No maps for these territories

1. The new 2600 compilation is out

2. I get to buy it for the library.

Sometimes my job is, seriously, the best thing ever. I get to think about collaboration, help people find stuff, and buy computer books. What’s not to love?

Friday was the original deadline for voting on SXSW proposals, but voting has been extended through today. May I direct your attention to two proposals:

* “Too Small, Too Open: Correcting Wikipedia’s Local Failure” — a panel that if accepted I will be on! It’s about the LocalWiki project and how we can build many community wikis, extending Wikipedia’s style of community engagement to real world communities.

* “On the Ecology of Awesomeness” — my friend Tim’s panel about the Awesome Foundation.

vote please! http://panelpicker.sxsw.com/

Today I was talking with Eugene, a Wikimedian friend of mine. He was telling me about all the Wikipedians he talked to who don’t edit anymore, or who spend their time working on institutional things like outreach instead of editing.

“Man, I never have time to edit either!”  I said.

We agreed this was ridiculous. There’s an obvious solution: finding time to edit. But it’s hard. There’s a lot of distractions and we all feel overworked. Sometimes you need peer reinforcement.

Which is why I want to start “editing Fridays”. If you’re involved in Wikimedia in any way, and especially if you don’t edit much now, take the time over lunch on Friday to spend half an hour to an hour working on a content project. Fix some typos. Add a reference. Categorize some photos. Add a definition, or a sound file. Proof some source text. Work on expanding a learning objective; rewrite a textbook chapter; add a book chapter outline. Did something happen today? write a news story. Take the time to relax, write about something you love.

Things that don’t count: meta, infrastructure wikis, documentation, mailing lists, IRC. This is all about staying grounded in why we’re involved in the first place: so, editing content. Starting with the backlogged maintenance categories is a good place to go if you’re stuck for ideas. Double points for working on a small project or small language.

What do you think? Will you join me?

n.b.: I choose Fridays only because of the traditional American workweek, which winds down on Friday; fun activities are often planned on Fridays. But if editing Thursdays or editing Saturdays work better for you, that’s cool too — I mostly think it would be motivational to work together.

I am in my mother’s family home on vacation, going through a box of her textbooks that was left in the basement, subject to the ravages of mice and time. How did they end up here? Perhaps she came home in her red VW Bug one summer near the end of college, with a box of books that didn’t make the cut to move and that have stayed here ever since. Whatever else may have been in that Bug — clothes, records — is long since gone; the books remain, two generations later, for me to make the final decision on. I feel a professional obligation, as well as a personal one, to weed this cardboard box collection well.

—-

14 years after her death and at least 45 years since she touched any of them, I am learning a great deal about my mother from these books. For instance, she studied French. It looks like the language lasted through high school and at least a year into college; by the end she was good enough to tackle Gide’s L’immoraliste & a short Balzac in the original, notes on vocabulary neatly scribbled in the margins.

(A memory: I am a small child, no more than 5 or 6. Learning a foreign language is important, and therefore as a good intellectual family devoted to my education we make the effort. My mother starts with French, buying learning materials for children, colorful books and songs on tape, before abandoning the effort in favor of the more practical Spanish, which I don’t learn either — I’ve never had much aptitude for languages. I remember her head tilted in frustration, trying to catch something, a frustration that I always thought was because of my own dunderheadedness but in retrospect may have been for the loss of words that were once known but forgotten.)

—–

Here we are in middle school, or perhaps high school: A history of Britain in three volumes, with illustrations, printed circa 1948. I don’t know why my mother kept these; they look dry as dust. (I can’t fully explain the impulse that leads me to keep them, either; something to do with wanting my own imaginary progeny to see their grandmother’s childhood books, an impulse better quickly stifled). She wrote her entire address as well as her name on the flyleaf of these, in a grade school hand that is recognizable but not yet fully her own. Maybe she kept them because of a fondness for the subject: she went on to study history in college, it seems, with great stacks of books about American imperialism and European surveys, and moving on to more obscure subjects like Middle Eastern and Asian history. There are notes in these, too, and I keep them not because I want to read a 1950’s take on the Jacksonian era or the industrial revolution, but because history in the end is nothing more than interpretations of evidence, notes layered on notes, and maybe how my mother made comments on these expositions will give me some clue to herself.

—–

For those of us in the library business, marginalia is an annoyance. For textual scholars and historians, marginalia is a godsend, a clue to the use of a book. No printed work exists in a vacuum, and certainly not pedantic works like these that are meant to be impressed on and molded by the young mind of the scholar. Arguments are made, and read, and shifted about by the reader, hefted and weighed. Were these notes in the margins straight out of lectures my mother went to, hand on her chin, dark hair in her eyes? (Did she speak up in class? Did she have friends?) Or were they her own thoughts, careful summarizations, questions? My mother questioned everything, as far as I can tell, and I cannot imagine that she didn’t question these textbooks written by pompous men too.

She was fond of underlining in pen, and you can trace her progress from a beginning student (whole paragraphs underlined) to a more mature one, with only the salient points picked out. These mute underlines: what do we make of these? They are the barest scraps, a faint connection that I have to admit relay scant information.

——

These books also trace the progress of my mother becoming a radical. Here are some books on progressive thought, dated 1965 (my mom began in college to date her books as well as signing the flyleaf; a civilized practice). These surely are from a class; she went to a liberal college that was involved in the peace movement, and I imagine the influence of young and idealistic professors.

But here are some books that go beyond anything assigned, perhaps; here a book about Vietnam (”the untold story”), here a book about African freedom. Here is a journal of liberal thought with stories like “Mao Clinic” and “Goldwater’s Fallout”, written by men with eminent Jewish names and published out of Harvard (I imagine an environment of thick dark-rimmed glasses, righteousness and ever-failing magazines); was this from a subscription, or a curious purchase in the campus bookstore one day, something that piqued her interest but was really rather dry stuff that she always meant to read but didn’t, the way I sometimes feel obligated to buy literary magazines?

I wonder where these books fit in the legendary progression of my mother from good middle-class midwestern girl to hippie artist. Did they come before or after the summer she spent rooming with the Chicago Seven? Did they influence her decision to join VISTA, with an intention of going out west to the reservations but, through a quirk of fate, ending up in the Oklahoma City ghettos where she met my gangly, much less single-minded father (a quirk that I, for one, was always thankful for)? What about the progression from the girl who drew on the basement walls, imitating James Thurber, to a young woman with the intensity of purpose that kept the impossible enterprise of making a living from art jewelry — which neither of my parents had any training in when they started — possible for 30 years? I look at the tortured, surrealist paintings that she made at the end of her life when she was hopped up on morphine, when the cancer was eating through her bones and she decided that it was now or never to take up oil crayon, and I see a link to the basement wall drawings that have stolidly remained for fifty years and that now swim in my unseeing field of vision. Take this crayon. Take this ink. Take this thick line, and underline the story of your life: what did you mean by all this, mother?

—–

Here is the beginning of the interest in China, which she went off to grad school to study; books about communism, books about Chinese culture. And here is the only thing that makes me cry in this story: a small Chinese-English Romanized dictionary, in a little box. On the flyleaf: my mother’s name, an address in New York City. She went to grad school at Columbia, before dropping out both because of the incomprehensibility of Chinese and the allure of the peak of the 1960s, when great things were in the air.

I have never known much of anything about the Columbia year. It was before she met my father, when she wasn’t speaking much to anyone else in the family. She never graduated, so unlike the midwestern college that sent alumna magazines to her death and beyond, there was no acknowledgement by anyone of this time. But here’s an address: somewhere on W. 111th, an address that can be mapped and pinpointed and visited, sheer evidence that somewhere, sometime, a young woman with long dark hair who was intensely serious and had bad fashion sense and well-to-do parents and the driest, wittiest sense of humor I have ever known anyone to possess actually made it to New York City, the perpetual dream of the young. She shooed pigeons; she rode on the subway; she saw impossible buildings and crossed the street in a crowd with the purpose of those who adopt the city.

My mother subscribed to the New Yorker magazine her entire life, the way I do now, the way her father had since the 1930s. She subscribed through the lean years and the fat, through the years of drugs and psychedelia, through the years of 1980s news and the birth of her child. She subscribed through the development of household internet access and the Clinton years, and when I at the age of 13 took over paying the household bills I renewed our subscription too. And while I have always subscribed as an adult partly in homage to my family history, perhaps she herself read the club listings with slight nostalgia; here is proof, an address.

I have wondered before what would have happened if she’d stayed in New York, if she’d taken that job offer or stayed in school. Would we have lived in Brooklyn, Manhattan, the Village? What would that story have been? It is just the faintest of possibilities in the air, an unwritten story that I have always half expected to find in the bottom of a filing cabinet somewhere, a doppelganger life that explains my love of cities.

—–

And finally, in a feeling of reaching a foundation, here are some of my grandmother’s books, equally arty and intellectual. I have my grandmother’s Rachel Carson and Margaret Mead already, but here are some titles about history that I cannot imagine anyone reading for pleasure; here are the remains of a high-minded Time-Life Book-of-the-Month subscription. And here, preciously, are books from my mother to her mother (a collection of Steinbeck cartoons, a book about American expansionism). My grandmother, who died before I was born, was by all accounts a sharp-witted and immensely bright woman herself who made the transition, in prescient echo of her daughter, from farmgirl to flapper to skilled housewife and, it appears, repressed intellectual. What do I know of her? A photograph of a stern face, a few stories, a genetic legacy traced out of repeated grief.

I am the end of the line of these two women, one who I sometimes barely remember and one I never knew, but both of whom I feel as close to as my own bones. Here are these women: funny, sarcastic, argumentative, loving, straight-shooting and strong-willed as hell. Here are two women with a raging coffee addiction that I also have, a love of reading dense books with a habit of signing their names on the flyleaf. Here are the marginalia of our lives, gathered up into cardboard boxes and left quietly in the dark for the next generation to discover.

Contrary to popular and malicious rumors, I am not dead. I was just very tired after Wikimania

The conferences (plural) went well. I feel relieved and happy that the first conference I have ever chaired (WikiSym) came off without major hitches. It was a rush, checking on every session, solving every registration problem, ending up on stage half a dozen times for announcements and such — no time to be shy — and  I am letting myself not worry too much about all the smaller things that could have been done better. I was thrilled at our group, which had great sessions and discussions and was active in making WikiSym productive and full of enthusiasm. Thank you, participants!

Wikimania was a blur, as usual, accentuated this time by the craziness of getting seated on the board. I talked to many people, though I don’t feel like it was enough; I stayed awake til dawn most nights (easy to do when the sun rises at 4); I never did find out where the PA system booth was, though I looked. (Wait, what? It is these kinds of questions that plague one as a quasi-organizer, which I was; though I did almost nothing on site, unlike the real organizers, who as usual deserve more thanks than they’ve gotten). A concert, a few meetings, a long and happy afternoon on the terrace with good friends, a few sessions unexpectedly moderated. A final world cup game outside on the big screen with dear friends and most of Gdansk: I celebrated with Spain because I could, joyously. It was great.

Three days then it’s done. Then a slower day, meetings with 2011’s team, communicating everything I think I might know about conferences, which is to say very little at this point. An early flight; saying goodbye to the lovely hotel where I lived and worked for two weeks; my turret room with the flight of stairs I climbed a million times, thankful for all my time at the gym this spring. To the staff. To the beautiful early mornings over the canals at Gdansk.

Then I went to Paris for two days to hang out lazily with my good friend Ellen at her apartment and it was wonderful. I stayed offline and we walked around the city and drank coffee and champagne for Bastille Day and I watched the fireworks go on and on and on.

Then home, a weekend, two weeks of work and here we are. I’ve been dazed. I was absolutely in shock about being on the Board; I still am, really, but I’m starting to calm down. I feel like I need to know everything at once. (Note to colleagues: please feel free to ignore me). I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on. I am overwhelmed by the amount of stuff I don’t know, despite following Wikimedia about as closely as possible for the last few years. (These things range from straightforward nonprofit governance stuff to the big questions that don’t have good answers: what should we do about strategy? etc. etc.) I have the initial rush and enthusiasm of a newbie, though everyone else is pretty lackadaisical about the whole thing — there was no welcoming committee; I couldn’t get anyone to buy me a beer at the party — hell, I don’t even think I got any talk page messages. It’s just time to get on with work, as far as I can tell, which is hard when your head is spinning. I’m sorry I’ve neglected my email. I’m here, and back to work at work, too; working on a student guide, buying books, planning another fall conference (what? yes, it’s true I’m afraid).

I have lots to write about, regarding the Board and Wikimedia; I’d like to write about what it’s like, mechanically speaking, from the perspective of someone who was pretty involved in the community. You’ll have to tell me if you’d find that interesting. I have to write things down, and not just notes, so it might be a while. But I’d like to help make the Board less mysterious to the community if I can, less isolated. I feel like I’m suddenly starting to think about things with a different perspective, and that it in itself is worth making note of.

The next couple of days I’ll be in the library, then a wikipedia meetup in san francisco on Saturday, then I fly off to Columbus on the redeye for family vacation. I’ll see my uncle, and cousins, and it should be great; I plan to spend a lot of time in their pool and reading novels.

Then back, to think about how to do my bit supporting others to change the world, which if you think about it is what I’ve been trying to do all along. Well, that and making time for bad summer television — priorities, people, priorities.

Late yesterday afternoon I was seated on the Wikimedia Foundation Board of Trustees as one of the two chapter-selected seats. I am still a bit in shock. I was up on stage at the Board panel this morning; I am looking forward to conversatons all weekend.

I have also been closing out WikiSym, which has been running the last three dasy. It has been a (I hope) great iteration of WikiSym. It’s been going smoothly … but I have been on my game as general organizer, dealing with detail after detail for the last couple of weeks. Now, however, I’m doing it with three hours of sleep and the stress of being seated on the Board. I have been up on stage with a mic at least six times in the last 12 hours, winging it pretty much every time…. It’s been intense.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. As I said in my speech this morning, thank you to the chapters for seating me, and to Michael Snow for his amazing tenure on the Board. We have a hard and exciting couple of years ahead.

I’m going to the airport in a couple hours to go to WikiSym. My packing is complicated by bringing all sorts of random things with me that I wouldn’t generally bring on an international flight: signs, packing tape, conference badges, etc.

So anyway, I’m packing away, trying to figure out all the last minute details. I tend to keep my household to-do list on my bathroom mirror — don’t ask. (I use dry-erase markers. I live alone so there’s no one else to annoy with this, and it works pretty well). Anyway, I must have been pretty tired last night, because I scrawled out:

• pay rent
• water plants
• phone charger
• poland

Hmm. Yes, I will remember to pack the Poland on my trip to Poland.