Friday, December 23, 2022

Thoughts on Storytelling and Journalism in Local Public Television

"Lots of 'storytelling' and little journalism."

The closing line of this article by GoLocalProv about Rhode Island's journalism crisis shows insight that resonates with me. It's what separates what Rhode Island PBS does and what some would like to convince us it does.

On staff at WSBE Rhode Island PBS are masterful storytellers. But few of them would call themselves journalists. In fact, one of the last events I attended before leaving the station a month ago was an off-site meeting that explored "who" the station is and "what" we (they) do. I got the sense the exercise was to convince producers and editors - and me, I guess - to stretch the definition of journalism to cover what we did every day.

Nope. They - we all - apply journalistic standards to our work, but except for a limited few on staff (whose names you would recognize as award-winning journalists), what we do is not journalism; it is exquisite, creative, moving, meaningful, and informative storytelling. It is some of the best content worth watching on television! And I was always so proud of the creators - and my own work.

However, even research and fact-checking, interviewing, and a coherent story line that introduces, peaks, and concludes - qualities shared by good journalism - cannot redefine "journalism" enough to apply to the current day-to-day work at the station.

None of that is to imply WSBE can't produce pure journalistic content. But that's where they head, not where they start. Those in charge cannot simply change established definitions at will and expect unquestioned acceptance. How very 'west coast liberal' of them.

In its own right, good storytelling is so important! It's how we effectively preserve and share with each other our history and culture, dreams and aspirations - and bequeath that rich legacy to the next generation.

Journalism, while different from storytelling, is an essential service to our community, to our civilization; the professionals who properly practice the art and science of journalism cannot be lost to profit. The loss of The Providence Journal is heartbreaking.

~*~*~*~*~

In a parallel issue, how tired are you of the burgeoning arrogance of people changing established definitions of words to obscure common understanding? There's a lot of that nonsense going on lately. If we continue to allow destruction of our common understanding of words and language, we destroy our civilization. Welcome to the Tower of Babel.  

Here is what Merriam-Webster has to say. (https://www.merriam-webster.com)
 
JOURNALISM
Noun 
    1 a : the collection and editing of news for presentation through the media  
        b : the public press
        c : an academic study concerned with the collection and editing of news or the management of a news medium
    2  a : writing designed for publication in a newspaper or magazine
        b : writing characterized by a direct presentation of facts or description of events without an attempt at interpretation
        c : writing designed to appeal to current popular taste or public interest
 
JOURNALIST
    1a : a person engaged in journalism
especially : a writer or editor for a news medium
      b : a writer who aims at a mass audience
    2   : a person who keeps a journal
 
STORYTELLER
Noun
    1. a teller of stories: such as
        a : a relater of anecdotes
        b : a reciter of tales (as in a children's library)
        c : liar, fibber
        d : a writer of stories

 
#journalism #storytelling #DifferentiationMatters

Monday, December 19, 2022

I Have a Confession

 

I have a confession. I am a grammar and punctuation snob. Hell, I’m not even pretending anymore – wide open, full-fledged, out of the closet, and proud to say I will click away from your “savvy” blog or “edgy” article because your poor spelling and absent punctuation are just too distracting. Your message is not worth it.

How sad. But true. Your credibility is flushed down the toilet – and your message becomes meaningless – if I have to wade through the muck and mire of your lazy writing habits.

Hey, everyone makes a typo or drops the occasional apostrophe or comma, sure! But I refer to the habitual its for it’s or it’s for its – repeated several times in the same article.

That is not just a typo. That tells me you do not know any better. Worse, maybe you do know better but you do not care. In the first case, how can I trust your advice about anything? In the second case, why would I trust the advice of someone with such disrespectful contempt for his or her readers? Yeah, no.

You may hate my message, and you can judge me on what I say, but I promise not to distract you with how I say it. 


 

(c)2022 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved 

Sunday, December 18, 2022

Blue Clouds


Against a milky white sky
I paint blue clouds
rioting crowds
drifting, shifting
bursting to cry.

Clouds are supposed to be white, you say
or gray.
I grunt.
This is my canvas to play
my palette to bend.
Your brush is dry
your canvas is blank
you sank
into the mire of tradition
creative perdition
while I fly,
a speck of light undetected
seeking love uninfected.

There are blue clouds
in my white sky.
Don't ask why
or try
to dodge the looming storm.
I can't conform
to suit your need;
I just bleed
blue ink on a white page.

 

(c) 2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Saturday, December 17, 2022

Facade

 


Timid heart
behind a loud roar.
Why must you yell all the time?
Dodge and dart.
Your fist through the door.
Am I at fault for your crime?
Bloody nose
between tearful eyes.
Forgiven before you strike twice.
No one knows!
I cover with lies
so the world thinks you're nothing but nice.


(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Friday, December 16, 2022

En Garde (the anatomy of a relationship)


 En Garde
(the anatomy of a relationship)

encounter
enchant
endear
enrapt
engorge
entwine...
enmesh
ensconce
encroach
encumber
enervate
enslave...
ennui
enough!
end

 

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)  

Thursday, December 15, 2022

Color of Pain


Call me Crayola.
The only sharp
bright red one
in your box of dull
gray stubs.
Creative carmine
mocks your gnarled spirit
cemented in ashen complacency.
Courage!
Forsake all others!
Step off the slate
and dive headlong
into the color of pain.
I am your ruby temptress
poised to kick you in the bland
and spatter your drab
in vermilion agony,
like a gunshot wound to the throat.
The fear and surprise in your eyes is amusing.
Warm crimson seeps through your clutching fingers.
Can't staunch the flow
when scarlet ignites.
Rubicund tendrils pierce imagination
copper odor singes nostrils,
prickling taste buds
until garnet drool oozes.

Did you not read the warning
on the side of the box?
"Play with fire
and you get churned."

 

 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Wednesday, December 14, 2022

The Gravity of Changing Seasons


Parchment skin
dry and brittle
upon which Time charts herstory.
Veins like roadmaps
rise to the translucent surface.
Unfurrowed brow still frowns in peace
and a relaxed mouth hovers between parentheses,
    collagen-sapped jowls,
    and slackened chin.
Perky breasts with lush protruding buttons
    droop lower than she remembers
Sexy concave navel nested among rigid abs
now punctuates the hilly contour of softened belly and widened hips,
    retired from bikinis and incubating progeny.

She examines the reflected breasts, belly, thighs, and ass
astonished at their eagerness to drop to her feet;
the only thing that has risen is the curve of her hips.
Great.
Her youthful zest and girlish spirit
are betrayed by her mirror -
    objective judge and harsh accuser.
There is no defense against the compelling evidence
accumulating above the briefs
in the creases and folds of ivory vellum.
No fair trial for youth and beauty.
The sentence is consistent:
incarceration in crumbling cells
with no chance of reprieve.

When did vibrant summer turn to fading fall?
Can dead of winter be far behind?

 

(c)2009 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022) 

Tuesday, December 13, 2022

Fragile


I love your voice
It curls around me
like smoky incense
Arouses me
even as you speak
of oil changes and new tires 

I love your laughter
It froths like uncorked champagne
Contagious, flirtatious
fusing the space between us.  

How will I live without you?  

You spoke the language
of poets and songwriters
Smooth, sweet, rich
I savored fine chocolate;  

but I was mortally wounded
by your darkness
spinning out of control
on the tail of a comet
self-doubting and gloomy
abysmally lonely
terminally angry
rejecting that voice
deflecting that laughter
until the system pinging ceased.  

I have been so busy hating you for so long
I forgot how much I love you.


 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Monday, December 12, 2022

Drowning

 

You've dropped from view
afloat no more
sucked down into the icy maelstrom
of your creation,
leaving broken puka shells
in the coral rubble
and petrified driftwood
in your wake.

Your wake.
You lie
like the rest of the dead.
A painted corpse
reclining amid forsaken anemones
plucked from gardens of guilt.
"Not my guilt," I vow
from my gilt castle above it all.

One last look at the churning sea,
and I turn from my window
to curl before the glowing fireplace.


(c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)

Sunday, December 11, 2022

Cidade dos Sonhos (City of Dreams)


 

Strains of the waltz float on moth wings,
the flutter inaudibly whispers my name.

With the grace of gauze and the density of sighs
he is suddenly at my side.
In his ossified embrace
I smell decay on his breath,
and my skin curdles as he purrs.
His vacant sockets hypnotize,
a glint of mirror in their depths.

I teeter on the edge,
spy my rosy cheeks under stunned eyes
staring back, growing dim.
He extends a cadaverous hand.
Fingers like brittle icicles
press against the small of my back.
An unexpected shiver plucks my spinal chord.
And the waltz plays on.

Step to the left, step to the right,
swoon into a dip, and twist in a twirl.
I orbit the specter as he leads the dance,
his lush seduction congeals my blood.
The chink of bone, ground to powder,
bleached in acidic curses
    of unanswered prayers,
        unfulfilled dreams,
        unclaimed memories -
the ballast of my necropolitan host.
His grotesque grin,
the harbinger of eternal denial.

I hate blind dates. 

 

 (c)2008 Lucie Raposo - All rights reserved (republished 2022)