Art. What it is and what it is not.

Reading about wealthy artist Damien Hirst angers me and talking/yelling with my roomie, M, has helped me figure out why.

I have a pretty inclusive definition of art. I agree with Scott McCloud, it's pretty much everything we do that isn't directly related to survival (and even then we can't turn it off). Tonight, I realized I have strong thoughts on what I feel is worthy art. Hirst's shit art helped me realize that so... thanks?

I enjoy a world where the mega rich tacitly admit that they have sacrificed any ability to have meaningful insights for a life of cash and luxury. That's the trade off. You manage a hedge fund? You inherited billions? Well now you can play wealthy person games like kite surfing with supermodels and market crash roulette but you can't play games like truth and meaning. Thus, the only choice the rich have to feel a part of something bigger is to sponsor poor artists who are lying in the gutter and puking the eternal.

It always made perfect sense to me why Siddhartha left his posh life to become the Buddha. You can't reach enlightenment on a full stomach.

For me, art is in the streets with the tricksters like Banksy, the madmen like Bosch and Werner Herzog, the grinders like Van Gogh and Edgar Allen Poe, and the prophets like Ginsberg. Wealth corrupts art, turning our thoughts from eternal struggles to temporary woes. Financial success waters down artists like Dali, Nas, and George Lucas.

Damien Hirst considers himself a brand and he makes millions selling his art. His collectors hail him as the Picasso of his time. There's one glaring problem to me. He's a rich man making absurd rich art for rich people. It's void of any worthy meaning but he's being celebrated -inverting my understanding of art and the world. We should stop. He's a millionaire, that's our first clue. His art is going to be out-of-touch garbage. There's no substance there.

Hirst's body of work is the equivalent of an early 20th century rich man on safari, shooting rhinos for something to tell his rich friends. His medium is extravagance: a skull covered in diamonds, a shark in formaldehyde, and other silly jokes a tasteless billionaire would have as a centerpiece.

I didn't know much about Hirst other than his financial dealings in the world of high art. His wikipedia article is an interesting read, especially his "work philosophy" in the part about his shitty spot paintings. It seems like he was an interesting emerging artist and given a blank cheque by Saatchi. Now he himself is wealthy and he does give back to the arts, satisfying my understanding of the world. For me, he has to choose between giving it all away to make art or sponsoring the gutter poets.

It still boils down to a comment my brother made in high school, resentful of having to memorize countless works for art history.
"It's just their trading cards."
"What?"
"Art. It's like pokemon for rich people."

A Lost and Lonely Girl

Dispatches from Toronto. 

She was a woman, not a girl, probably early twenties. But she was a girl because I am an old man and she spoke with a hint of a baby's accent. 

I've never appreciated that way in which some women try to sound sexy, that clunky adult imitation of soft and sweet. 

It was in the AM. I thought I was cycling home faster than Yeager in the X1 but couldn't have been faster than sound because I heard her call out to me as I zipped past. I slammed on the brakes. I turned to see a lone girl on the sidewalk, waving. There had been recent sexual assaults in this neighbourhood. A disgusting blemish on our polite (but not friendly) city. It was time to be an ambassader for the polis. 

She was drunk as a skunk and lost. Sorry, little scavengers  it rhymes. For the record, I have never seen a skunk take one lateral step for every two steps forward. 

The girl told me she was lost and asked if I had a lighter. I did not. She told me her name. I'm guessing that she was a University student. We'll call her Jenga because she would wobble like that precarious block tower. Also, that nickname will keep this story light. It would not be if she were family. Even now, I feel detached and amused.

She was looking for an intersection that she was heading away from. It was only a ten minute stroll but she seemed uncertain. We started walking together. "You're going to walk me home," she smiled. 

"Yes."

"Do you have a lighter?" I still did not. We walked along the street and she, tipsy, began to sing my praises. I wondered, if she fell, would I have to drop the bike or could I catch them both.

She laughed loudly and asked about my day. I asked about her night. She named some bars and made it clear that she had many friends. She asked if I had a lighter. Then she held my hand, smiling like a goof. 

We walked and talked and she asked if I wanted to come over and watch a horror movie. I said it would depend on which one. She described something with a little girl in it. We agreed that little girls are terrifying.  She asked if I had a lighter. I told her that she had asked that four times and I did not. She looked at me like we have all looked at an adult who did the "got your nose" trick. We knew our noses were fine but there was that adult holding their fist in a peculiar way, waiting for a laugh. Why was this funny? We walked on.

"Will you cuddle with me?" she asked. I laughed.

"Jenga, you don't know me."

"I know you stopped your bike to help me. I know we're holding hands. I know you like horror movies." She did know me very well. I wanted her to add, "I know you don't have a lighter... do you?" I played a hunch.

"You broke up?"

"Yes," she said. I figured it out because I remembered how badly I wanted a body next to me in bed after my break up. How nice it was to hold someone who wanted you there. This isn't an allusion to sex. I'm talking about lying next to another explorer to share heat in the cold. I'm talking about break-ups are the cruelest season and you've got to keep moving because if the snow settles on you you're done.

We were at her street and she released my hand, ran-stumbled across the street to two young men sitting on the curb. Maybe two of her many friends. My hand cooled off in the fall night. How fleeting love is, I thought. She came back to me. "They don't have a lighter." She walked up her lawn. I stopped at the sidewalk. She turned and came back.

"Let's watch a horror movie."

"No, thanks."

"We can cuddle. We can find all sorts of things to do," she said in a baby voice.

"You're drunk," I said, "and I am sober." I tried to dilute it by saying it with a hint of boring poem.

I failed. She looked irritated. Disgusted. As if I had taken a perfectly good book and printed another book on top of it so now you couldn't enjoy Bel Canto or 1984. "You're an intense person," she concluded.

That made me laugh. "You know me very well." I said.

I watched her open the front door and go inside. I called after her with a joke about a lighter that neither of us understood. She was gone.

I stood and watched the house. I wondered if I would admire a man who chose to follow her inside. A man who would lay beside her in bed. He would be fully-clothed, shoes still on and spooning her. She would pass out immediately and dream of melted snow. 

It's all in the motive, I thought. If you do it for selfish reasons it's repulsive. But if you do it because you understand what someone needs and you're there to help... maybe that's a man I could admire. But I'm selfish with my body. I only want to share it with the interesting and the beautiful. I had no idea about this woman's voting record or her ability to write. 

I biked home.

Online Flirting and Cyclists Dying

Chatting online is different. Conversation is less linear. In spoken communication it's a faux pas to switch topics without warning. Written communication isn't hindered by aural or physical cues. 

In chatting, two people can talk at the same time, following their own thoughts, and leading to lovely, unique, divergences.

Here is a beautiful surreal example from my recent chat with a friend.

A: There are streetcar tracks where there are no more streetcars

ME: In my online dating world, had an amazing late night online flirt session with a smartie. She has a pretty memorable way with words. 

ME: Sigh.

A: and someone died by getting their wheels stuck and was flung onto oncoming traffic

A: that sounds nice - are you going to meet her?

Juxtapoetry.

Western Civilization is Spiritually Bankrupt

Let's define spirituality as the feeling of being part of something bigger.

A person at Church praying to God, being in the crowd at a playoff game, and reading Buddha's teachings are all examples. In each case we get to feel like we're part of something bigger than ourselves.

Religion has the edge of the eternal. A football game cannot compare to the size and scope of religious teachings which often extend before time and after death.

In Western Culture, God is going down and consumer spirituality is on the up. We buy products to connect with each other. We feel like we're part of something bigger, and indeed we are, when we sign up for websites, buy smart phones, or participate in fashion or entertainment trends.

But we have lost the eternal.

I noticed this when I saw women carrying yoga mats and traveling to India. They are symptoms of this culture of lost souls. They started yoga for the trend consumer fitness but felt a growing attachment to its foreign, eternal nature.

Two Profound Questions

Two of the most profound questions of my life were asked, in rapid succession, by my brother from the front seat of the Beetle as he drove me from Brampton to Kipling station. The 401 freeway is four lines east, four lines west and lined with warehouses where trucks stop to drink. At night it is lit by the lights of thousands of cars and the massive lamp posts that we accept as normal. It's an absolute concrete shitshow that birds must see as a deadly river, noisy and void of food. A bit of rain on the Beetle's windshield and it all blurs to beauty, an electric, machine-made poem to human productivity. Of course God is dead -we built the stars and put them on Earth to light our roads.

"Why did so many people sign up for war?"

I don't remember why he asked that. It's quite possible I was jabbering about All Quiet on the Western Front. I didn't have an answer for them so I said propaganda to which he countered:

"They would have known. At some point they would have known it was bad and still signed up."

I had to concede the point.

"You studied history?" he asked.

"History and politics."

"Why didn't the slaves revolt?"

"What do you mean?"

"Weren't there more of them?"

And there it was. Sure, I studied history, and we are all scholars of human nature. Why did young men sign up for war? Why didn't the slaves revolt? It seemed that four years reading books and staying up late that one night to compare the colonial era agricultural of Ghana with Uganada for the longest essay I have ever written a swamp of words with a nice clean introduction that let the Prof know, don't worry, I'm intelligent because I can be straightforward when we all know a server can be straightforward, thrusting you a tray, but if there's no food on it then what was the point and so there I was, and still am, sitting in the Beetle ten years ago still unable to call myself a historian.

Dispatches from Toronto Sept 2012

Making it Up

I'm an old exotic comedy dinosaur lumbering down Bloor street. It's a nice feeling to be recognized by a young improviser and be invited to do a show because of my ancient age and mysterious reputation as a solo improviser. Eton, Dan, Vanessa, Anders -tonight I do some longform improv with some former Montrealers. It's good to be back in the game and nice to talk shop. It also reminds me how many stories I can create in a night and emboldens me to take the same attitude to writing a novel. If I don't have something to substantial to show you in October then I'll have to restart 2012.

Condoville

I'm petsitting for a friend in the southwest end. There's no community in condoville but they make up for it by having cars everywhere. My commute home is a glorious ride down the Queensway, rising like a missile in a bike lane on a highway. It's an absurd, beautiful image and it was even more stunning when I walked it, carrying a bike with a flat back tire. My friend is in Guelph, blowing things up in slow motion for a film shoot, I hang out with her cat and read her books about serial killers. It's put me in the "Ed Gein" daze. The accounts of officers who were first on the scene, discovering the extent of his gruesome mutilations will be with me forever. On the plus side, there's a sweet computer there that I can use to edit my movie. It's going to be tricky getting this cinematography award with all of my goddam shakey camera work. The trick is to call it my style.

The Elephant in the Room

Went on a rant last night and found the sentiment that will launch me into stardom. It's so obvious and true and necessary to be said. A simple concept that has occured to everyone: if we're going to have this amazing world of iPads, air travel, and velcro, if we're going to keep this consumer utopia then we should accept, openly, that the price we pay is: we have to hate ourselves. If we were content. If we felt whole, complete, and good then the whole consumer wheel would grind to a halt. Our entire capitalist civilization requires us to look in the mirror and feel like shit. Know that our hair could be nicer, our clothes could be trendier, and that we could be more productive. An endless commitment to the insatiable devil called better. So if you see a child in the schoolyard who seems happy, content, and satisfied then undermine their self-esteem for the good of us all.

Thoughts on the New Batman

I watched Dark Knight 3 in a theatre in Munich with a group of high school students. It wasn't as well recieved as the 2nd film. I have some strong thoughts on why that is.

In the 2nd film the villain, Joker, steals the show. It's nice to have a strong interesting villain in a superhero movie.

More importantly, the villain in Dark Knight 3, Bane, has a convulated motivation related to Dark Knight 1. He needed an interesting, thematic motivation. I'll expand on that later. MOST IMPORTANTLY, the film falls flat because Bane's evil plan involves trapping the entire police force underground and Batman rescues them. This, I will explain, made the movie unsatifying for the collective psyche of the audience.

I really loved Bane, his voice, and presence. Well done direction (making him look massive), editing, and character crafting -the intonation, the collar grab -all very nice to me. But in the end his motivation was something to do with the "League of Shadows" which is a silly name. Joker was interesting 'cause he dropped a few lines about the chaos that lies beneath everything and how Batman is trying to keep a thin layer of order. I propose Bane needed a similar philosophical motivation and I propose it be an obsession with strength.

Might makes right.

The strong do what they will and the weak suffer what they must. This is a theme as ancient as Thucydides History of the Pelopennesian War. It's also Nietzsche's understanding of the cool Romans, the ones who ruled by power and will. That could have been Bane. If you're strong enough to exert your will on others then you should rule. Not some rich ploof who inherited it. The movie could have been pretty much the same. But Bane needs to make it clear that his plan is to start a revolution in Gotham where he invites the strong to rule. So any bully in the city starts looting and beating up the rich. Perfect. Batman, as a symbol, represents using one's strength to protect the weak.

This is where the police come in. They play an important role in the film. First, they are trapped underground. Then, Batman frees them to turn the tide. What a bizarre twist that must have unsettled American audiences. Since when do people need the government's troops to do what is right? Yes, the police are good guys but where are the Americans who arm themselves, form militias, and stand up for themselves when the shit hits the fan? That was what was cool when the Joker tried to show that people are garbage. In the end they chose not to kill one another. Slam, Joker. That's satisfying to our psyche. It's not satisfying to see the cops save us.

What I wanted to happen was Gotham at civil war. The bullies, those ruling through strength, led by General Bane meeting General Batman and his underdog of army of those who use their strength to protect the weak. That would have allowed audiences to put themselves in the film and stand up against evil instead of watch the police save us.

Also, it was kind of awkward for Batman to fake his own death in front of his friends. He lied about the autopilot to them, which was weird, and then let them all know he was fine. It's not like he deceived the public at large. He only told the few people that were there that he was going to kill himself for Gotham and then later revealed to them that he was fine. Sort of a weird thing to do to your friends but also he dresses up with cute pointy ears and hits people he doesn't really know.

Important Things to Me

Time has passed my Great Great Grand.

I lived in Thunder Bay and earned my certification to teach Grades 4-12 in Ontario. I traveled in China, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Nepal, and India for the MEI Academy. And most significantly, my long term relationship with L. ended last year.

Some of the most important things that I have learned about myself have been tied up in this relationship and I censored myself from writing about them in this blog -since it is public. Now I understand why there isn't a great piece of literature that has been accused of being "too honest". It is is a difficult thing to do. I think a great writer feels a part of something bigger, making it easy to sacrifice comfort now for truth eternal.

My heart was shattered but in that good way that has shown me that I am built for happiness. That I believe in love now more than ever. And that there is no gain without risk and that I would gladly put my heart on the line to lose harder next time. Hopefully, by being myself, I'll attract someone with the same small town heart. Someone who like to cuddle and can't relate to John Updike's self-destructive characters.

It was instructive to see a friend who was going through a recent break up. I've been so busy being a nomad that I missed her entire relationship. I spoke to her when they had met and now, almost a year later, when it had ended. She was devastated but it seemed like a week to me. Easy for me to lauigh off, I was invested in her as my friend and never saw this guy. It laid it out so simply for me. I'm only interested in what my friends have created. Everything else is the glanced-over bio.

Open and Closed Questions

49 Up is an incredible concept. It's the seventh documentary in a series that visits the lives of 14 British folk since they were children. The film crew has interviewed them every seven years since they were seven.

This is the only one I have seen in this beautiful format and I was surprised to see how many subjects (some of whom have dropped out of the project) reflect on how much they dislike taking part. Every seven years it's a reminder of how their lives haven't turned out the way they envisioned. A confrontation most of us can avoid since, as a whole, humans love justifying their present lives and block out our past in the healthy way a censor would take all of the deaths out of children's book.

I would think the subjects would be aware that they were simply the documented examples of a process that happens to us all. Unfortunately, the director/interviewer has shit for brains.

If you listen to the few times that he leaves his question in the edit you can pick up how many closed questions he asks. I think he should take his camera around during the day to record how many shitty conversations he must have.

The difference between a closed and open question. A closed question has an answer built in, causing the person asked to squirm in the confines of making someone else's choice.

Aren't you happy to be reading this? 


That shitty question implies "happy" as the dominant emotion you should be feeling and you should respond in a simplified "yes" or "no" format, knowing I want you to say yes.

What do you think of what I have written?


This open question allows you to say what you think and feel instead of fit what you think and feel into my shitty closed question box.

Closed questions have their place but to use them in a documentary series about people's personal lives crushes their own spirits and casts the whole project in the mind of the documenter. "Don't you want to be married?" is very different than "I'd like to know if you have any strong feelings about marriage. What does it make you think or feel?"

Sigh. Once again I have proved that every film would have been better if those assholes would get out of the way and let me do it all.

Thoughts on Photography

What intrigues me about a photo is the relationship between the subject and the person behind the lens.

This explains why I find advertisements and models so boring. It's a narrow range of relationships playing out over and over. The subject does their best to look pretty, serious, excited, etc. The photographer attempts to capture a predetermined emotion in order to move product. Certainly, this is an interesting relationship but, due to its abundance, I find it the least compelling.

The purpose of photography is to make a permanent record of a fleeting moment. We desire careful control over these eternal moments, often grinding out anything interesting in place of capturing a banal agreement between photographer and subject that things 'look nice'. I would much prefer photographs of arguments from a child's point of view to a family photo.

I like candid shots in which a photographer captures a subject's spontaneous relationship to something else. Although now we are too wise to the beauty of these images and must plan them as well.

If a photo is a snapshot of the relationship between photographer and subject then what is a "selfie"? Surely, not ourselves through our own eyes but through the eyes of some imaginary photographer encouraging us to add another safely constructed image to the archive.

The Torture of Minnows

Today, as I sat in an ice fishing hut, I watched a young, skilled fisherman use a sharp knife to slice up a pike and a walleye. He sat with a board on his lap as he went about his work in a casual and inviting manner. The two adults nodding with appreciation. The two children were riveted. The four-year old leaned in, inches from the face of the pike, straining to see it's teeth as the father held the mouth open.

When a fish is cleaned the head remains eerily untouched while the rest of its dismembered body stretches out in a sloppy pile. The skilled fisherman cut open the stomach to reveal the sucker minnow used as bait. The other child eagerly scooped it up in his hand.

Not once did the children shirk at the blood or ask a question about the death of the fish. They were content, as were the adults, smiling and eager as they palmed two more minnows from the bucket, pushing the hooks through their bodies and setting the fishing rod back in place.

Hunger Games

I finished reading Hunger Games a while ago and I wanted to reflect on the author's (Suzanne Collins) use of violence. As I was reading the book I remember thinking that Collins' fight scenes seemed amateur. There was something about them that wasn't quite right. Later, I reflected on why her style seemed so unfamiliar to me.

In books like The Lord of the Flies, violence is portrayed as a force that is barely under the surface of civilization, waiting for its chance to boil up and over. The boys are sadistic and wild when left to their own devices. Similarly, the television series Spartacus depicts slaves forced to take part in the gladiatorial games. The characters show no reluctance once on the sand, easily tapping into their "inner monster" for scene after scene of computer animated throat slashing and decapitation.

What I came to realize about Hunger Games was that the author did not present violence as the beast that sleeps within us all. In Collins' story characters fight because of their relationships. All of these stories share the similarity of forcing their characters into a situation where there will be violent conflict. Collins' story proposes that people are most likely to be violent to protect the ones that they love. In contrast, the fiction written by male authors emphasizes the inevitability of the violent beast within us all. Is gender a useful category for analysis here? Are males trained to see violence as inevitable and females trained to see it as a last resort to protect our loved ones?

The Creature

Shortly after three AM he came downstairs and caught his wife running away. She turned to face him, still gripping the screen door, eyes flickering from the artificial glow of the small TV. It was difficult to imagine her as the woman who would hike over a glacier with a broken forearm a mere two years from this moment. She looked frail, built of cold fingers, thin wrists, and irresponsibly wild hair except for her eyes which were glowing white hot from an eerie inner furnace or the reflection of the TV. He flipped on the kitchen light, walking to the fridge in his matching pajamas. He owned seven pairs, one for each day of the week, even though he found them itchy and restrictive. Adherence to routine had saved the lives of so many of his patients. It was easy to imagine him as the author of Psychopathological Explorers of The Delusional Mind, right down to the thoughtful pose for the book jacket. She was tall and thin, he was taller and thinner. Together they looked like two lost locusts.

"Lime sherbet?" He asked, opening the freezer. The cottage had never been as silent, the television remained muted, and the chubby June bugs halted their clumsy assault on the window. It seemed entirely possible that they were the only two people awake in Wasaga Beach. He carefully placed two scoops in a dessert bowl while his mind blazed with plots to get between her and the door. They both knew that if she ran he could catch her before she reached the main road. They both knew she had stopped taking her medication.


The children were asleep. It might work in his favour if they were awake. He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, allowing it to drag across the floor, sitting as casually as possible under the circumstances. If he hadn't woken up, if he hadn't had a craving, the woman he loved would be gone.

“Out for a walk?” he asked.


“No,” she said, watching him. He had yet to make eye contact.


“You could have lied.”


“I'm leaving.”


“You've made up your mind?” He waited two full spoons for an answer. “If you've made up your mind why don't you go?”


“You can't watch me all the time.” He considered this. That wasn't true. She could be committed again. They could start over in the long hallways, large pictorial schedules, and padded rooms.  He didn't want that; he wanted his wife.


“Can I talk to my wife?”


“I'm your wife.” she responded. He took a slow bite, leaving the spoon in his mouth, letting the flavour melt. He should have destroyed that picture. It was optimistic to think it could be buried beneath Polaroids and VHS tapes in the basement. She was compelled to find it. How many days had she snuck away to search the corners of this cottage? He watched her take her medication -how had she deceived him? These were errors in professional judgment and they stung him to the core. He smiled. He was practically the greatest psychopathologist of the delusional mind, once the German died he would be the unequivocal leader in his field. He had an outside shot at the Nobel. And it was he who had kept a promise to a lunatic for love. He was determined to redeem his error. The proper way to show his commitment would be to destroy the picture that held so much power over her mind. Shred and burn that image to set her free.


“I'm not going to force you to take any medication.” he said. “I'm here to remind you that you chose to take the medication. It was a long process and a choice that you made several times with a clear head before we-”


“Shut the fuck up.” she said, regretting it. She knew he was weighing her words, observing, dissecting and diagnosing them, building an expert opinion that would lead to her freedom or imprisonment. In an instant she saw the horrible labyrinth of medical literature that had always been between them, a grotesque maze of twisted steel corridors, her strongest convictions marching in endless circles, stepping over emotions, starved to death for attention. She looked at her husband, a man who loved a version of her deeply. In her hand she held the drawing, a deteriorating piece of gray construction paper marked by pastel crayons almost thirty years ago. The picture of the creature.


“What about Matty and Vicky? You're going to walk out on your family?”


“I already have.” she said. He shrugged, .


“You're still here.”


“No.”


“There must be something keeping you here.”


“You're not my first family.”


“You're sick. You need a safe place to rest and your medication.”


“I had a family in Oregon. A husband and two kids.”


“You've never been to Oregon.”


“I had a child in Oregon when I was seventeen.” She watched him finish his sherbet. “It's not a 
delusion. I had a family and I had to leave them and I have to leave again.” He looked at her. “You've always known that my records didn't add up. The medical-”


“What are you going to do? Say it. I'd like to hear you say it.”


“I'm going to find this.” She held up the picture.


“What is that?”


“You know what it is.”


“I'd like to hear you say it. I think it would be good to hear it out in the open.”


“This is the creature that I saw when I was seven,”


“Where?”


“You know where.” He kept his clinical silence, demanding her to continue. “In the forest. When I was in the car I looked out the window and saw it in the forest.”


“How old were you?”


“I told you.”


“Will you say it again?”


“I was seven.”


"If that's sounds normal to you then there's nothing I can do.” He said. “Did you want to leave a note for the children?"


"Tell them that I have to find it."


“Here.” He pulled out a chair. “This will take two minutes. I'll write the note, what should it say?”


“I have to find it.”


"Find what?" She gestured to the drawing in her hand. "I know," he said "but how do you want to tell them?" She paused, unable to say it aloud. He felt her hand on his leg. He put his arm around her as she started to sob.


"The creature. I have to find the creature."


“Why not sleep on it and we'll talk in the morning?" She sat up."The creature is going to be out there tomorrow." He was playing a dangerous game, reinforcing her delusions. "Come back to bed and we'll talk with clearer heads in the morning."


"I'm leaving." She walked back to the screen door. He tried to follow but he could not. He looked down. His leg had been handcuffed to the thick ornamental trim of the table. Panic ran through him. He might be able to free himself. He may be able to crack the oak table. If he could reach the bottom drawer he could get the meat cleaver to break the chain. It would take too much time. She would be out of sight. He couldn't reach the phone. He could yell for the neighbours. He prepared to yell.


"Goodbye." She turned to leave.


"Mom?" asked a voice from the stairs.

I Couldn't Sleep

I couldn't sleep. The world caught up to me today. I had been submerged in schoolwork, throwing myself into crafting the ultimate center of gravity lesson plan.

For inspiration, our teachers point us to a vast online archive of mediocrity. It's frightening. We have access to special Ontario teacher resource sites where, at the press of a button, we find hundreds of lesson plans jam-packed with boring. I'm going on the record here: these bland "educational" resources are joining Betamax as anecdotes to be brought up at history's wedding so we can all laugh at how crazy she was before she settled down. In my lifetime education will move online, dominated by a few resources that do learning right.


I realized this when I was asked to write several reflection papers on my education. It's hard to quantify what I learned in school but most of the skills I am currently using in my life (from needlepoint, to cooking, to bike repair, etc.) I got online. Maybe my education prepared me to be an independent learner  but there's also a case that

I stood up for Wikipedia in my class, arguing that it was more articulate and better sourced than our textbook. Some people laughed at this which didn't surprise me since technophobic teachers have been instilling the Great Fear of Wikipedia without ever visiting the site.

Wow. I can't sleep. I have to be careful because I'm a very passionate person. I throw myself into what I do. I think what is keeping me up tonight is my internal instinct to look up and make sure that I've thrown myself in the right direction.

I'm going to read some more of Doctorow' Little Brother and get some sleep. It would be nice to start eating breakfast and lunch, put myself into a nice routine, and stay up one night thinking about death in that useful, contemplative way, bringing perspective and resolve to my life.

I Live in Thunder Bay

And now I live in Thunder Bay.

I've learned a month of information in the last five days, distorting my sense of time.

A friend of a friend picked me up at the airport. A quick driving tour of the city landed my a free bike.

Me: How much for this bike with the sale sign?
Stranger: $200.
Me: That's too much. I was looking for a beater to ride to school.
Stranger: Take that one.
Friend of friend: Put it in the truck. What a score!

The tires needed some air, that was all.

Discovery makes a life feel full.

I'm attending a one-year program at Lakehead to earn my teaching certification for Ontario. I've had a week of class from experienced instructors who can't help but treat us like children.

In Thunder Bay, the grocery store "Safeway" is said "Safeways". No reason.

I watched a friendly Pastor rock a three run home run in a close softball game.

I've met seven great children and their six wonderful parents. They've opened their homes to me while I wait to move in to my place in Current River. I settled on a distant location for the beautiful forty minute bike ride to campus. Today is the first day of cold and rain and I realized I am a fool.

I know that we pronounce a hard 't' in Junot Road.

I check Google Maps using my iTouch when I'm lost. It's a lot easier to find an open network here compared to Toronto.

I delight myself by impressing the locals with my rapidly accumluating Thunder Bay knowledge.

*Quality Market moved next to the University on Golf Links and their old building is going to be a No Frills.
*There's a looming transit strike. Mid-September.
*They use kijiji here over craigslist
*I think Rogers is abandoning Thunder Bay and handing their clients over to the dreaded TBayTel.
*The ravens are like Toronto's raccoons. Some people through a blanket over their garbage bags if they don't have cans.
*I was helping friend of friend's brother-in-law move to a new house. It was a rough scene. In the end, a car caught on fire and the fire department had to put it out.

Kafka in Ontario. My Police Background Check

Recently, I got my police background check.

At first glance, it costs $45. This is already ridiculous in the age of digital databases. I imagine that Canadian bureaucratic record keeping is an indoor ocean of little slips of paper. Seniors wearing old tyme bathing suits take handwritten requests and then dive for information.

Once I'm in the front of the line I give them my driver's license. The friendly person helping me returns with a forced smile.
"I have some... news."
"I like news!"
"There's a new RCMP initiative. Your birthday matches that of a known sex offender."
"Okay..."
"You have to be fingerprinted. (beat) But we don't have to keep the records of it. (beat) It's because of Homolka."
"Sorry?"
"Karla Homolka. She tried to change her name. Now they're checking birthdays. Did you ever change your name?"
"Nope."
"You'll still have to be fingerprinted."
"Awesome! Let's do it!"
"Well... we can't."
"???"
"It costs an additional $25."
"I just paid $45 using interac. What's another $25?"
"You can't pay with interac."
"???"
"It has to be in the form of a certified cheque made out to the Receiver General of Canada."
"The fuck?"
"And you'll have to make an appointment to be fingerprinted."

Fortunately, my saint sister is there with her two-year old. The bureaucrat assumes we are married and bumps me to an immediate appointment. My sister heads to the bank to get a certified cheque. As I fill out two more forms with my name and address.

"There's a charge for these forms."
"Okay."
"It's $23."
"I just paid $45 using interac. My sister is getting a certified cheque for $25, What's another $23?"
"No... our machine only recognizes a bank card once."
"???"
"You can't pay with interac."
"Credit card?"

So I pay with my credit card. My sister returns with the cheque and I get all of my fingers slathered in ink and recorded for the government. I hope the elderly divers find the right slips of paper so that I get these back in times.

Seriously though,
I need this police records check so I wasn't about to take my freak out moment but this process seems unfair. Obviously, I'm only noticing this because I got the shit end of the shitstick. The cost of my police check doubled because of my birthday? Shouldn't such a cost be shared by all taxpayers? Also, a certified cheque to the Receiver General? What is that?

Good News

I am in need of good news.

It's an observation that has been around as long as mass media. "News" is skewed to show us a world filled with people dying from explosions and the failures of famous people. We are a tortured consumer society gawking at our human-made disasters. But sometimes, when I feel like a scarecrow losing my straw, held together by the thinnest of stitches, I look for something else. Not fluff but a joyful celebration. Someone is going to make a fortune with an online news source called "Good News", reporting stories like this:

One Year Old Child Invents Hug

A small child in Wasaga Beach (my niece) designed a new type of loving physical connection. In a spur of the moment decision young Andie turned the world of hugging upside down, taking the classic expression of love in a bold new direction. The child was walking outside, followed by the family dog who shares an undying bond with her since she's allowed to give him treats. When Andie was asked by her mother if she wanted to hug the dog the young genius responded with a gesture that still has local residents buzzing. Instead of using her arms in the traditional approach she walked to the side of the dog, bending at the waist and touching her head to the dog's back. She rested her forehead there, hands free, for a while to let the dog know that they shared a connection.

Sleep Paralysis

The first time it happened I was about eighteen. I was lying on my back in bed and I couldn't move my neck. My eyes were open and I could look to my posters of batman and Jim Harbaugh. When my eyes shut I had a zoomed in image of a fat brown rat running in a metal wheel. I kept opening and closing my eyes. Unable to move. Suddenly, I was aware that I wasn't breathing. I tried to shout but I couldn't. I was frantically sending the message for my body to breathe, scream, move but nothing happened. Eventually I woke up.

This is what it feels like. Stop breathing. See how your body feels unnaturally quiet without the rhythm of breath? Then stare at your hand. Pretend you're telling yourself to make a fist but simply watch it ignore your command. That is the exact feeling.

Every six months I get one of these dreams. A few days ago I felt it coming on. I was trying to fall asleep when I found myself looking around the room -not breathing. When I try to will myself out of these situations ("scream!", "breathe!", "get up!") nothing happens. The solution is to relax. Ignore the illusion that I'm not breathing and go to sleep in the dreamworld. The rat has never come back.

*side note. I wanted a picture of a face screaming as it pressed into a sheet. What do I google image to find that?

serendipitous Montreal

Tired now. But if I sleep I may sleep through my bus leaving.

Old and new friends. Showed up as a comedy duo needing a third to complete the show. Made the 6 o'clock news in brief clip by performing in the afternoon for a CTV reporter in an empty theater. It looks like no one finds us funny.

The other night I could not find the theater only to hear my name being called. I was rescued by a face I had not expected to see in this city and brought to a magical, sweltering theater to find more pleasant surprises. Then I went to La Banquise and ate poutine.

I climbed a mountain and ended up in a cemetery, walking through a plantation of gravestones, finding myself on the other side consulting a public map that revealed how severe I was lost. Jean Brilliant is a hilarious street with the power to vanish and reappear at a more confusing intersection. At the peak of my misdirection I found forty dollars sitting on the sidewalk. They bought the delicious bagels I am smelling. Like it was planned.

This theater where I have slept turns into party central after a good show. It usually wraps up by 4am. I watched one of the owners clean this building from top to bottom like I have watched the Zamboni clear the ice.

At tonight's party, tongues loosened as alcohol was poured and I overheard discussions on food and incest. Conversation took a turn for the better when a wonderful small world moment led to a refreshing burst of honesty and reflection from a surprise speaker.

Throw that Fight

I attended the T.O. Jam festival this weekend. They provide the space and encouragement to make a video game in three day. It was held at George Brown in three fully equipped rooms.

Before the fest

The theme of the event was missing. Although I discovered most people ignored the theme and made a game they wanted. This was in keeping with the laissez faire spirit of the festival: do whatever you want but finish it.

We thought of a boxer who tried to "miss convincingly" to throw his fights. Our concept was to build a rhythm game (like Rhythm Heaven DS) combined with a puzzler (like Henry Hatsworth DS).

The story is set in 1885, following a kindhearted bare knuckle boxer who helps people by throwing his fights.

During the fest


-We worked in a beautiful college computer lab surrounded by thirty other programmers. Our team, Andrew Gardner and teh Andrew Gardner Group of Companies, sat side-by-side at one long table, working together but separately. Three was the perfect number for a team.

-The demographic was mostly young, male, awkward social skills and weak jokes. It was easy to overlook all of these traits because of the passion, camaraderie, and skill evident in each room. The people I met were kind, humble, and friendly.

-At the end of the second day they fed us free Chinese food. There was more than enough for everyone. I was impressed by the organization of the festival.

-Our first programmer, Andrew, had experimented with pygame. He built the rhythm component and a handler for cutscenes.

-Our second programmer, my brother Andrew, was new to pygame and was crafting our puzzler component. We made the mistake, mostly to my insistence,  of picking a poorly-thought-out-overly-complex puzzle game. My brother figured out a brilliant, simple solution during the festival but there was not enough time to get it done for the final version.

-We had a vision that the graphics of the game should be raw, black and white sketches so the whole game would look like storyboards. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any of my talented artist friends. For me, the turning point of the festival was when I turned to my team and apologized for not being able to find a real talent to do graphics. My brother shrugged and said "you're our graphics guy." Then I really set to work.

-Deadline was 8pm. We ate free pizza, a raffle was held (two of us won headphones... what?), and we got to see everyone else's game. I wrote down the titles of my favourites. I'll do a follow-up post when they put them all online. There will also be an arcade where they play the games at a bar, showcasing each on on the big screen.

After the fest

Our work schedule:

-Day 1: 6pm - 4am

-Day 2: 10am - 4am

-Day 3: 10am - 8pm. We worked until the last minute.

-I laughed at my brother because his eyes erupted after the second day but mine also went extreme bloodshotty last night. I think I need a break from pixels.

-I arrived home around 11:30pm. Andrew came and we showcased the game to Liz. She beat it in four tries. It was exactly what we were hoping for.

Here's a gallery of more of the art from this game.

UPDATE
Neato. We were mentioned and shown in the Torontoist.