This is one of the strangest times of my life. I remember feeling something similar to this over four years ago, but I haven’t had it since.

I’m fighting my old self again. Fighting against these feelings and past habits.

I wish I could define and explain it. Vincent Gallo has a song he titled “Glad To Be Unhappy”, filled his distinctly minimalistic piano and acoustic guitar sounds, so sparse you don’t know where the downbeat falls. But there are no lyrics, and I think I’m starting to understand why.

Everything is so simple when you’re set in your heart. But when you’re filled with such paradoxical, contradictory feelings, nothing makes any sense. The world is turned upside down.

I think a part of me wants to think about it. I want to keep this feeling, where every song sounds as good as the first time you heard it, and the leaden sky is urging you forward with every step you take. To be so inspired.

And while part of me knows that to fight against ones inner nature is foolish², another part of me knows how destructive it can be.

1. The original title of that post was actually just a 5×5 pixel square, meant to confuse the reader into not knowing what to think. Trolley tried to correct me once and told me the title was broken, and I had to let him know it was done on purpose. With my new headline images plugin, the graphic title doesn’t quite work so I had to change it. [↑]
2. To add another level to this, I’m fighting against fighting myself [↑]

Julie drew this picture of me. The details betray her perspicacity.

Such as the way my shirt tails dangle insouciantly from the sweater. How the pant bottoms are slightly bunched up. And while I don’t wear a tie that often, the preppy top + skater bottoms style is accurate. Even the length of chain and the shape of my glasses. All the little details I think about when I dress myself. The only thing that isn’t me is the hair, which falls flat in the winter, due to the fact that it’s toque wearing season.

Also, I have no eyes, nose or mouth is this picture. Only my wide-arm glasses, which I’ve said before is a large part of my identity. Obviously, her exclusion of my facial features has put even more emphasis on this.

I wonder: why are my arms drawn behind my back? Posture says a lot about a person. Maybe this was done without any consideration, but maybe there was subconscious intent.

It’s always interesting to find out how other people see you. A self-image is often biased.

So which image is more accurate; yours or theirs?

At the core of our beings, Pat and I are the same person.

What separates us is our emotion, or lack thereof. Pat’s the logical one, I’m the emotional one. I’ve always looked up to him — his strength, his morals, his personality — without really understanding why.

It’s only in the last year that I’ve come to realize Pat is a Taoist. This comes with the realization that I’m a Taoist myself, and explains why I try to be more like him.

The interesting part is that he doesn’t even know that he’s a Taoist — sort of like Winnie the Pooh — which is exactly what makes him a true Taoist.

One of Chuang Tzŭ’s parables illustrates this point. In an abbreviated version, Knowledge seeks a conscious reflection to know the Tao, and asked Silent Do Nothing and Reckless Blurter, before asking The Yellow Emperor (ahhh, the Romantic personification of Chinese fables):

Knowledge said to The Yellow Emperor, “I asked Silent Do Nothing and he kept quiet. Not only didn’t he answer me, but he didn’t even know how to answer. I asked Reckless Blurter, and though he wanted to tell me, he didn’t, and even forgot my questions. Now I’ve asked you, and you know all about it. Why do you say that you’re far from it?”.

The Yellow Emperor said, “Silent Do Nothing was truly right, because he didn’t know anything. Reckless Blurter was nearly right, because he’d forgotten it. You and I are far from right, because we know far too much“.

The same is true for Tai Chi¹, or any martial art for that matter. Dissect it too much, and you lose the meaning. Think about it too much, and you don’t react. As Michael Babin wrote in his article on self-defense training:

It is sad but true that real skill comes from seemingly endless drilling of the basics and then learning how to transcend/forget most of what you have so patiently learned.

In other words, learning structure is essential to learning to react to a complete lack of structure (i.e. a real fight); but if you focus on structure for too long it becomes counter-productive to “being without structure” in martial terms. One of the many annoying paradoxes in the internal arts.

One of the many paradoxes in the Taoist philosophy as well. As much as I try to study it, learn it, and apply it, I find myself thinking about it too much. As a result, I occasionally stray from being centered, and lose my balance.

It’s the conscious reflection which Knowledge is seeking that preemptively dooms his search. This is my problem as well. I buy Taoist books with a thirst for knowledge, but they’re all telling me the same thing now. Not that the books haven’t helped at all, but I feel like I’ve reached a limit. Perhaps even the simple act of writing about this is counter-productive.

I have the understanding, but I can’t apply it without thinking about it first, and it’s the attempt to apply it that ruins the point. I’ve yet to reach a stage of pure reaction and spontaneity, like Pat.

But I’m getting there.

1. Yet another example of how Tai Chi is the physical expression of the philosophy. Or perhaps this could be reverse-generalized, and said that the Taoist philosophy is reflected in everything, such as martial arts. [↑]

Turning over and over in the sky, length after length of whiteness unwound over the earth and shrouded it. The blizzard was alone in the world; it had no rival.

When he climbed down from the window sill Yura’s first impulse was to dress, run outside, and start doing something.

—Doctor Zhivago

When one looks outside their window and sees this, this blanket of purity, what else can one feel but serenity, contentment, and hope?

Good news. Wait no. Great fucking news.

I met with Frédéric, the owner of the Salon, and after showing him a portfolio of my pictures, he agreed to let me have an exhibit in the next show in February.

As this wasn’t only his art gallery but his house as well, I offered to let him make the decision after seeing my completed work. He told me there was no need, as he trusted me based on what he had seen in my portfolio, which I felt was a very nice compliment.

As artists (and I use this in the loosest sense of the word to describe myself), we’re very different. I told him that I like to study photographic techniques, especially in photos that I like, and apply those techniques to what I want to express or show. When I look at a piece of visual art, I look at meaning and intent. When I create, I keep the same thing in mind. Frédéric, on the other hand, is more of a gut-feeling type of artist. He does what he feels is right, and doesn’t worry as much about the underlying message.

He asked if I was single, and I told him I was. “Good”, he said, “That’ll help you focus”. It made me think of a quote by Alexander Dumas:

Woman inspires us to great things, and prevents us from achieving them.

I made a remark about how I’d have a forum to develop my ideas now, projects I never pursued because I didn’t have a way to get them to a wider audience. He told me that I shouldn’t worry about an audience, and gave me an example to demonstrate his point: if you create the most beautiful thing you’ve ever done and you keep it in your basement, it isn’t art because no one sees it¹, but to get caught up in that dilemma, and to not create simply because of that, is a tragedy.

So now I can pursue and develop one of my photo project ideas. I have to decide on a theme. I have see how much enlargement I can do to my photos without too much loss of quality. I have to decide on the size of the final prints. I have to decide on the frame size and shape. I have to get the final prints framed.

I’ve always wanted to create accessible art².

Perhaps this will be my chance.

1. An interpretive answer to the Zen kōan of the sound a tree makes falling down in the forest, I’m sure [↑]
2. As opposed to something such as poetry, which is less accessible to the common person. As a medium, film, photography, and music (with lyrics) are more easily digestible. [↑]

Dreamt Sophia and I were in love.

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Snow collected on the grass last night.

This makes me dream of weekend mornings in my living room, tea and a laptop, looking out to a blanket of white. Dolly curled up on the armrest next to me, as she always is. No other contrast feels as cozy.

Ritual dictates that I watch Onegin or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind on the day of the first snowfall, a tribute to winter scenes and warm romance.

This year, I’ll buy myself some skates. I’ll pack a snack and some water. Maybe my camera in case an image catches my fancy.

And this will be my new ritual.

The art of longing’s over, and it’s never coming back.

—Leonard Cohen, Death of a Ladies’ Man

They ask me why I’m crying. I tell them the song is too good, not to cry.

They ask me why there’s a bounce in my step. I tell them I’m in love, and I don’t care.

They ask me if she’s taken. I tell them she is.

They ask me if she knows. I tell them it doesn’t matter as long as I feel this way, and I’m never letting go.

They ask me, “Why her?”.

I tell them she makes me happy without trying.

A few days before the show, I found out that Krista and Shane were playing a small venue in town. Usually I make it a point to see an artist just once in my life, but last time was different; I was expecting Lederhosen Lucil, but was treated to an entirely different and unfamiliar sound. This time, it was my chance to see Krista and Shane perform after becoming familiar with the songs. Turns out the venue was in un petit salon des arts. This place boasted a mixture of different artforms; music, metal sculptures, photographs, paintings, and graphic poems.

I didn’t really feel like going out that night, but I forced myself to go, reminding myself that I could say the same thing any other night and I’d never get anywhere.

When I arrived, the Salon was to capacity. I couldn’t even get in the entrance; there were people physically blocking the door. My chance to get in came after a few had made room by leaving, then I saw a path up the stairs and took it.

Enter six degrees of separation.

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Every now and then, Louise let’s me know that she’s praying for me. For my health. For my success.

She really believes in the power of prayer. It’s healed her family, it’s given her guidance, it’s provided her with the strength that she needs. She’s one of the few Christian’s whose faith I respect¹.

It’s a nice feeling to be in someone’s prayers, and she does this even though I’m not Christian myself.

Normally, I’m a skeptic about these things.

Which makes it difficult to deny how it’s lately been working.

1. In most of my experience, it’s as Nietzsche said; “The Christian resolve to find the world evil and ugly, has made the world evil and ugly.” [↑]

Eric, who used to work with me, introduced me to Brant Bjork, and stoner rock in general, about two years ago. It’s a genre that explores delightful repetition, where variations are subtle, but powerfully psychedelic.

[I]t is certainly accepted that the effects of marijuana and the often low or psychedelic riffs of stoner rock complement each other.

—Wikipedia, Stoner rock

I liken the idea to Plastikman’s debut album, Sheet One. Though of a different genre — trance — it features a perforated album cover, an homage to acid tab art, for which the LSD enhances the details of every single minimalistic beat (so I’m told).

While I’ve enjoyed Queens of the Stone Age, who are considered to be influenced by the stoner rock movement (indeed, Josh Homme and Brant Bjork formed pioneering band Kyuss while in high school), the sound is a little more commercial, less droning.

After I heard a few songs by Brant Bjork, I was hooked. I never associated it with a memory, which is what I do with almost all my songs, but it was good enough that I didn’t have to.

At Thanksgiving, during one of my trips through the mall with Andrew and Alex, I resumed my search for Brant Bjork’s solo album by the name of Jalamanta. It was a bigger city, a bigger place…maybe I’d have a better luck. Unfortunately, every music store gave me the same answer; it was an album they didn’t keep regularly in stock.

Alex asked me what I was looking for, the name of the album and artist, and I didn’t think anything of it.

Yesterday, I found a package in the mail. Fragile — CD, it said. Inside was the Brant Bjork CD I’ve been looking for, which they found at an independent music store. Along with the CD was a card made from my Pollen Junkie photo (which was taken in their garden), with a message written on the back.

And as great as it is to finally hear the songs I’ve been missing, as nice as it is to have an original release, it’s nothing compared to the thoughtfulness, the effort they made to find me exactly what I was looking for.

Been having an insane argument with a person on Flickr over a “racist” picture of me and Bronwen.

Are people really this asinine? I really don’t want to believe it, but it’s kinda hard when they repeatedly go beyond all sense of logic.

There goes my faith in humanity.

Please, please, please, let this be a joke.

I’ve been in the strangest mood lately. Killing my Top Rated playlist everywhere I go, yet I skip through 90% of the songs, trying to find the right one. Talking to myself. Replaying conversations in my head.

I don’t quite feel at one with the Tao. I’ve been letting small things get to me. It’s as if I’m falling back into my old destructive habits, but upon realizing this, I fight against it. The struggle, when observed objectively, is quite amusing.

These are exciting times. Along with the excitement comes nervousness. It’s turned me into a jumble of emotions, bittersweet, and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

Wish I could do something with this feeling.

 

 

 

 

 

Since he’s never been bowling before, we decided to go for Trolley’s 30th.

Rock ‘N Bowl is an interesting phenemonen. Aaron thinks it’s for the 14-year-olds to get all hooched up and feel like they’re going clubbing. Didn’t stop us — Trolley included — from getting carded at our table when pitchers.

Five-pin is harder than I remember. Maybe because I was trying to spin everything, so it would either hit the left pins, or completely gutter on the right when I tried to adjust. For our two teams, it was a pretty close match through the night.

For the photographs, I tried to play around with light settings. 2nd-curtain-sync wouldn’t work for me, and I didn’t realize that there’s a setting for it on the 580EX flash which overrides camera settings. As a result, the pictures are mostly flash-less to capture the mood of the wildly swinging light.

The next day, I discovered that I somehow pulled my left glute and right groin muscles. A gentle reminder on Trolley’s birthday that we’re all getting older.

“Love doesn’t end, just because we don’t see each other.”, she told him

“Doesn’t it?”, he asked.

“People go on loving God, don’t they? All their lives. Without seeing Him.”

“That’s not my kind of love.”

I realize that on days like this — when the wind is cutting through the seams of my jacket, when my stomach is so cramped that it twitches, when I’m uncontrollably nodding off to sleep on the bus, when my transfer expires before I can use it, when incompetence isn’t keeping my appointments — that I can’t call you. It just wouldn’t help.

You abandoned me when I needed you the most. I’ll never trust you with anything important again. Including me.

You may say you love me, but I don’t love you. Not anymore.

My love is (was) boundless.

Yours is of convenience.