A very very close friend, so close to my heart that they might be my heart itself or I am their soul. Understood, as the understanding that comes with these sorts of relationships. Asked myself, why? Answered, because. Sent this my way so that I had all my incoherent words once again articulated. Or else, I saw that shining thread that bound all these thoughts and a resounding recognition that I could not ignore etched deep in these words. Believed once more, for a moment, in the Soul of the World.
Why Study the Arts & Humanities?
Because, that's why.
Because a man downtown with a voice like the sea against the rocks told me I should.
Because my mother told me not to. Because she said mathematics, female engineering - engineering female. Because she spends so many nights in paperwork, dreaming herself into fairytales.
Because of the bruises etched into a Grade 4 spelling partner's cheek each week by his father.
Because television sets are alive and sucking patience out of brains like electric leeches. And it could take hours to perfect this sentence.
Because the average Canuck consums 140 percent the caloric intake required in a day.
Because KKK.
Because Chagall's 'Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers', did not quite make it into the Saturday morning comics.
Becase Adolf Hitler and Staling are the only two I've learned about.
Because it's been scientifically proven that listening to Mozart sonatas improves bad hearing.
Because the Burmese government is carbonated in every can of Pepsi Cola.
Because East Timor is on channel 3 and my brother is watching The Simpsons.
Because painters did not build atomic bombs. Because poems dissect them.
Because advertisement agencies are calling themselves creative.
Becayse a beautiful woman is a dress and a breast size and no longer compared to a summer's day.
Because no one's homophobic but alot of people stared when a girl kissed a girl at the bus stop.
Because sometimes even starving artists like to eat dinner.
Because time spent with family is marked between 6 and 7 o'clock in the daily agenda.
Because Picasso would tell you that skyscrapers do not quite equal the beauty of all the daffodils they have swallowed.
Because two boys in a coffee shop carried out a complete conversation and say nothing.
Because I don't know whether I'll be clubbed for saying Black People if I should be saying African Americans.
Because the government runs on monotone thought.
Because a successfully cloned sheep.
Because.
Because sometimes you see yourself more clearly in the characters you are writing than when you look in the mirror.
Because ulcers are nibbling away on stomachs everywhere.
Because graffiti is getting a little bit repetitive.
Because I'd rather be short than vertically challenged.
And if that's not quite enough...
Then because I can write these things to you and go to math class tomorrow and pretend that they weren't written for myself.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
No Air.
There's so much I want to say to you but I really don't know how to say it. I've never been good at these things, these expression of feelings bit. I just needed time, time to figure things out. To find the right words.
I know. I know I went and fucked up something big. Something that could have been perhaps the greatest turn of this century, of our century. I could have been your great love. You could have been my great love. We could have blinded the world and taken it by storm. You anchor, I uplift. I don't know what I was thinking; I wont I wasn't because not only is that a tone of regret but also untrue. I did what I thought was best at that point in time because I didnt want anyone to be hurt, least of all you. You, the gem of a person I always knew you were. And told you so.
You made me want to be a million times better but the lovely face of morality made me hurt harder than I could imagine. It pricked. The biggest disillusionment was a presumption that was deadly, a penchant for the dramatic. The fall, sharp and fast, bottomless, relentless, the kind only pride can produce.
Sometimes, these days, my love for you is so strong, so deep that I'm almost completely blinded as to any rationale I might have produced and can only felt sincere and biting regret. Regret that things turned out the way they did. Yes. But most of all, that I was the way I was with you.
Not without reason, I know. But...it must have hurt.
Never mind all that for a moment. Put it aside, quieten those grouses for just a spell. Poetry is elevated language, a higher expression transcending all common sentimentalities and like alchemy, it has the power to completely manipulate and change.
That is my love for you. That is the depth of my feeling for you. It is an expansive love that covers all notions, that transcends all needs, that motivates, that uplifts. It is more profound than inky depths of the greatest minds. It knows no reason, no face and no point beyond you. If I feel regret it is only at the hurt. I confess, it is also slightly because I cannot have you. But...I'm so beyond all that. I wish I could apologize to you...it would put me at rest and allow me to focus on the love I feel for you. It would allow me to think of you without the blanket of poison spread over clear memories of you. It would clean the cobwebs of resentment that have been interwoven and spiral out of control, quiet now on this cold morning.
You make everything so much more beautiful. The memory of you. You used to make me laugh, you taught me true care, taught me goodnes and selflessness. You taught me to be weak. You taught me that it's okay to shed false notions of grandeur. You made the simplicity so scintillating, so alive that even the mundane was melodramatic enough for me.
You loved me for me. I now love you for you. Sometimes - most of the time - I think of you. Small things remind me of you and I smile silently, knowingly. Passersby think I'm affected. But they've never met us. I've never met us, either. And so I'm acquainting myself now and my gosh, was it ever beautiful. It was so beautiful I didn't believe anything so lovely, so tender, so sincere and heartfelt could ever be this real. I miss you so much it hurts. I wont attempt to describe the pain - it is not so deep that words themselves cannot express it, no. In fact, if I were more skilled, I would be able to adequately convey to you what not having you here is like.
But, as we both knew, there's more power in things left unsaid. The potential is greater. The explosiveness, the combustion. If I get it all out, if I should ever be able to tell you how sorry I am to have hurt you, this pain in my heart, pervading my senses, making me cry in anguish, clawing at the walls, might melt away.
I loved your extreme nerdiness. It made me feel nerdy. It was just so right. I loved that you just understood virtually everything about everything I said to you. And if you didnt, this thoughtful, pensive look would come up on your face like you were trying to synthesize some new fact or trying to accept it. It was such a gentle look.
I loved how you always came into the library and wished me good morning from behind, your arms around me. I felt the depth of love in those moments and their murky depths scared me so much. It was not the intenstity with which you hugged me but the intent. That intent was so pure...so clear. I want so much to have that again that I'm squeezing my eyes shut and praying. All I see is you...everywhere I go, everywhere I turn. I dont want anyone else's eyes on me unless they are yours.
...I can't even write out my grief. I deleted a whole paragraph because there are just no words to express the level of hurt. You've really hurt me, with this change. Ter recently asked...am I okay with the way things are enough to be able to talk to you? And I honestly don't think I can. I can't even seem to find words to express just how much this all hurts, especially in the dead of night.
I keep dreaming of you. You, in different avatars. When I wake up, I'm very annoyed because it leaves me with such an incomplete and hole-like feeling in the waking world; almost like this odd vaccum in my vocal chords. Even if it weren't there though, what would I yell that would open your ears to me? Nothing. The moment is gone, the time is past and perhaps this disintegration is all that's left now.
It makes me cry, every time we talk. When you mock me or I see subtle ways in which you have changed. I miss the boy, the friend I knew so well. Weren't we friends? Why do you make everything so difficult that even talking to you is a chore? Why is it that we can agravate the bejeezes out of each other...but not communicate on what is really going on? And, what IS going on?
What saddens me the most....is - well, everything really. The way I was blind. The way you were naive. The way all this shit went down and hot it turned out. But worse than that....the path that we're surely going to take. The way that I'm always right about these kinds of things. I predicted the future with the other (you know) and it turned out EXACTLY like that. And now...I can see it too. We, you and me, for each other will soon mean nothing and fade into nothing. A part of me, the part that hurts beyond human language (but not above sounds), hopes that is exactly what happens. So that I will never have to look at you again and want you ever again and realize what I lost ever again.
I know. I know I went and fucked up something big. Something that could have been perhaps the greatest turn of this century, of our century. I could have been your great love. You could have been my great love. We could have blinded the world and taken it by storm. You anchor, I uplift. I don't know what I was thinking; I wont I wasn't because not only is that a tone of regret but also untrue. I did what I thought was best at that point in time because I didnt want anyone to be hurt, least of all you. You, the gem of a person I always knew you were. And told you so.
You made me want to be a million times better but the lovely face of morality made me hurt harder than I could imagine. It pricked. The biggest disillusionment was a presumption that was deadly, a penchant for the dramatic. The fall, sharp and fast, bottomless, relentless, the kind only pride can produce.
Sometimes, these days, my love for you is so strong, so deep that I'm almost completely blinded as to any rationale I might have produced and can only felt sincere and biting regret. Regret that things turned out the way they did. Yes. But most of all, that I was the way I was with you.
Not without reason, I know. But...it must have hurt.
Never mind all that for a moment. Put it aside, quieten those grouses for just a spell. Poetry is elevated language, a higher expression transcending all common sentimentalities and like alchemy, it has the power to completely manipulate and change.
That is my love for you. That is the depth of my feeling for you. It is an expansive love that covers all notions, that transcends all needs, that motivates, that uplifts. It is more profound than inky depths of the greatest minds. It knows no reason, no face and no point beyond you. If I feel regret it is only at the hurt. I confess, it is also slightly because I cannot have you. But...I'm so beyond all that. I wish I could apologize to you...it would put me at rest and allow me to focus on the love I feel for you. It would allow me to think of you without the blanket of poison spread over clear memories of you. It would clean the cobwebs of resentment that have been interwoven and spiral out of control, quiet now on this cold morning.
You make everything so much more beautiful. The memory of you. You used to make me laugh, you taught me true care, taught me goodnes and selflessness. You taught me to be weak. You taught me that it's okay to shed false notions of grandeur. You made the simplicity so scintillating, so alive that even the mundane was melodramatic enough for me.
You loved me for me. I now love you for you. Sometimes - most of the time - I think of you. Small things remind me of you and I smile silently, knowingly. Passersby think I'm affected. But they've never met us. I've never met us, either. And so I'm acquainting myself now and my gosh, was it ever beautiful. It was so beautiful I didn't believe anything so lovely, so tender, so sincere and heartfelt could ever be this real. I miss you so much it hurts. I wont attempt to describe the pain - it is not so deep that words themselves cannot express it, no. In fact, if I were more skilled, I would be able to adequately convey to you what not having you here is like.
But, as we both knew, there's more power in things left unsaid. The potential is greater. The explosiveness, the combustion. If I get it all out, if I should ever be able to tell you how sorry I am to have hurt you, this pain in my heart, pervading my senses, making me cry in anguish, clawing at the walls, might melt away.
I loved your extreme nerdiness. It made me feel nerdy. It was just so right. I loved that you just understood virtually everything about everything I said to you. And if you didnt, this thoughtful, pensive look would come up on your face like you were trying to synthesize some new fact or trying to accept it. It was such a gentle look.
I loved how you always came into the library and wished me good morning from behind, your arms around me. I felt the depth of love in those moments and their murky depths scared me so much. It was not the intenstity with which you hugged me but the intent. That intent was so pure...so clear. I want so much to have that again that I'm squeezing my eyes shut and praying. All I see is you...everywhere I go, everywhere I turn. I dont want anyone else's eyes on me unless they are yours.
...I can't even write out my grief. I deleted a whole paragraph because there are just no words to express the level of hurt. You've really hurt me, with this change. Ter recently asked...am I okay with the way things are enough to be able to talk to you? And I honestly don't think I can. I can't even seem to find words to express just how much this all hurts, especially in the dead of night.
I keep dreaming of you. You, in different avatars. When I wake up, I'm very annoyed because it leaves me with such an incomplete and hole-like feeling in the waking world; almost like this odd vaccum in my vocal chords. Even if it weren't there though, what would I yell that would open your ears to me? Nothing. The moment is gone, the time is past and perhaps this disintegration is all that's left now.
It makes me cry, every time we talk. When you mock me or I see subtle ways in which you have changed. I miss the boy, the friend I knew so well. Weren't we friends? Why do you make everything so difficult that even talking to you is a chore? Why is it that we can agravate the bejeezes out of each other...but not communicate on what is really going on? And, what IS going on?
What saddens me the most....is - well, everything really. The way I was blind. The way you were naive. The way all this shit went down and hot it turned out. But worse than that....the path that we're surely going to take. The way that I'm always right about these kinds of things. I predicted the future with the other (you know) and it turned out EXACTLY like that. And now...I can see it too. We, you and me, for each other will soon mean nothing and fade into nothing. A part of me, the part that hurts beyond human language (but not above sounds), hopes that is exactly what happens. So that I will never have to look at you again and want you ever again and realize what I lost ever again.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Suddenly I See
It may not seem like a big thing to most people, actually, to anybody at all. One might think that the frenzy I create over the acquisition of something as a milestone in my small life is pretentious, ridiculous, dramatic and just bordering on sheer lunacy (case in point: Wacom Tablet). Trying to make something into what its not.
But I alone know what these small acquisitions mean and represent and though the time space continuum shifts are small (if changed at all) by these, the amount of history, inflection and heartache traversed to be able to reach this point is something only I can understand and few others can appreciate. Actually, only two.
I finally did it. July 23rd, 2008. I finally got off my lazy ass, defied all laws and rules (of this damn establishment) and went and became the independent version of the self cast in my mind. I got contacts.
That's right. What to some may seem so infitesimal a move so as to be laughable is actually to me a shift in the direction (whether right or wrong, who knows, that classifcation is partial and arbitrary). Sounding louder than the superficial or practical reasons for getting them are the consequences of getting them. I defied and turned a deaf ear to adversities (read, my ridiculous brown parents - yes that was necessary), harnessed the power of my financial selfworth (which is newfound and quite wonderful as aggravating as the job may be) and I got out of this state of self deprecation and hopeless frustrating loss.
I quit daydreaming, speculating, hoping, wishing, fearing, guilting, casting, and blindly feeling around for fucking once and actually took that paintbrush and not only painted that view of myself but filled it up. In colour.
I have waited for this turn for about 5 years now. I've waited for the image in my mind which is both physical and this freer spiritual concept of myself to match the short, kiddy, inadequate, slightly dumpy looking thing that I actually am. I feel more grand. No, I always feel grand in my head but now I feel grand about feeling grand. It is, without a doubt, most lovely.
Progression and progressive. World be damned. That was always my attitude. Then why do I fear? Why does it take me so long to act upon? Is it that I'm a paper tiger? Is it that I lack the energy or the sense of excitement and life that I'm always talking about achieving? Or do I just suffer from the same ailment as so many others: content to dream and hope but scared that fulfiling that image may lead me to idleness once that image has been filled up; scare, in short of the end being less impressive than the journey? I'm impulsive but only when it comes to emotions and taking action on those; what about reaching the better state of things, shouldn't I be more heady with those? Oh, and I plan to (hah, irony), once I have the luxury of jumping without looking. For now I'll cast a quick gleeful glance at my list and cross yet another wonderful thing off it.
Next stop: haircut with bright blond highlights (end of summer in time for uni) and some weight loss. Who the fuck needs New Year's resolutions? Full steam ahead!
Cheers.
But I alone know what these small acquisitions mean and represent and though the time space continuum shifts are small (if changed at all) by these, the amount of history, inflection and heartache traversed to be able to reach this point is something only I can understand and few others can appreciate. Actually, only two.
I finally did it. July 23rd, 2008. I finally got off my lazy ass, defied all laws and rules (of this damn establishment) and went and became the independent version of the self cast in my mind. I got contacts.
That's right. What to some may seem so infitesimal a move so as to be laughable is actually to me a shift in the direction (whether right or wrong, who knows, that classifcation is partial and arbitrary). Sounding louder than the superficial or practical reasons for getting them are the consequences of getting them. I defied and turned a deaf ear to adversities (read, my ridiculous brown parents - yes that was necessary), harnessed the power of my financial selfworth (which is newfound and quite wonderful as aggravating as the job may be) and I got out of this state of self deprecation and hopeless frustrating loss.
I quit daydreaming, speculating, hoping, wishing, fearing, guilting, casting, and blindly feeling around for fucking once and actually took that paintbrush and not only painted that view of myself but filled it up. In colour.
I have waited for this turn for about 5 years now. I've waited for the image in my mind which is both physical and this freer spiritual concept of myself to match the short, kiddy, inadequate, slightly dumpy looking thing that I actually am. I feel more grand. No, I always feel grand in my head but now I feel grand about feeling grand. It is, without a doubt, most lovely.
Progression and progressive. World be damned. That was always my attitude. Then why do I fear? Why does it take me so long to act upon? Is it that I'm a paper tiger? Is it that I lack the energy or the sense of excitement and life that I'm always talking about achieving? Or do I just suffer from the same ailment as so many others: content to dream and hope but scared that fulfiling that image may lead me to idleness once that image has been filled up; scare, in short of the end being less impressive than the journey? I'm impulsive but only when it comes to emotions and taking action on those; what about reaching the better state of things, shouldn't I be more heady with those? Oh, and I plan to (hah, irony), once I have the luxury of jumping without looking. For now I'll cast a quick gleeful glance at my list and cross yet another wonderful thing off it.
Next stop: haircut with bright blond highlights (end of summer in time for uni) and some weight loss. Who the fuck needs New Year's resolutions? Full steam ahead!
Cheers.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Inside and Out
I really want to post my latest piece of art done with my shiny new tablet but it was only partially done with the help of said tablet thus I will wait till I'm done my actual first-tablet-work-of-art to post both.
I was recently commenting on a friend's journal when the thought and talk of spontaneously combusting caused me to think of pinata (even though pinatas dont spontaneously combust). I wondered what that would feel like - not to be beaten to a pulp until candy pours out of you. No, rather, if I were a pinata, what candy would come out of me?
Call me arrogant, but it wouldn't be dollar store candy like those Spinder-Man Pez & Popeye Candy Sticks. I suppose it would be a mix of alot of different varieties of candy and chocolate, some bitter, some not so.
I guess gummy bears would definitely be a part of it cuz they're hard to bite off but mushy when warmed. Lindt chocolate because it's ever a mystery how the middle stays so soft while the outside shell hardens; because its sensual and melts on your tongue. Ferrero Rocher - because I love it. Kit Kat because it is a tasteless, cookie wafer covered in chocolate, which makes it worthwhile. Reeses Pieces because I used to hate Reese's cups until I tried the pieces and realized that good things can come in all shapes and forms and that one form shouldn't condemn another.
Liquer-filled dark chocolate for all the reasons you can know and just one more you dont. Packets of sour Skittles would flow out of me, too, for those more than often grumpy-puss days. No caramel, please, I despise it. Actually, I harbour a short temper and a penchant to hate hard and fast - like caramel. Okay, so maybe some caramel chocolate too. I would have a few Kisses but only the striped ones because they're multi-faceted and change everytime you turn them. I would also have Hubba-Bubba Bubblegum flavoured because I'm sometimes old fashioned and classic and the kid inside me never died, in fact the adult inside of me never came out truth be told (read immature).
Chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the packet for those lazy days. Gourmet Candy, Godiva's Dark Chocolate and Hershey's Cookies n' Cream. Cuz...I'm brown? Hah.
What candy would come out of you if you were a pinata? I wonder that. All these people I know...not candy and chocolate that they love...but rather candy and chocolate that is representative of them. The analysis of that, however, could take a longer post. Better save it for another time, my freshly enameled nails are now dry.
Cheers.
I was recently commenting on a friend's journal when the thought and talk of spontaneously combusting caused me to think of pinata (even though pinatas dont spontaneously combust). I wondered what that would feel like - not to be beaten to a pulp until candy pours out of you. No, rather, if I were a pinata, what candy would come out of me?
Call me arrogant, but it wouldn't be dollar store candy like those Spinder-Man Pez & Popeye Candy Sticks. I suppose it would be a mix of alot of different varieties of candy and chocolate, some bitter, some not so.
I guess gummy bears would definitely be a part of it cuz they're hard to bite off but mushy when warmed. Lindt chocolate because it's ever a mystery how the middle stays so soft while the outside shell hardens; because its sensual and melts on your tongue. Ferrero Rocher - because I love it. Kit Kat because it is a tasteless, cookie wafer covered in chocolate, which makes it worthwhile. Reeses Pieces because I used to hate Reese's cups until I tried the pieces and realized that good things can come in all shapes and forms and that one form shouldn't condemn another.
Liquer-filled dark chocolate for all the reasons you can know and just one more you dont. Packets of sour Skittles would flow out of me, too, for those more than often grumpy-puss days. No caramel, please, I despise it. Actually, I harbour a short temper and a penchant to hate hard and fast - like caramel. Okay, so maybe some caramel chocolate too. I would have a few Kisses but only the striped ones because they're multi-faceted and change everytime you turn them. I would also have Hubba-Bubba Bubblegum flavoured because I'm sometimes old fashioned and classic and the kid inside me never died, in fact the adult inside of me never came out truth be told (read immature).
Chocolate chip cookie dough straight from the packet for those lazy days. Gourmet Candy, Godiva's Dark Chocolate and Hershey's Cookies n' Cream. Cuz...I'm brown? Hah.
What candy would come out of you if you were a pinata? I wonder that. All these people I know...not candy and chocolate that they love...but rather candy and chocolate that is representative of them. The analysis of that, however, could take a longer post. Better save it for another time, my freshly enameled nails are now dry.
Cheers.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Smells like New Technology
In stock, waiting to be posted or published are as snippets and pieces of writing that are masquerading as "fresh", "questioning" or explorative works penned. But everything has a time and a place and at this time, I want to say just this. Just two things.
This too shall pass. In its passing, I shall be naught but humbled and grateful of anything it teaches me and en generale.
and
Things aren't as big, grand, complicated or dramatic as your mind makes it.
The End.
P.S. I feel I must catalog this. After four years of wishing and wanting I finally had the balls and guts to get a tablet. Side effects may be increased anti-social behaviours but I'm feeling this feeling that's hard to describe. Disbelief may best capture it but not disbelief at holding the lovely sleek thing in my hands nor at having finally bought it or having the means to. No, that I expected would one day happen. That I invested in and paid attention to an acute part of my love for art, so acute you could name the hunger to create and inspire as longing.
Actually I'm surprised at now having one most important thing crossed of The Grand Maestro List. Slowly, I'm working upon what I sought, touching those areas. The action of completing it and crossing it out is what takes me by surprise. Pleasantly so. For maybe everything else isn't as impossible either. I'm not being bolstered by a mere piece of technology, no, it is not as juvenile or as simple as that. But rather, these years, all these years of longing and wishing and dreaing and hoping and working may, it seems, finally come to fruition on a grander scale if something this small that I poured so much longing and wishing into finally came to be.
This too shall pass. In its passing, I shall be naught but humbled and grateful of anything it teaches me and en generale.
and
Things aren't as big, grand, complicated or dramatic as your mind makes it.
The End.
P.S. I feel I must catalog this. After four years of wishing and wanting I finally had the balls and guts to get a tablet. Side effects may be increased anti-social behaviours but I'm feeling this feeling that's hard to describe. Disbelief may best capture it but not disbelief at holding the lovely sleek thing in my hands nor at having finally bought it or having the means to. No, that I expected would one day happen. That I invested in and paid attention to an acute part of my love for art, so acute you could name the hunger to create and inspire as longing.
Actually I'm surprised at now having one most important thing crossed of The Grand Maestro List. Slowly, I'm working upon what I sought, touching those areas. The action of completing it and crossing it out is what takes me by surprise. Pleasantly so. For maybe everything else isn't as impossible either. I'm not being bolstered by a mere piece of technology, no, it is not as juvenile or as simple as that. But rather, these years, all these years of longing and wishing and dreaing and hoping and working may, it seems, finally come to fruition on a grander scale if something this small that I poured so much longing and wishing into finally came to be.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Life & Times
He needs no introduction, no smarmy paragraph, no twist of words, no dollop of shine.
He is Dan Eldon.
Who is Dan Eldon?
One may never know. Despite leaving behind a legacy of journals that catalgoued in 3x5's the world through the eyes of a human, despite expelling ideas in letters and exclamations of adventure, humanity and observation, all physical presence and active action have perished young, as the thinker himself.
But you know you are looking at true magic when faced with immortality; when the thinker dies but the thought lives on forever.
There are many wonderous things and marvellous people in this world who come into being and leave their mark, leave us wondering and hungry for more. There is a quality in these things and these people that transcends our understanding, something that we classify as unique or different, for lack of a better word. But the truth is, these are mere adjectives, poorly defined and designed to give life to a feeling produced that's small and quiet but incomprehensible in its wonder.
Succumb to what makes up a small percentage of the infinite world of the Internet, Wikipedia and read for yourself what it is that Dan Eldon accomplished. Many describe him as a blazing comet, a rush of adventure, a trailblazer with a human heart. I will describe it in one way.
Question: What does it mean to be human?
Answer: Dan Eldon.
Does this mean that he is the only human worth being considered? No. Not by any means. Hundreds of nameless, faceless heroes are changing the world in small (and large) ways everyday. But I mean to say that he was (and is, for he may be no more but actions are continual and ring true forever, turning over in a cause & effect chain that changes the future; think The Chaos Theory.) humanistic in his faults and his actions. A spotlight on Dan Eldon, then, if you please.
I, myself, confess to being endlessly fascinated by things of this nature: by people and events that have this immortal, human, moralistic streak, a heady, raw and earthy aura, an idealistic-to-a-fault edge, a small observation giving birth to a larger philosophy. Perhaps that is what drew me and what I try now, almost in vain, to describe. To catalogue. Fail though I may, at least I am cataloguing. And that is exactly what Dan Eldon did. But on a broader scale, with effective methods and more grandiose consequences.
Now think about it. Once you're done that, ask yourself and consider this: why is it that millions of people clamber and crowd for an autograph of their favorite star or celebrity or guru or what have you, inked in notebook lines and palm lines alike? Why it is merely the taste of immortality. Of course, that is what it is. Is it not? Everytime they flip the pages of that book open or open the plam of their hand, they can see and recall the exact moment in which that certain idolized person spared a minute to cast their signature. A signature is unique, identifiable and branded. An immortal brand.
These wonderous people of renown, forces in their field to be reckoned, long gone, have somehow and in some erascible way made their mark and signature upon humanity. Case in point: Vemeer and the Art of Painting, who's very work was hoarded by the love-to-hate, hate-to-love Adolf Hitler himself. Yes, I will gladly get to the point. Dan Eldon lived in Kenya with his mother, father and sister, as you already know, Google whore that you are.
He traveled and visited 46 countries, could speak 7 languages both self-taught and through school, and raised 5K for the open-heart surgery of a young Kenyan girl who later died due to hospital neglect. Though he was initially sent to a british school, he convinced his parents to allow him to attend the International School of Kenya, socializing and forming friendships with the local children of Nairobi.
Living in Africa as he did, Eldon met with with terrible beauty: the cross and clash of two paradoxes. The beautiful, rugged landscape of Africa and the poverty and suffering it housed on its soil. Armed with observation, wit, humanity and what is described to be New York telephone directory sized books, Eldon began cataloguing his surroundings at the age of 15.
Eldon kept taking time off from school to work and experience his surroundings. He accepted a job working for a magazine in New York and even got to work as a third assistant to the director on a movie called Lost in Africa. In January of 1989, he and friend drove a Land Rover across the African plain, spanning five countries. What's amazing is that he returned to school, all the while planning his next trips, purchased another land rover for a trip to morroco, planned to buy and sell bracelets in America. He spent time in Morroco and then shipped over 5K worth of goods to America, which he then proceeded to sell on the beaches of Southern California.
Through his photographs, his comments, his thoughts and feelings, he has created an imprint on the world - his imprint - in a very quiet but fitful way. He planned and felt and calculated and executed, only to die at 23. And yet he did all that he could, things that we, I, could only dream of having the courage to do in five lives.
Forget his double spreads, forget the fame or the so called greatness of his actions. I am blown over by the humanity in them. I am stunned by the immortality gained not by internationally acclaimed photographs but by the words he says through those photographs. The actions he has taken, sensibilities he must have possessed.
Especially now. I look around now and all I see are the apathy-filled idiots of North America. These kids, the half grown child-adults who think that they have a right to everything from education to entertainment. It hurts my heart when I think of the strange shadow, mere illusions of our selves that we seem to have become. And then I hurt to think that souls like Dan's leave so quickly, but make footsteps so grand. A global theme, goodness is always downtrodden, always conquered by evil, always squished at a young age.
But it is golden, because that goodness is immortal. And in the face of death, you will always see life flashing past you.
Here's to life. Here's to Dan Eldon, a pillar of that true-veined life. And a time that will someday return and sustain.
He is Dan Eldon.
Who is Dan Eldon?
One may never know. Despite leaving behind a legacy of journals that catalgoued in 3x5's the world through the eyes of a human, despite expelling ideas in letters and exclamations of adventure, humanity and observation, all physical presence and active action have perished young, as the thinker himself.
But you know you are looking at true magic when faced with immortality; when the thinker dies but the thought lives on forever.
There are many wonderous things and marvellous people in this world who come into being and leave their mark, leave us wondering and hungry for more. There is a quality in these things and these people that transcends our understanding, something that we classify as unique or different, for lack of a better word. But the truth is, these are mere adjectives, poorly defined and designed to give life to a feeling produced that's small and quiet but incomprehensible in its wonder.
Succumb to what makes up a small percentage of the infinite world of the Internet, Wikipedia and read for yourself what it is that Dan Eldon accomplished. Many describe him as a blazing comet, a rush of adventure, a trailblazer with a human heart. I will describe it in one way.
Question: What does it mean to be human?
Answer: Dan Eldon.
Does this mean that he is the only human worth being considered? No. Not by any means. Hundreds of nameless, faceless heroes are changing the world in small (and large) ways everyday. But I mean to say that he was (and is, for he may be no more but actions are continual and ring true forever, turning over in a cause & effect chain that changes the future; think The Chaos Theory.) humanistic in his faults and his actions. A spotlight on Dan Eldon, then, if you please.
I, myself, confess to being endlessly fascinated by things of this nature: by people and events that have this immortal, human, moralistic streak, a heady, raw and earthy aura, an idealistic-to-a-fault edge, a small observation giving birth to a larger philosophy. Perhaps that is what drew me and what I try now, almost in vain, to describe. To catalogue. Fail though I may, at least I am cataloguing. And that is exactly what Dan Eldon did. But on a broader scale, with effective methods and more grandiose consequences.
Now think about it. Once you're done that, ask yourself and consider this: why is it that millions of people clamber and crowd for an autograph of their favorite star or celebrity or guru or what have you, inked in notebook lines and palm lines alike? Why it is merely the taste of immortality. Of course, that is what it is. Is it not? Everytime they flip the pages of that book open or open the plam of their hand, they can see and recall the exact moment in which that certain idolized person spared a minute to cast their signature. A signature is unique, identifiable and branded. An immortal brand.
These wonderous people of renown, forces in their field to be reckoned, long gone, have somehow and in some erascible way made their mark and signature upon humanity. Case in point: Vemeer and the Art of Painting, who's very work was hoarded by the love-to-hate, hate-to-love Adolf Hitler himself. Yes, I will gladly get to the point. Dan Eldon lived in Kenya with his mother, father and sister, as you already know, Google whore that you are.
He traveled and visited 46 countries, could speak 7 languages both self-taught and through school, and raised 5K for the open-heart surgery of a young Kenyan girl who later died due to hospital neglect. Though he was initially sent to a british school, he convinced his parents to allow him to attend the International School of Kenya, socializing and forming friendships with the local children of Nairobi.
Living in Africa as he did, Eldon met with with terrible beauty: the cross and clash of two paradoxes. The beautiful, rugged landscape of Africa and the poverty and suffering it housed on its soil. Armed with observation, wit, humanity and what is described to be New York telephone directory sized books, Eldon began cataloguing his surroundings at the age of 15.
Eldon kept taking time off from school to work and experience his surroundings. He accepted a job working for a magazine in New York and even got to work as a third assistant to the director on a movie called Lost in Africa. In January of 1989, he and friend drove a Land Rover across the African plain, spanning five countries. What's amazing is that he returned to school, all the while planning his next trips, purchased another land rover for a trip to morroco, planned to buy and sell bracelets in America. He spent time in Morroco and then shipped over 5K worth of goods to America, which he then proceeded to sell on the beaches of Southern California.
Through his photographs, his comments, his thoughts and feelings, he has created an imprint on the world - his imprint - in a very quiet but fitful way. He planned and felt and calculated and executed, only to die at 23. And yet he did all that he could, things that we, I, could only dream of having the courage to do in five lives.
Forget his double spreads, forget the fame or the so called greatness of his actions. I am blown over by the humanity in them. I am stunned by the immortality gained not by internationally acclaimed photographs but by the words he says through those photographs. The actions he has taken, sensibilities he must have possessed.
Especially now. I look around now and all I see are the apathy-filled idiots of North America. These kids, the half grown child-adults who think that they have a right to everything from education to entertainment. It hurts my heart when I think of the strange shadow, mere illusions of our selves that we seem to have become. And then I hurt to think that souls like Dan's leave so quickly, but make footsteps so grand. A global theme, goodness is always downtrodden, always conquered by evil, always squished at a young age.
But it is golden, because that goodness is immortal. And in the face of death, you will always see life flashing past you.
Here's to life. Here's to Dan Eldon, a pillar of that true-veined life. And a time that will someday return and sustain.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Tired of Waiting: When will it be my turn?
"SILENT DANCE PARTY
Tonight at Midnight in Yonge-Dundas Square!
Bring your favorite MP3 player. Arrive in Yonge-Dundas Square at midnight sharp for the countdown and press play! Over 200 individually controlled LED lights hung over Yonge-Dundas Square will interact with the music, transforming the space into a silent dance party like never before. Right-click here to download the set"
Shit man. Shit. The essence of my life.
And of course, I can't go.
Tonight at Midnight in Yonge-Dundas Square!
Bring your favorite MP3 player. Arrive in Yonge-Dundas Square at midnight sharp for the countdown and press play! Over 200 individually controlled LED lights hung over Yonge-Dundas Square will interact with the music, transforming the space into a silent dance party like never before. Right-click here to download the set"
Shit man. Shit. The essence of my life.
And of course, I can't go.
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