On balancing

My friend Kim wrote an amazing essay today about the ridiculous practice of asking women how they balance professional life and motherhood. It was great to read. I emailed her an all-to-long thank you. She told me to publish it. I cleaned it up a little and here it is.

I was writing you an email in my head while doing dishes. Which is a thing I want. Not Google Glass or anything dumb. Just a thing that lets me talk into my window to send email. I’d be a productivity machine. Except I like dishes because they don’t let you do any of that. No paper. No electronics. Soap up and wash dishes, motherfucker. It’s the best thinking you’ll do all day.

Children are hard. And they’re expensive. I realized we’ve been spending something like $20k/year on the kids and that’s apparently under the average. And time? Holy shit. I’m up by 7:45AM every day no matter what. We all rush around to get Violet out to school, Taryn the captain of the team, then Clem and I hang out until 9:30AM or 10AM while Taryn’s at school drop-off. I generally work pretty solidly from 10AM until 2PM while Taryn hangs with Clem, then we start mixing it all up until Taryn leaves to get Violet at 2:30PM. Clem and I hang out some days, others she goes with Taryn. Depends on the day. Either way, the kids are playing by 3:15 or 3:30 and Taryn and I talk a little, I work, then around 5PM we start dinner. This is effectively dinner and bedtime. It’s a three or four hour gauntlet — food, baths, stories, and I put the girls to bed around 7:45. Usually I’m done by 8:30PM or so. Then email. Then dishes. Maybe a little work in bed. Taryn and I hang out for a bit and she falls asleep. I get up around 11:15PM after she’s asleep and work until midnight or so. For deadlines 2AM is my cutoff. Then sleep and 7:45AM all over again.

Putting it in detail because it’s constant and unchanging. Yet somehow we’ve fallen into this weird shape where I “work” and Taryn is a “stay at home mom.” Both are total bullshit roles thrown on us but they’re hard to escape. We both work insanely hard. We both stay at home.

Frankly it’s hurt our relationship. There’s really no time to talk about things like adults. We have a four room house — hard to listen to music loud, yell at movies, make out, drink, sing, dance, or even talk about art. You fight against fading into nothing, waiting for both girls to be old enough for the dynamic to change, or at least for a chance to earn more money so our bank account doesn’t go negative every month. The dream of a bigger apartment or even saving for a home of our own.

And with all of that, the thing hurting us isn’t the time, the space, the kids — it’s the stereotypes.

Taryn’s not some “stay at home mom” — she was a gallery manager when I met her. She’s brilliant, and the glimmer in her eye when she reaches into her encyclopedic knowledge of modern art is what made me fall in love with her. Gallery manager is a hard job to find without connections or an art history degree. She lost her job and we were young and newly married and who cared about those things.

Then she got pregnant. That (literally) bankrupted us and it turns out I could earn more money with computers, daycare is crazy expensive, so we focused me on work and she cared for our daughter. We were the first of our friends with kids, and people around us disappeared. I don’t blame them, but it happened. So I worked, she watched the kids, we talked about art, all was fine.

My job ultimately became my insane quest for a better world. Improving life slowly through nonprofit and open resources for musicians. Why did I do that? We were mostly okay before. It started as a job. My other design work disappeared and I had no resume. It felt like the only choice. It was my “career” and I refused to cater to a career that didn’t help people. Refused. Fuck that. But suddenly I was in a “career” and Taryn was a “stay at home mother.” We talk about it and neither of us know exactly when that started.

She got a job as a personal assistant. It was amazing. Everything was fixed overnight. Actually. We both felt we had a purpose, it felt even, and really there was light in our relationship for the first time in years.

But the job was unfairly demanding, despite clear ground rules and communication about what was needed. I don’t want to go into details but I feel like the person she was helping wanted a lackey, not an assistant. I saw Taryn treated less like someone helping organize a small company and more like a gopher sent on errand after errand.

In the end Taryn quit, and was told she was being fired anyway, because…wait for it…because she was just a mom and couldn’t handle it.

She’s just a mom. I’m just a career.

And that’s actually the way people want things, apparently. Not me. We’re still looking for something Taryn can do that’s as flexible as my weird job. I’m still turning down “real” jobs so I can be at home, be with my family, and not compromise my own morality.

I’ve seen people overlook the brilliance in Taryn because she’s a mother. I’ve felt the pressure to build “my career” even if that meant hurting my role as a father and husband.

Talking about women and their balancing act diminishes them where they need to be lifted up. And ignoring the balancing act men face diminishes them where they need to be lifted up. And on top of all that it ignores the most important part of everything I just talked about: that it’s just one option of countless many. People take care of their partners, they create art, they toil and dream around their choices and make individual sacrifices every day, children or no.

We all know Henry Darger’s name. We don’t talk about his career as a janitor but about the art he created in a lifetime of solitude. We all know Ada Lovelace’s name. We don’t talk about her family life but of the math she did outshining all the early fathers of computing.

Stereotypes are meant to be broken. Let’s set out today and smash them all.

A finch

I wrote this as part of a challenge Wired magazine is doing where an entire digital edition is created in a week. The theme was our interconnected future where data is everywhere. What will life look like? I don’t usually write such deep jargon, but for a short piece it felt best. I’d love any feedback — it was great writing with a deadline and a specific challenge.

Oh and no, it didn’t make the magazine. There was a strict “no fiction” rule but I ignored it. Not to force my way in, but because I had decided on fiction in advance, and treated this as an excuse to indulge myself.

It’s been one hundred thirty seven days since I was betrayed by a convenience store microwave.

This all started with a memory. The feeling of being lost, truly lost with no cell signal, no GPS beacon, and no geodata flags or analytics.

I had missed my train to work — the 8:27AM Charles/MGH reported that it was running four minutes late due to track conditions. Walking to the station before work I decided to use the time for a firmware upgrade. Normal enough, but I got distracted without the HUD.

First it was a bird. I don’t know what kind. I’ve never been good with names of things, but it was a bright red that stood out against the ad-free sky. I watched everyone efficiently filing to work, that look of people clumsily clearing through incoming messages as they hurry on their way. It was cold. I’m not sure how cold but enough that I could see my breath in the air. Something about the scene felt so still and quiet, peaceful even.

With a chime the display rebooted and the HUD was back. Forty three degrees, Fahrenheit. Four degrees colder than average but within standard. Clear but a chance of snow flurries. Twelve new messages had come in, but seven were already flagged as SPAM. My train was now reporting just two minutes behind schedule, six minutes out of the station.

I knew before I saw it on the display that I’d need to run. My heart rate light kicked in after four minutes, but I pushed and was outside the station eighty eight seconds before the train would arrive. One hundred seventeen stairs up to the platform. The HUD pedometer counted them mockingly as I went. It was too late but I ran through the turnstile to the platform and watch the train depart.

I had missed my train to work. It was a fleeting memory at first, but waiting alone for the next train I kept wondering about that bird and the desire to be lost grew. I’m not even sure if I had ever been lost in my life. Maybe it was just something I picked up scanning novels. Maybe it was just low grade IO overload. But it was there and I could remember it as vividly as anything. Lost. What a beautiful idea.

For weeks nothing changed. I took the 8:27 to work and the 6:13 home every day. The average daytime temperature dropped from forty four degrees to thirty three.

My routine was back, but I couldn’t stop wondering about the bird. A red bird. What was it? I don’t think it was a cardinal. It was too small to be a cardinal. I did image searches on the train most days but I couldn’t find it. I installed a few birdwatching apps but they didn’t help.

I started walking. First I told myself it was for my health. Then it was casual birdwatching. But I knew I was chasing the bird, the little red bird I can’t even prove I saw. The walks became faster, longer, more of a frantic escape attempt but no matter where I went I always knew the way home. I knew the general topography, which direction was the easier path, where the water was deepest. I’d push against the walls and they’d just move for me, telling me the exact dimensions of my prison, only unable to tell me where my bird was.

So I stopped pushing. I stopped chasing.

I started staying in most nights. I drew the bird over and over until it matched my memory. The HUD’s drawing assistant was no help. It kept pulling in data from local trees and trying to get me to draw cardinals and orioles. I ignored it and night after night got closer until it was perfect. It was a finch. The red bird. Image search found it once I had something to feed in. Ornithology report. A Roger Tory Peterson quote describing the Purple Finch as a “sparrow dipped in raspberry juice.” No local observations reported. Who cares?

I had started to resent the bird. I know there’s a metaphor in it all, but nothing so obvious. I was upset because it made me miss my train, made me feel lost, made me want to feel lost. The bird made me feel the walls of data all around me. It was everywhere — my heart rate, my blood pressure, the time converted to any timezone I want, the temperature, microclimate barometric readings from every lamp post, backup status, all the messages from work telling me I’d been fired. I wanted none of it.

My nutritional intake was declining, according to the monitor. My average sleep dropped under six hours, then below five, finally leveling out near four hours. Symptomatic data graciously given me by the system causing the symptoms. Data clearly demonstrating a sharp decline. Data I had to escape.

The goal was to stop transmission entirely. In the worst case I’d look like another upgrade tragedy, cut off from the real world, alone, homeless, and wild. You read enough to know about jailbreaks but the success rate had been dropping. I skipped two firmware upgrades since the bird, hoping for lasting freedom over a momentary glimpse.

A successful jailbreak has less to do with knowledge as it does with the ability to follow directions. Getting the directions was the hardest part. Takedowns are issued as soon as they’re posted online, and the posters quickly jailed. The most reliable source is handwritten instructions on real paper. It’s messy, handwriting. Not like the constitution or the examples you see on Wikipedia. It’s ugly, but I’d hold my copy and read it over again with the camera covered by a piece of tape to avoid OCR.

It was funny, really. The idea that I was using a slip of paper, handwritten notes, and a piece of tape to circumvent a militia of connected devices building walls of security around me.

The first chime. I override the firmware. The second chime, the system is restarting. I follow prompts to a third chime, the final restart. It’s quiet. A minute passes, maybe two. I threw away the drawing of the finch. I didn’t need it any more. Another few minutes, I’m not really sure how long, and then no chime. Nothing telling me it’s done besides a little green “OK” that faded along with the last of the HUD.

Outside it was cold. There was ice, so I guess freezing. I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I had last eaten but I was hungry, really hungry. I should have picked a better meal to celebrate, but I walked to the corner store. I know. The first truly free meal in ages should have been something wonderful like the Cavatelli Arabiatta from that place in the North End, but I couldn’t remember it’s name, and didn’t know how to get there. That alone was liberating, and picking up a convenience store burrito without a nutritional warning flashing in my eyes felt like toppling walls. I would have streamed a triumphant overture if I could access my symphony playlist, but the memory of Beethoven was deafeningly beautiful in relative silence.

It was the microwave that betrayed me.

Commercial microwaves have a privacy override, enabled to protect the safety of users with pacemakers. Nothing I would have known. Nothing anyone would have known, really. There had been lawsuits, safety and privacy weighed, and eventually it was decided that microwave ovens in commercial locations should ping user systems to check for biomed implants before operation. Such a little thing, but it made all the difference.

I didn’t want to ask the clerk for help because I didn’t have a specific error message. I just knew the microwave didn’t work for me. Unsure of what to do next I stood there, lost.

Just a minute’s delay, but by the time I decided to leave there was a cop on scene. Apparently there was a report of a possible EULA violation from the store. I thought about running but the officer had his eye on me. He knew.

They say I didn’t resist arrest but I can’t really remember. I don’t care. I was charged with terms of service violations, and on review of my archives they found evidence of full IO overload. Analytics allegedly showed I was a danger to myself and possibly to the network. Nine days from my arrest I was indefinitely detained, officially a risk to systems integrity.

That was one hundred thirty seven days ago. I’ve counted. It’s really the only thing I know for sure. The HUD is still gone, my access restricted to a local network that monitors my vitals. The guard tells me if the Red Sox won or lost. He thinks it cruel because he never tells me the score or any statistics, but I really only care if they’ve won.

It’s quiet here and I can see the walls. I can feel them. There’s a window. On nice days I see birds. I’ve given them all names. And yes, I’ve seen a finch.

G R I M E S: I don't want to have to compromise my morals in order to make a living

CASH Music: Progress report

The Internet Radio Fairness Act

I haven’t exactly been shy about my feelings on the IRFA, and I haven’t been particularly kind, either. My big issue is that it has been positioned as a move for the longterm health of the digital music industry, and that artists and labels should be willing to take a short-term hit for the long-term growth potential.

I don’t argue that growth of the digital music industry is necessary. I also believe that real advances in the digital space will open up more opportunity for artists than they’ve had in a long time.

My issue with the bill lies with musicians and rights-holders being asked to make the immediate sacrifice for the long-term health of the music tech community. Most of the musicians I know can’t afford health insurance and are facing real-world concerns over their actual immediate health. Now they’re being asked to make a sacrifice to support an industry that may help them later — an industry that is part of a current tech boom seeing corporate acquisitions in the billions of dollars with millions of investment for many companies.

If musicians make the sacrifice now and build this major industry in the future, they gain market share but give up the market. They are becoming investors in this brave new world but don’t see compensation now or control of that market in the future.

There needs to be more balance. Rather than simply lowering rates, I’d love to see a little creativity in the solution. For streaming the key metric is plays, but for many online models the metric that matters is page or ad views. Perhaps we could explore a lower compulsory rate for companies who share a portion of ad revenue directly with rights-holders and musicians. Or ask services to give artists and rights-holders the ability to lower their own rate with a direct deal that gives them control over an in-stream purchase button.

I’m not saying these are the answers, but this is the kind of conversation we should be having. To position a bill around health and fairness it needs to consider the health and fairness of all involved. I do believe that a strong digital music industry serves the long-term good of of artists, but since the industry has begun the digital shift most artists have seen pretty significant drop in income. With that perspective, it’s reasonable that some immediate relief is needed for musicians to truly believe that access models will succeed where others have failed.

A healthy digital industry is good for musicians and labels. But without sustainable income for artists and a stabilization of the music industry that digital future will never happen.

I’ve been fortunate enough to meet and befriend a couple people working hard on the Obama for America campaign, and I’m writing this for them.

Mark and Jesse, the two of you and your coworkers have been working tirelessly for months under national scrutiny. There has been no room for error and the stakes are about as high as they could be. You’ve done an amazing job, no matter the outcome, and I just want to take a minute to say it’s been an inspiration to see you work so hard.

And I hope you take a minute today, too.

The result of this election will no doubt affect how you remember this work. The next few days will bring little sleep and plenty of stress. Before it starts take a breath and reflect on a job well done. Know that I’m only a single voice in a chorus of people proud of what you’ve built. And more than all the rest, remember this simple truth:

You guys fucking rule.

Dear Mr. President,

In the past four years you’ve been overworked, underrested, challenged, and pushed beyond your limits. I’m sure that’s true of the presidency no matter who takes its reigns. But I’m writing to ask more of you.

Right now I need you. My daughters and my family need you. This country needs you.

In hard work it’s easy to lose sight of hope, but it’s that hope that made me so proud to vote for you four years ago. You’ve instituted and continued policies that I very much dislike, but through it all you’ve retained a commitment to the people of this country that sits on display for all to see; evidenced by your commitment to green energy, education, community programs, and more.

My own family has benefitted from programs like Head Start and food stamps, allowing me to work hard and acheive something greater. You clearly understand that civic programs lend assistance but also give rise to new avenues of private sector growth. I run a small nonprofit that I hope provides greater benefit to this country and this world than I have personally gotten out of the system. Many others will take similar paths, but only if those paths are open to them.

So we need more.

I’m asking you to stand up and fight with the passion and vigor I know you can. I’m asking you to remind this country why so many of us stand behind you and believe in you. I’m asking you to make this personal — treat my children as your own because without you their future is in jeopardy. It’s time for you to make a fist and raise it in the air.

If I’m not being clear, just call me. My number is (401) 864-2118, and it’s open to you day or night. If you need something to fight for I can rattle off a list until you’re sick of hearing my voice.

We stand with you, now please take a stand for us.

daniel sinker: OpenNews: Why Develop in the Newsroom?