengali said my tone had improved, and had me working on expanding the upper end again. I wasn't scared, and I was having a great time until--all at once--while trying to keep my tongue "dead" (relaxed, back to front) and sing scales, my voice did something it's never done. I headed up the scale and before I reached a note I'd reached fairly comfortably before....it made an ugly sound and went down. Down, even though I was thinking "up!" It was as if the "dead" tongue or some other muscle group woke up and messed with my throat.
Did some other things, and everything relaxed, and finally it was time to sing the Vivaldi. And I started making ridiculously stupid mistakes that I don't normally make. Coming in early, coming in late, coming in on the wrong note, not being able to "find" (hear) the note on which to come in. Blowing the page turn I had drilled on over and over and over at home, and thought I had licked. Svengali--very wisely in my opinion--doesn't let the student continue wrong...if you blow something, you have to stop and fix it right then. This is particularly good for me, because I learned a lot of music by ear, and quickly at that. So singing it wrong without correction means I "know" it wrong. Frustrating to be stopped, but necessary. On the rare occasions that I did launch into a section correctly, Svengali praised the improved tone, the mostly improved vowels, and the expressiveness. (Svengali is effective because he praises lavishly as well as demanding more and more.)
What I think happened (after thoughts)--besides some errors in how I worked on the piece, concentrating on each section separately and not singing through it counting the measures not sung--was that the improved tone, etc. represented several technical things finally coming together, plus the addition of expressiveness--what Svengali calls musicality or "really singing, not just notes." And trying to bring all these things into mindful, conscious attention at once--when I'm not really there yet--meant that some plate or other was always slipping from the stack I carried. What Karen Pryor, in her training books, would call a "pre-learning dip"--a sign that things are *almost* solidly learned, but not quite. Not a signal that I'll never "get it together" but a signal that I am getting it together, but not yet. I'm sure it was as frustrating for Svengali as it was for me, but he's a very good teacher and if he goes home rolling his eyes and wondering if this student will EVER make progress, he doesn't express that to the student. He knows I'm working on it.
My new assignment includes positive statements to self about singing like a diva. Pretend, he said, that you're on the stage, a famous singer of art songs. Tell yourself that. THEN practice. The thought is...impossible. On the other hand, there was a time I couldn't tell myself I was a writer. And it does make a difference what you tell yourself. Up to a point. The point at which the voice goes GACK and dives downward instead of upward.
The week before the Faure performance, I was given a new piece to learn, that I fell in love with: "Qui Sedes..." from Vivaldi's Gloria. I even sight-read it much better than I've sight-read other things. It's not easy--but I think it's enormous fun to sing. So I took it home, and worked on it, and didn't have a lesson the day after the Faure or the next week either--so kept working. Count-singing it, working on it section by section, etc. Came into the lesson feeling confident.
You can see where this is going. Warm-up and vocal exercises started well--I've been working on those, too--and Svengali said my tone had improved, and had me working on expanding the upper end again. I wasn't scared, and I was having a great time until--all at once--while trying to keep my tongue "dead" (relaxed, back to front) and sing scales, my voice did something it's never done. I headed up the scale and before I reached a note I'd reached fairly comfortably before....it made an ugly sound and went down. Down, even though I was thinking "up!" It was as if the "dead" tongue or some other muscle group woke up and messed with my throat.
Did some other things, and everything relaxed, and finally it was time to sing the Vivaldi. And I started making ridiculously stupid mistakes that I don't normally make. Coming in early, coming in late, coming in on the wrong note, not being able to "find" (hear) the note on which to come in. Blowing the page turn I had drilled on over and over and over at home, and thought I had licked. Svengali--very wisely in my opinion--doesn't let the student continue wrong...if you blow something, you have to stop and fix it right then. This is particularly good for me, because I learned a lot of music by ear, and quickly at that. So singing it wrong without correction means I "know" it wrong. Frustrating to be stopped, but necessary. On the rare occasions that I did launch into a section correctly, Svengali praised the improved tone, the mostly improved vowels, and the expressiveness. (Svengali is effective because he praises lavishly as well as demanding more and more.)
What I think happened (after thoughts)--besides some errors in how I worked on the piece, concentrating on each section separately and not singing through it counting the measures not sung--was that the improved tone, etc. represented several technical things finally coming together, plus the addition of expressiveness--what Svengali calls musicality or "really singing, not just notes." And trying to bring all these things into mindful, conscious attention at once--when I'm not really there yet--meant that some plate or other was always slipping from the stack I carried. What Karen Pryor, in her training books, would call a "pre-learning dip"--a sign that things are *almost* solidly learned, but not quite. Not a signal that I'll never "get it together" but a signal that I am getting it together, but not yet. I'm sure it was as frustrating for Svengali as it was for me, but he's a very good teacher and if he goes home rolling his eyes and wondering if this student will EVER make progress, he doesn't express that to the student. He knows I'm working on it.
My new assignment includes positive statements to self about singing like a diva. Pretend, he said, that you're on the stage, a famous singer of art songs. Tell yourself that. THEN practice. The thought is...impossible. On the other hand, there was a time I couldn't tell myself I was a writer. And it does make a difference what you tell yourself. Up to a point. The point at which the voice goes GACK and dives downward instead of upward.
November 15, 2011
Annals of Revision (again)
You might think that someone who's written 20+ books could write a book front to back, all in one piece, with no mistakes, the way my mother (for instance) could sew garments (even design them) and not have to rip out or add on. You might be right for some other writer of 20+ books, but not...alas...for me. Or for most of the writers I know, even the ones who are gifted enough to outline before they write. At the end of months of first-drafting, what I have is a big shaggy mess of a thing. Some parts are really good. Some parts might be good if they were in the right place (they're not), trimmed up a little, given a spit shine on the now dull surface. Other parts...well, there are days when the writing sags, along with energy, and what comes out is...well again...dull, stale, flat and unprofitable.
Right now I'm in mid-revision mode. The Chainsaw of Correction has been applied to the deadwood: the dull, the slow, the fascinating-to-me-but-no-one-else artistically lacy (but dead) limbs. 99% of what's left is plotworthy and much of it has been trimmed up and polished. But not all. I've spent the morning messing about a scene that won't go away and yet doesn't work right. I can't see why. I went away from it for a couple of hours and finished processing the lamb stock, then started a curry. I still can't see why the scene is sitting there, a large lump of indigestible sentences, and won't either be taken out or shake itself into a flowing scene with adequate tension. Even I can see it's not 24k gold studded with rubies...so it's not a "darling" in the sense of "kill your darlings." It's a lump. I've looked at it front to back, and back to front, and starting in the middle looking both ways for its nugget of plotworthiness that saves it from the CofC, and it feels like there's a nugget in there...but I can't locate it. It's been bugging me for days, as I worked on other things--I'd come back, read it again, scowl again, and go work on something easier. Many other chapters have benefited from my inability to get this scene to budge. But now they're as far along as they can be until I solve this one. Whatever I do here will have effects on what comes after; I can't do the top level revisions on following chapters without knowing where this one is structurally.
Tinkering isn't getting the job done. Moving sentences around, starting the conversations differently, reversing sentence or paragraph order...no. Been there, done that (and other tricks) and there it sits, like a sodden blob of cold oatmeal. Unsalted, unsweetened....does it mean I've lost it? The writing ability's fled? Inspiration evaporated? Talent sucked down the rathole? I don't know. I look at the scene. The scene doesn't even look back. I've interrogated the characters...they're not interested in my problems.
And of course this writing here is procrastination. I should be working on it, but here I am writing a post in LJ instead. And yet, writing about how impossible it is, there's a tiny--very tiny--twitch in the writing brain. As I describe it, I begin to see metaphorically what's wrong. "Lump" and "indigestible" and "unsalted and unsweetened." Can I figure out what that means in terms of the people interacting in that scene, the emotional setting and development of that scene? Are they, like a lump of cold oatmeal without salt or honey, the same all the way through and at the end as at the beginning? Are they all one mood, one tone, throughout? It is...when I think about it that way...a fairly quiet scene, with two people who know each other well discussing something fairly abstract that may happen somewhere else in terms of what did happen in another somewhere else. Sitting down. Just talking. Characters familiar to readers of these books, so I can't claim any great revelation of character. Not angry, not at odds, not excited, not sad....just sitting there talking calmly. For rather a long time, in fact. No salt. No honey. No variation in flavor....well. There we are, then. The single nugget of plotworthiness, now I think about it, is diffused one or two words at a time across the whole conversation. Five tiny grains of salt in the whole large lump, barely perceptible to the tastebuds. If I couldn't find it, neither would most readers.
Sometimes procrastination is a useful tool in revision. And now, back to the scene. A and B, you have one thing to pass between you, and that's it. And you have to realize its importance, react to it, shift a little...No. I'll insist they shift a lot...when I think of the previous scene, in a different POV in a different place, this one needs to start off with enough punch to pull readers away from the one before. DUH. How could I forget that? Changes of viewpoint are major transitions and readers need to be firmly attached to the new one right from the first words. The writer brain rolls over and sits up. Pulls on jeans and a shirt (never mind what the writer brain's body is wearing) and dials up the word generator.
Bye, now.
Right now I'm in mid-revision mode. The Chainsaw of Correction has been applied to the deadwood: the dull, the slow, the fascinating-to-me-but-no-one-else artistically lacy (but dead) limbs. 99% of what's left is plotworthy and much of it has been trimmed up and polished. But not all. I've spent the morning messing about a scene that won't go away and yet doesn't work right. I can't see why. I went away from it for a couple of hours and finished processing the lamb stock, then started a curry. I still can't see why the scene is sitting there, a large lump of indigestible sentences, and won't either be taken out or shake itself into a flowing scene with adequate tension. Even I can see it's not 24k gold studded with rubies...so it's not a "darling" in the sense of "kill your darlings." It's a lump. I've looked at it front to back, and back to front, and starting in the middle looking both ways for its nugget of plotworthiness that saves it from the CofC, and it feels like there's a nugget in there...but I can't locate it. It's been bugging me for days, as I worked on other things--I'd come back, read it again, scowl again, and go work on something easier. Many other chapters have benefited from my inability to get this scene to budge. But now they're as far along as they can be until I solve this one. Whatever I do here will have effects on what comes after; I can't do the top level revisions on following chapters without knowing where this one is structurally.
Tinkering isn't getting the job done. Moving sentences around, starting the conversations differently, reversing sentence or paragraph order...no. Been there, done that (and other tricks) and there it sits, like a sodden blob of cold oatmeal. Unsalted, unsweetened....does it mean I've lost it? The writing ability's fled? Inspiration evaporated? Talent sucked down the rathole? I don't know. I look at the scene. The scene doesn't even look back. I've interrogated the characters...they're not interested in my problems.
And of course this writing here is procrastination. I should be working on it, but here I am writing a post in LJ instead. And yet, writing about how impossible it is, there's a tiny--very tiny--twitch in the writing brain. As I describe it, I begin to see metaphorically what's wrong. "Lump" and "indigestible" and "unsalted and unsweetened." Can I figure out what that means in terms of the people interacting in that scene, the emotional setting and development of that scene? Are they, like a lump of cold oatmeal without salt or honey, the same all the way through and at the end as at the beginning? Are they all one mood, one tone, throughout? It is...when I think about it that way...a fairly quiet scene, with two people who know each other well discussing something fairly abstract that may happen somewhere else in terms of what did happen in another somewhere else. Sitting down. Just talking. Characters familiar to readers of these books, so I can't claim any great revelation of character. Not angry, not at odds, not excited, not sad....just sitting there talking calmly. For rather a long time, in fact. No salt. No honey. No variation in flavor....well. There we are, then. The single nugget of plotworthiness, now I think about it, is diffused one or two words at a time across the whole conversation. Five tiny grains of salt in the whole large lump, barely perceptible to the tastebuds. If I couldn't find it, neither would most readers.
Sometimes procrastination is a useful tool in revision. And now, back to the scene. A and B, you have one thing to pass between you, and that's it. And you have to realize its importance, react to it, shift a little...No. I'll insist they shift a lot...when I think of the previous scene, in a different POV in a different place, this one needs to start off with enough punch to pull readers away from the one before. DUH. How could I forget that? Changes of viewpoint are major transitions and readers need to be firmly attached to the new one right from the first words. The writer brain rolls over and sits up. Pulls on jeans and a shirt (never mind what the writer brain's body is wearing) and dials up the word generator.
Bye, now.
November 11, 2011
Ashes of Empire
Some of this post comes from the post I made last night over on SFFnet, combined with things I learned today about the Penn State mess, and ruminations about what country it is that the veterans we honored today went out to save.
There's a timeline on events at Penn State, taken from the grand jury presentment, at The Prodigal Blog. If you haven't looked seen it, and find yourself locked out of direct access to the grand jury's statement itself (server overload, now requires a password--don't know if that will continue or not), you should take a look. I bookmarked it for reference. Also read the comments, as some commenters felt that Finlay went beyond the bare bones into opinion. For the record, I am going well beyond the bare bones into my opinion.
Football programs are, within university culture, their own empire. They cost more, but if they are successful they bring in a lot of money and create a lot of prestige and support The Nobel Prize-winning chemist, the Pultizer Prize-winning historian, the research lab that discovered fundamental principles of genetics, or invented new technology...they can't compete and most alumni could not name even one. But everyone knows the head coach and often the entire football coaching staff. Winning is everything, and everything accrues to the winners: privilege, power, and money. The colleges that are home to "great" teams get the TV contracts and the ticket money and the alumni support. So there's a new larger stadium, and lush practice fields and equipment rooms and highly paid staffs, from "athletic director" down to the people who maintain the uniforms. Whatever it takes to keep the athletes winning.
And what it takes to keep teams winning--like what it takes to make an insane amount of money--is a willingness to do anything and the ability sweep the less acceptable fraction of "anything" under the rug while smiling and looking people straight in the eye. Insider trading, downright Madoff-style fraud, or child rape...that won't help the bottom line, so it has to be covered up.
The supposedly sacred mantle of "sports" has repeatedly allowed high-performing athletes and coaches to fly under official radar where sexual misconduct (and other misconduct) is concerned. In the case of coaches, if they're married and have a "good reputation" (as winning coaches, primarily, but church membership is another coat of whitewash) then of course--because they are "dedicated" to helping the young, they're not scrutinized with the same care when they take in foster children or involve themselves in exactly the kinds of organizations that sexual predators try to infiltrate. Sandusky had a foundation supposedly to help troubled boys, and "mentored" those boys. And if there's a suspicion, or even certainty...a gentleman's agreement to take early retirement will prevent the need for any publicity and the reputations of both can be maintained.
Four instances involving Sandusky in the showers with an underage boy on Penn State property--in the showers of the athletic facility--occurred in 1999, 2000, 2002, and 2008. In the first instance, the boy told his mother, and his mother told the University Police, who did investigate, including the city police and the Pennsylvania Department of Public Welfare. Sandusky admitted to being naked in the shower with young boys and touching them inappropriately, but promised never to do it again. The university counsel advised that no action need be taken. The district attorney refused to prosecute, and the case was closed. Sandusky took early retirement, but retained full privileges of access to the athletic department's facilities. In 2000, a janitor saw Sandusky forcing oral sex on a boy, reported to a fellow janitor and then to his supervisor. The supervisor declined to pass the story on up, even though he went with the janitor to be sure of Sandusky's identity. In 2002, a graduate assistant in the department saw Sandusky raping a small boy anally. He "panicked" but told Paterno the next morning. Paterno told two administrative employees but described the act to them as "fondling or doing something of a sexual nature to a young boy". These individuals did interview McQueary, the graduate assistant, who said specifically it was rape, but meeting with Paterno "They agree that nothing sexually explicit was described, that the allegation is not that serious, and that no crime had occurred." Sandusky was allowed to retain his keys and full access to university facilities in which he had already sexually abused boys. In 2008, a boy Sandusky was mentoring--including taking him out of classes at school--became reluctant to go with him, and told the school administrator about the sexual abuse. That administrator immediately informed the boy's parent, the police, and child welfare authorities. That triggered the grand jury investigation which led to uncovering the other incidents.
But for at least ten years--and probably longer, given the typical behavior pattern of child sexual predators--from 1998 to 2008--Sandusky had preyed on boys using Penn State's facilities. Failure to proceed with an indictment on the first reported offense allowed him to have the time and the space and (via his Second Mile foundation) access to boys and just about ensure that more would be assaulted. Paterno knew about the first incident. Paterno knew about the Second Mile foundation and that Sandusky worked with the boys there. Paterno knew about the third incident. Paterno (and the rest of the university administration and police) did nothing to protect children from a sexual predator. Paterno and the rest swept it under the rug.
The kind of money a big, famous, successful athletic program brings in makes a comfortably thick rug to sweep problems under. It affords the best lawyers, the influence with the press, payoffs to any victims that are inconveniently verbal. A lot of dirt can be stored under that thicker rug. And the longer you get away with it, the thicker the rug feels--all those nasty secrets flattened by time to the point where, surely, no one will remember the inconvenient details well enough to testify in court. Sometimes...sometimes the truth never has a chance, at least not until the guilty are safely dead with their reputations intact and monuments in place.
"The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small..."
And sometimes it happens that a stubborn little lump refuses to lie smooth and quiet under the heavy plush of wealth and power. Another of the several brave boys in this story found the right person to tell, and suddenly the rug was jerked aside, and there they are--preserved as if in a block of crystal--the nasty secrets, the decisions to sweep them under the rug, all still there, still alive and wriggling. Not gone after all.
What was once a mighty football empire, a name to reckon with, a name to be proud of, headed by a legend with a spotless reputation....is gone, burned in the fires of revulsion, disgust, shock, horror, amazement. And what's left, after all the maneuvering to hide one pervert's insatiable lust for children?
Ashes.
--------------------------------------
Was it for this that veterans served? Those aging survivors of D-Day and Bataan, of Iwo and Italy, those survivors of Korean winters and the long agonizing retreat, those who wasted away in prison camps, those who carried the wounds of war to their graves or live with them still? The Vietnam vets--did they slog through the paddies and toil up the hills for this kind of country, where money can buy anything, including a child's innocence and a man's self-respect? Is this what today's active duty service members and recent vets though they were sent into danger for? For Sandusky to have his little boys, for a man like Paterno to choose dishonest secrecy?
I don't think so. That wasn't the country I joined up to defend.
------------------------------------
And finally...one of the things emphasized in good military training is doing the right thing when you see it needs doing. Initiative aimed in the right direction. Ritual disclaimers about nobody and no system being perfect. Bad apples in every warehouse. Still...athletic training is often said to produce character. But the evidence here is that it doesn't. Instead, it inculcates hero-worship and reputation-worship. Putting "the team" above everything means defending wrong if done by someone on the team. Why did the young, fit, strong young man who saw Sandusky anally raping the boy "panic" instead of intervening? Probably for the same reason given by a young sportscaster who, as a teenager, had known Sandusky as a Penn State coach and admired him--had stayed in touch with him, who revered him--a man who admitted he would have run away (but thinks he would have contacted the police later.) How do you confront a legend, even when the legend has morphed into a horror?
First you have to have the moral understanding that what you're seeing is abuse and needs to be stopped. Not just reported--stopped. He's hurting a child. You're the person who sees it. It's up to you to stop it. That's your mission: stop the rape, rescue the child. From here it's all straight out of training. Fast tactical assessment: one adult raping one child. No weapons. Empty room. Go for it. You're not going to miss the target; he's not prepared to fight an adult; you've got advantage in surprise, commitment, being fully clothed, and (if you know anything at all) skill. Chances are high that you'll be able to disable the rapist at least temporarily and get the child out and then to safety and medical attention and legal investigation. Had that been done in 2000, the 2002 and 2008 attacks would not have occurred. Had charges been filed in 1998, the next three (and possibly more, unknown) attacks would not have occurred.
The men who saw Sandusky abusing children--the two janitors and the graduate assistant, two different victims--all knew something bad was going on. They understood it was sexual abuse of a child. One of the janitors and the graduate assistant knew it should be reported. But they didn't think of stopping it cold, right then. And they did not commit to reporting it to the proper authorities themselves. It may be that many young men (or older men) do not know what they should do or how to do it. Maybe no one ever told them "If you see a rape in progress, stop it; if you can't stop it (many assailants), report it at once." It's time we told them, from boyhood. It's time that rapists--of children or adults--came to expect that other men won't ignore, won't walk on by, won't panic...but will intervene to rescue the victim. Will call the cops on them. I know plenty of women who would have charged into that shower room and gotten those kids out if they'd been in the position of those janitors and that graduate student. It's time for men to, as they say, man up.
There's a timeline on events at Penn State, taken from the grand jury presentment, at The Prodigal Blog. If you haven't looked seen it, and find yourself locked out of direct access to the grand jury's statement itself (server overload, now requires a password--don't know if that will continue or not), you should take a look. I bookmarked it for reference. Also read the comments, as some commenters felt that Finlay went beyond the bare bones into opinion. For the record, I am going well beyond the bare bones into my opinion.
Football programs are, within university culture, their own empire. They cost more, but if they are successful they bring in a lot of money and create a lot of prestige and support The Nobel Prize-winning chemist, the Pultizer Prize-winning historian, the research lab that discovered fundamental principles of genetics, or invented new technology...they can't compete and most alumni could not name even one. But everyone knows the head coach and often the entire football coaching staff. Winning is everything, and everything accrues to the winners: privilege, power, and money. The colleges that are home to "great" teams get the TV contracts and the ticket money and the alumni support. So there's a new larger stadium, and lush practice fields and equipment rooms and highly paid staffs, from "athletic director" down to the people who maintain the uniforms. Whatever it takes to keep the athletes winning.
And what it takes to keep teams winning--like what it takes to make an insane amount of money--is a willingness to do anything and the ability sweep the less acceptable fraction of "anything" under the rug while smiling and looking people straight in the eye. Insider trading, downright Madoff-style fraud, or child rape...that won't help the bottom line, so it has to be covered up.
The supposedly sacred mantle of "sports" has repeatedly allowed high-performing athletes and coaches to fly under official radar where sexual misconduct (and other misconduct) is concerned. In the case of coaches, if they're married and have a "good reputation" (as winning coaches, primarily, but church membership is another coat of whitewash) then of course--because they are "dedicated" to helping the young, they're not scrutinized with the same care when they take in foster children or involve themselves in exactly the kinds of organizations that sexual predators try to infiltrate. Sandusky had a foundation supposedly to help troubled boys, and "mentored" those boys. And if there's a suspicion, or even certainty...a gentleman's agreement to take early retirement will prevent the need for any publicity and the reputations of both can be maintained.
Four instances involving Sandusky in the showers with an underage boy on Penn State property--in the showers of the athletic facility--occurred in 1999, 2000, 2002, and 2008. In the first instance, the boy told his mother, and his mother told the University Police, who did investigate, including the city police and the Pennsylvania Department of Public Welfare. Sandusky admitted to being naked in the shower with young boys and touching them inappropriately, but promised never to do it again. The university counsel advised that no action need be taken. The district attorney refused to prosecute, and the case was closed. Sandusky took early retirement, but retained full privileges of access to the athletic department's facilities. In 2000, a janitor saw Sandusky forcing oral sex on a boy, reported to a fellow janitor and then to his supervisor. The supervisor declined to pass the story on up, even though he went with the janitor to be sure of Sandusky's identity. In 2002, a graduate assistant in the department saw Sandusky raping a small boy anally. He "panicked" but told Paterno the next morning. Paterno told two administrative employees but described the act to them as "fondling or doing something of a sexual nature to a young boy". These individuals did interview McQueary, the graduate assistant, who said specifically it was rape, but meeting with Paterno "They agree that nothing sexually explicit was described, that the allegation is not that serious, and that no crime had occurred." Sandusky was allowed to retain his keys and full access to university facilities in which he had already sexually abused boys. In 2008, a boy Sandusky was mentoring--including taking him out of classes at school--became reluctant to go with him, and told the school administrator about the sexual abuse. That administrator immediately informed the boy's parent, the police, and child welfare authorities. That triggered the grand jury investigation which led to uncovering the other incidents.
But for at least ten years--and probably longer, given the typical behavior pattern of child sexual predators--from 1998 to 2008--Sandusky had preyed on boys using Penn State's facilities. Failure to proceed with an indictment on the first reported offense allowed him to have the time and the space and (via his Second Mile foundation) access to boys and just about ensure that more would be assaulted. Paterno knew about the first incident. Paterno knew about the Second Mile foundation and that Sandusky worked with the boys there. Paterno knew about the third incident. Paterno (and the rest of the university administration and police) did nothing to protect children from a sexual predator. Paterno and the rest swept it under the rug.
The kind of money a big, famous, successful athletic program brings in makes a comfortably thick rug to sweep problems under. It affords the best lawyers, the influence with the press, payoffs to any victims that are inconveniently verbal. A lot of dirt can be stored under that thicker rug. And the longer you get away with it, the thicker the rug feels--all those nasty secrets flattened by time to the point where, surely, no one will remember the inconvenient details well enough to testify in court. Sometimes...sometimes the truth never has a chance, at least not until the guilty are safely dead with their reputations intact and monuments in place.
"The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small..."
And sometimes it happens that a stubborn little lump refuses to lie smooth and quiet under the heavy plush of wealth and power. Another of the several brave boys in this story found the right person to tell, and suddenly the rug was jerked aside, and there they are--preserved as if in a block of crystal--the nasty secrets, the decisions to sweep them under the rug, all still there, still alive and wriggling. Not gone after all.
What was once a mighty football empire, a name to reckon with, a name to be proud of, headed by a legend with a spotless reputation....is gone, burned in the fires of revulsion, disgust, shock, horror, amazement. And what's left, after all the maneuvering to hide one pervert's insatiable lust for children?
Ashes.
--------------------------------------
Was it for this that veterans served? Those aging survivors of D-Day and Bataan, of Iwo and Italy, those survivors of Korean winters and the long agonizing retreat, those who wasted away in prison camps, those who carried the wounds of war to their graves or live with them still? The Vietnam vets--did they slog through the paddies and toil up the hills for this kind of country, where money can buy anything, including a child's innocence and a man's self-respect? Is this what today's active duty service members and recent vets though they were sent into danger for? For Sandusky to have his little boys, for a man like Paterno to choose dishonest secrecy?
I don't think so. That wasn't the country I joined up to defend.
------------------------------------
And finally...one of the things emphasized in good military training is doing the right thing when you see it needs doing. Initiative aimed in the right direction. Ritual disclaimers about nobody and no system being perfect. Bad apples in every warehouse. Still...athletic training is often said to produce character. But the evidence here is that it doesn't. Instead, it inculcates hero-worship and reputation-worship. Putting "the team" above everything means defending wrong if done by someone on the team. Why did the young, fit, strong young man who saw Sandusky anally raping the boy "panic" instead of intervening? Probably for the same reason given by a young sportscaster who, as a teenager, had known Sandusky as a Penn State coach and admired him--had stayed in touch with him, who revered him--a man who admitted he would have run away (but thinks he would have contacted the police later.) How do you confront a legend, even when the legend has morphed into a horror?
First you have to have the moral understanding that what you're seeing is abuse and needs to be stopped. Not just reported--stopped. He's hurting a child. You're the person who sees it. It's up to you to stop it. That's your mission: stop the rape, rescue the child. From here it's all straight out of training. Fast tactical assessment: one adult raping one child. No weapons. Empty room. Go for it. You're not going to miss the target; he's not prepared to fight an adult; you've got advantage in surprise, commitment, being fully clothed, and (if you know anything at all) skill. Chances are high that you'll be able to disable the rapist at least temporarily and get the child out and then to safety and medical attention and legal investigation. Had that been done in 2000, the 2002 and 2008 attacks would not have occurred. Had charges been filed in 1998, the next three (and possibly more, unknown) attacks would not have occurred.
The men who saw Sandusky abusing children--the two janitors and the graduate assistant, two different victims--all knew something bad was going on. They understood it was sexual abuse of a child. One of the janitors and the graduate assistant knew it should be reported. But they didn't think of stopping it cold, right then. And they did not commit to reporting it to the proper authorities themselves. It may be that many young men (or older men) do not know what they should do or how to do it. Maybe no one ever told them "If you see a rape in progress, stop it; if you can't stop it (many assailants), report it at once." It's time we told them, from boyhood. It's time that rapists--of children or adults--came to expect that other men won't ignore, won't walk on by, won't panic...but will intervene to rescue the victim. Will call the cops on them. I know plenty of women who would have charged into that shower room and gotten those kids out if they'd been in the position of those janitors and that graduate student. It's time for men to, as they say, man up.
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