It's been a while

Looking at my last post it has been over three years I believe since I last "blogged". I am a lapsed blogger. Not an ex-blogger, but "lapsed".

Yes, another highly un-original, non hard core person that jumped on to the blogging bandwagon only too make a few posts, realize how futile it is in the grand scheme of things, bare my insecurities to the world and then disappear into the non-ethernet.

Bah, maybe I'll resume. Sporadically. Occasionally. Every once in a while. Maybe....

Self reflection ispired by a blog.

I saw this over coffee this morning. It caused me to ponder...

Ah, self reflection over points in time. It's interesting when you can identify a particular unexpected event that changes or shapes your life in some way.

I remember one such moment when I was a student at Memorial in a rather emotionally tumultuous time. I ended up missing a linear algrebra (or was it calculus?) exam because I because quite ill with the flu.

It was deferred with a doctor's note, except the head of the math department didn't think I was a very good student (I wasn't one actually). He denied my deferral though I had missed the exam already. I ended up with a 0 on an exam worth 50% of the final grade. Needless to say I failed that course in a BIG BIG way but it also caused me to fail out of school. I was able to retake the exam in the end though I still failed the course. I had failed out of school for about 10 days, and it was during that period I lost my summer job with the university since I had to be a returning student to get it.

That's when a few things happened -- I got a job in a non-profit arts magazine. I left school to work full time. Because I lost the summer job, I ended up making a career out of being a writer to a point where I was actually making a living at it. Granted I ended up eventually whoring my writing skills as an advertising "creative", but still actually paying the bills as a writer? *gasp*

Not only did the event changed what my summer job was, that in retrospect is trivial, but it ended up shaping the next several years in a direction I never would've expected.

Several years later, I ended up going back to school, even making the Dean's list (*gasp*). A far cry from the eccentric guy that use to hang out on the Third Floor of the TSC.

Ah, the 3rd floor of the TSC. Memories... Sniff.... Memories of someone setting my copy of The Muse on fire while I was reading it (they were attempting the opening sequence of Bonanza in real life...)

Amongst the Merry

Here's a photo that I took a couple of years ago back in St. John's, Newfoundland on a visit.

I like it.

In fact, it helps inspire me. I did my first art show a month agoI didn't sell anything at the show much, but the point is I went out and tried -- and I'm now making arrangements to sell on consignment through a local home decor store.

This photo got a good response -- mostly people wanted to figure out the media. It's a photograph of a painting on a concrete wall. It seemed to dissapoint people when they found out I didn't draw or paint it myself, or did fancy photographic tricks to layer the plants on top of face image. It was just a photo. *sigh* No fancy photoshop'ing. The only trick was that it was a snapshot of real moment in time.

Now, this perturb me a bit. There were other photographers selling at the same show, mostly digital or the traditional 4x6s printed in bulk via the kodak lab at the local grocery store. Good on 'em I suppose -- they have the nerve to get out there which I didn't until recently.

But what I think about my photographs is I do almost NO digital -- I have a couple which I print because the image just *worked* but mostly it's me and my canon or if I'm feeling extra artsy, the rolleiflex magic.

A black and white photograph is often me choosing the film, the speed, the apperture, developing the film (for better or worse, if I'm using the medium format camera, it IS me developing the film), going into the dark room, choosing the lens, the filters, the paper, figuring out exposure, going splish-splash with the chemicals, washing, and drying (trying to avoid water spots) and then looking for a good matte or frame. A long process, all hands on involved and leaving the fact that each time I do it, it will be slightly different. I often don't print the same image more than a couple of times -- and if at a later date if I want to reprint something, I have to go through the entire darkroom process all over again, and often with different settings because I've either forgotten what I've done or want to do it differently....

This is why I don't go digital. I'm not against digital photography -- a lot of cool things can be done that way, but I enjoy the process. For me, it feels more artistically significant -- more unique, not just in the process but in the final product. Going digital makes reproduction simple

But it also means it's more expensive to do, need more space, have too much equipment around the house and in the end, I have to charge more because it costs more -- but to stay competitive and actually sell anything I have to lower the prices to stay competivitve with the digital people.
Then again, I don't make my livelihood via the arts anymore. I am not going to miss a meal or car payment if I don't sell that piece of work. I can afford to be "artistically sensitive" and self delusional about my artistic endeavours.

I am a jealous bastard

Epiphany. Bang! Like a brick to the back of my skull, rattling brains and such.

I've had a few recently. Epiphanies... not bricks (such as "I'm not a patient as I thought I was"). The most recent is that I AM A JEALOUS BASTARD.

Here's the scenario... you find a blog of someone you once knew. From that blog you find a link that takes you to another person that you also knew -- follow that chain a few more links and *poof* you stop and gaze at an old acquaintance's online presence. This person has achieved a lot in his personal passion. He has a web page about it. And *voila!* I am a jealous bastard.

It's not that I haven't achieved much. House, job, kid, some savings, a car. I'm good at what I do. But have I achieved much in any way of a passion?

At one point, writing was my passion and I even had some modicum of success (it even paid the bills at one point and was my full time job). But that was a long time ago. A month ago, I had my first art showing. But there was no juried selection, I just asked to show and they had space to fill. Oh, and I only sold prints to people I was related to either by marriage or the usual means. If... I... had... just... sold... one... (I had plenty of positive comments though). So that's a first step.

I wish all people I know and knew all the success they deserve (well, mostly. I can be a nasty bastard too sometimes).

The first step is to recognize my flaws and failings. The next is to improve upon them (not, how to become a better jealous bastard....). Of course, I do wax poetic on this blog don't I? How self-indulgent this is.

I've joined the iPOD generation...

Now my life is complete.

The fact that I own an iPOD itself doesn't make me complete. Perhaps it is the fact that I am listening to The Clash on the afore mentioned device while I write this is what makes me complete. Maybe I will next listen to some Alien Sex Fiend, or The Cure.

I can live out my rebel yell, while working away with the other Sector 7 corporate drones in the cubical I've called home for the past 6.5 years. All in the discrete package of an iPOD nano.

No need for me to dig up my knee-high combat boots. No need to dress in black. I can have my punk lifestyle, old school and hardcore, in my head as I twiddle bits to make the corporation happy.

I can feel like I've regained my rock-n-roll edge -- if it is only in the void between the headphones.

I'm not saying that I ever had the edge. I probably never did. I probably am and was delusional -- just the delusion that you buy into evolves over time.

This little piece of consumer culture sells itself on rock-n-roll and that your individuality is the playlist of songs that you've downloaded from iTunes. You can bob your head to the beat with your fist in the air while surrounded in your own tiny bubble of individuality. It's like the jeans commercial that pushed being an individual if you just buy Levi's 501. It's the selling of cool.

Congratulations, I've just purchased another piece of my so-called individualism from a corporation -- just like I've done countless times before. I just realize it now.

Maybe I'm just having a cynical day.

Rated R

It was a game we played.

You would come home after a long day. I would be lying on the couch in a technology induced stupor. First thing you'd do would be to remove your underwear from underneath that nice summer dress you liked to wear.

One step. Two. Passing the coffee table, you would walk up to the couch. And stand for a moment. I would pretend not to notice.

"Did you read today in the paper that Russia is having financial troubles once again?"

I would non-chalantly nod and return to my stupor. This time slightly aroused.

"A new militant faction in Bosnia have taken over a town and several U.N. peacekeepers have been slain by gunmen."

Now, the game would begin phase 2. I let my arm lie limp off the edge of the couch, and I would softly carress the floor with my right hand. All this time, we never once made eye contact.

Standing over me, you would step on to the couch. I would lift my arms as if it was completely natural and I would do that no matter if you was there or not. Crouching over my face, you would readjust your sitting position that your dress would lie open right over my head, knees just above my ears, sitting almost directly over my face. All I could see would be the delicate light slightly shimmer through your dress, the slight tuff of blondish-red public hair located right over my eyes, and the soft pink flesh of your thighs.

I would then let out a long slow breath, right between your thighs.

You, sitting facing the book shelf, would pick a tome, seeming at random. This time it was Leonard Cohen's Stranger Music, Selected Poems and Songs. Opening to a miscellaneous page, this time it was "You tore your shirt" from page 169. You would start to read.

"You tore your shirt
to show me where
you had been hurt
I had to start"

At that point, my tongue would begin to carress your thighs, and all the nice places in between. First starting slow, I would slowly start with a gentle touch, savouring the moment. You would continue to read.

"I put my hand,
on what I saw
I drew it back
It was a claw"

Still reading, it was like I no longer existed in your world. A sigh would escape your soft gentle mouth everyonce in a while. My tongue would start to dart between your soft lips everyonce in a while. Kissing and carressing, only using my tongue. Once forgetting the Leonard Cohen, your concentration now broken for a second, you repeated.

"Did you read today in the paper that Russia is having financial troubles once again?"

We did this for hours. Whenever I would start to tire, you would put your hand softly between my thighs, and make one gentle stroke up towards my chest. Stop. And we would continue revitalized. Sometimes on to the dawn.

"Your skin is cured
You sew your shirt
You throw me food
and change my dirt"

It was a game we played.





(Originally written in summer of 1999 -- reposted here 'cause I liked it)

Here's to the few....

I dunno.

Sometimes nostalgia gets the best of me. I forget why I shy away from thinking about the past. Almost 9 years ago I left my home province. Wasn't that huge a deal, I left when given the opportunity when I felt that I had nothing to run away from. I was finally content with myself, had friends, a job, a beat up old car, and even some self esteem.

Where does this all come in? Well tonight, I started Google'n people I used to know. I will stressed "used to" since I am horrible at keeping in touch, and put very little effort into it, especially where parts of my past where I may have been eccentric, off, etc. Maybe I am WAAAAAY too critical of myself. Sure thing. But it gets to me, every last mistake I've every made. It gets too me.

So I'll start off my blog, which may ramble and pulsate with a quote from one of my greatest literary references (though the last few albums have been *ahem* crap and a money grab) from Leonard Cohen --- "Here's to the few you forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care" (The night comes on).

I'll reiterate it again "Here's to the few you forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care".

Bless you, who ever you are, or should that be whom ever you are.