When the dog bites, when the bee stings...

Yesterday, I went down to a beautiful photo studio that sits right across the street from the Princess Grill in a just decrepit enough building in the exchange district. Level 3 Studios (as it is called because it is on the 3rd level of the building, how clever) was a very impressive wide expanse with an ever changing style of wall and flooring to create a photographers playground. The reason I was there was not to gap at the grandeur of the place, though I did, but to be the first participant in my friend Jarrod's project, "Favorite Things". That may not be the exact name, but we will say that it is for the purposes of this post. The mode of the project is to have someone talk about their favorite thing and to have photos in conjunction of the subject, in this case myself, with their favorite thing. (This is where the photos about came from)

Here in laid the interesting thought process. When you are asked what is your favorite thing, out of all your objects or conceptions or whatever, what do you pick? Is it your most valuable thing? My most valuable thing is my computer. If my house was burning down it would be one of the things I would grab. It is probably one of my most used objects. I wouldn't even grab my favorite thing if my house was on fire. But, valued or frequency of use doesn't help that object to vibrate at the same frequency of the core of your being. That thing, that seems to articulate the pining of your heart, or make it vibrate with more strength and inspiration, that is it. That thing that makes your heart rate quicken and your tongue loosen at the mention of it. That is your favorite thing.

After much thought and musing I decided upon GK Chesterton's Manalive. I have been equally entertained by wit and prose in other books (though Chesterton seems to be able to deliver more frequently than others), but never have I been driven to live a better life by any other work of fiction. A life defying the mundane, a life of fairy tale.

For the shoot I was going to borrow Aaron's copy as it is much more interesting than my own. And this simple action made me realize why I wouldn't grab my copy if the house was on fire. It's not the book that I'm connected to, it's the story. As long as the story exists in some form somewhere, even if just the inspiration still remaining in my brain from reading it, I have my favorite thing. My favorite thing is in a sense immaterial, and it's avatar is the copies that exist.

Get some coffee in me and my mind can go many places.
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Here is a painting from Value Village that I got in a gift exchange. Miriam, Aaron and myself had a little fun with it.

click it so that you can see it in more detail.

Love Dancing Her Like Cake

These made my night. They are composed by the Avin, the 4 year old daughter of my friends Joel and Maribel. The magnetic letters that adorn their fridge are her creative word playground. Only a child could think up these smile inducing phrases.

sorry for the low quality. all i had was my cell phone.




There was one more that I couldn't photograph because of the limitations of my phone. It said, "She said to go plant a cat out in the sun".

beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

This has been a test of Joel Schwab's testosterone and facial hair correlation capabilities.


After a month (and a few days, but whose counting) we now return to your regularly scheduled facial hair.

And don't think I didn't consider it. Oh, did I ever consider. But Aaron has that market covered.

Only that which is named is able to live in language...

Words are not what they signify. We confuse the signifier with the signified. Words are only words. They live in an atmosphere of their own.

Words are suitcases crammed with culture.

- from "The Prowler" by Kristjana Gunnars

Claude* strikes again!

The ever vigilant Claude made an appearance for the awareness of unlocked lockers. Such a worth and oft forgotten cause. It was an unprotected locker, two down from Melissa's, it's valuable textbooks left open to the grasps of would be thieves. Before securing the locker Claude left a note to both entertain and shock the owner into remembering how exposed their property could be. Fight the good fight Claude. Perhaps one day there will be a world where every locker is secured.

11-11

Soon the drone of voices died down as men in their blankets lay down to get the much need rest they would require in a few hours. I think that very few of them slept. They probably were trying to picture what they would be doing at dawn in the gloom that confronted them. I think a lot of them prayed for the first time in their lives. And most of all dreamed of their homeland, and ones dear to them. Some wondered if they would be afraid, others felt they wouldn’t return, others felt a guardian over them, others didn’t know, they were the victim of circumstances and confined their odds to fate.
...
Then came the familiar words. “Driver Advance!” My foot gradually released the clutch pedal and I knew we were rolling off the T.L.C. It was not my hand but one of invisibility that guided me as my fingers touched the tiller bar. “A little left! Steady! Driver right!” Something was making me calm and stealing my nerves. Perhaps after all it was the hand of Fate. I felt Bloody proudly sway to and fro as she mounted the ramp and then defiantly plunge down onto the beach. Over the wire came, “Driver halt, blow your cortex.” Calmly amidst the din of the already raging battle I grasped the plug that would blow the water tight sealing and open my vision hatches onto the scene of Hell.
What I saw I have not enough words to describe but I shall always remember.

-excerpts from my Grandfather's journal the night before and morning of Dieppe


WWII was my grandfather's war. I know nothing of war. Nothing of the fear of being shot, of capture, or heroism and squandered lives. Not even the wars that are fought today are my wars. The idea is too far beyond me to wrap my head around. The tragedies are to large for me to comprehend or encapsulate. The whole too much to understand. So in trying to mourn the whole war I feel almost nothing. I simply can not understand it enough to feel it all. So on these days, on Remembrance Day I think of my Grandfather. My Grandfather who I only know from his war time journal that he left behind and the words of his children. My Grandfather who I know was so mentally and emotionally destroyed by the war that the man who left for the war never really came home. I understand this grief better, this morsel of the full story. And maybe just remembering this small part of the whole is what I'm supposed to do anyway.

Set the Sails

After months of deliberating, praying and contemplation I have resigned from Ignite 107. I was becoming too bitter about the inner workings of the station and it was affecting the rest of my life. A negative emotion poison that was seeping into my general consciousness. I haven't been happy there for a long time, but it had reached a whole new level. But, I do care about the station and the roll I feel it should be playing, so I spent a little over a week writing, restarting and altering my letter of resignation. The first drafts were rather angry and accusing upon rereading, but I eventually ended up with this:

Ignite 107/Goldenwest Radio,

I have been with the station for almost a year now. It has been a beneficial experience and I feel that I have grown as a result of my time here. However, I feel that at this time Ignite is no longer a good fit for me, nor I the best person for the position. You need a person that can share in your vision for the station and has a passion for radio. So at this time I am hereby giving my two weeks notice.

Ignite walks a tricky path. In representing yourself as “Christian” Ignite has placed a responsibility and standard upon itself that is difficult to follow. Your intentions are to minister to people but must still consider the bottom line. I pray that God will bless the station and help it grow into a prosperous business that can represent Christ well and be a support to the listeners.

In my first meeting at Ignite I was told, “we are not going to change the world.” This has stuck with me and bothered me immensely. That is exactly what Ignite should be doing. I am beginning to see this view surface. Take more risks, push more envelopes, be willing to make people uncomfortable or the station will slowly die.

I would like to encourage the station especially in moving the power over the playlist to Kyle. The people on the front lines should be the ones making the music decisions. All the on-airs have a passion for the music and have a vision as to how Ignite can best thrive. Let passion be the driving force. I also encourage you to look beyond CCM. In my experience CCM is a bad system. It draws moral and spiritual safety lines based on distributers, and labels. There are amazing Christian musicians with artistic merit and deep spiritual messages that are not distributed by the easy channels. Reliance on the charts and mainline distribution will create stagnancy and stump the stations possible effectiveness. God is the ultimate creator, let the music on the station be a celebration of that and worship to Him.

In all your actions with staff and the community let the love of Jesus permeate completely. Do not be a business filling a market niche, be a Christ intentioned business.

I will continue to hope for Gods will to be done in the future of both Ignite and CHVN.

Joel Schwab

Hopefully this is a step back to take two steps forward. I don't have any real work lined up yet, but I'm trusting that God has something for me. Regardless of work (or worklessness) I feel energized, empowered and inspired. Being free of the poison alone makes it worth it.

City of Joy

This fell out from the back cover of my bible the other day. I've had it sitting on my desk since then. There are two sets of twins that usually sit with me during church, two boys, two girls. One of the girls, Dorris, gave this to me. It's a map, but the most beautiful map. And that she called it "City of Joy" creates some inarticulate feeling akin to wonder. I don't feel like I have anything else I can form into words.

If wishes were horses, more beggars would ride them.

Ah, disappointment. How bitter you taste and how you linger in the back of my throat. Especially after the sweet whiff of possible freedom and success.

There was an internship at Merit Motion Pictures, a documentary company, I applied for this weekend. It looked absolutely perfect. An 18 week internship with full time hours, and a pay of 12,000 for the load. It involved mostly working with their website, organizing their database, and learning how to work in a production company. My hopes were high. I even have a friend in the company, so the odds were looking good.

The interview this morning wasn't perfect, but I thought it went well. However, the rest of the day I was playing it over in my mind. I should have said that instead. Why did I say that? Did I talk over her there? Did she notice? Each small error got it's own part starring on the stage of my mind in a play of second guess with a with a run of 1500 shows. Needless to say I was a little preoccupied all day.

They were to let me know tomorrow morning, but the email came tonight. They decided to go with someone else. I feel so very defeated. Mostly because I feel that it was my own doings in the interview that lost me the position. There is no consolation but a job. I'm going to go to bed and sleep off this sour mood.

I feel like this today. Melancholic and not making complete sense.

Extract from a romance which is not yet written and probably never will be

To a Modern Poet by GK Chesterton
(The resolution for some reason is very low, so click on them to see them in their full and readable form.)



Books touch that deep down part of me that you might refer as my inner child. They get me excited. It's not just the reading of them, but the tactile experience of them. The crinkle of the pages, the slight grain of the paper rubbing up against the tips of your fingers as you pass your hand over it, and in the case of old books, the smell of history that only something of past generations has. This is a love affair that has been going on for some time.

This past weekend I struck gold. It has become a habit of mine when going into any used book store, as I can often be found doing, to ask if they have any Chesterton. Most often they will have a copy of "The Man Who Was Thursday" or some of the Father Brown collection, both of which I purchased long ago. It just so happened this time that they had a copy of collected poems by Mr Chesterton himself. A first edition printing of "The Collected Poems of Gilbert Keith Chesterton" from 1927 in surprisingly great condition for being over 80 years old. When the owner of the bookstore handed me the book I was positively giddy and the story of the pearl of great price kept running through my head. Thankfully it only cost $25, a steal for such a valuable pearl.

The book held more treasure than I could have guessed. Beyond the accidentally unevenly weighted text on the rough cloth paper pages, included were newspaper clippings from the 20's and 30's. Some about the book, some not. (I love the typo in the second paragraph of this one where they refer to him as Mr Chesterfield.)



DEH Cleveland MD, the previous own of the book whose claim to the copy was found on the inside cover also left notes throughout the book. It is interesting to see what moved this total stranger, but fellow Chesterton lover. Looking through the book it is fascinating to see what poems he marked off with a short line in pencil beside the title. It feels like a strange connection to some person I have no real connection to. It is like I am privy to the ruminating and thoughts of a stranger, an odd sort of voyeurism.



I found this photo in there as well. No markings on it to say who is in the photo. Is this his mother holding his son? Perhaps, it is his grandmother holding him when he was a child. It is left to the imagination to tell the story and fill in the gaps.

A treasure of a book, and I look forward to reading each of it's 356 pages.

Call It What You Will

It's amazing how fast someone can claim a space in your heart. Before you realize it, their presence is anchored into some new alcove in your heart, securing in their friendly claws tightly. Which is why it hurts so much when they leave. Farewell my friend Miyoko. I will fondly remember our conversations over a good glass of wine. Toronto beckons you to your future where better things await. It rained heavily all day. Fitting for the melancholy occasion. You will be missed.



I leave tomorrow for Jon and Danelle's wedding. Still much to do, but oh, what a week that awaits.

Why Can't Art Be Interactive

Can games be art?

Ignoring all the possible debate I could cover that continues to wage war over definitions and facets, I will slam down my opinion.

Yes. Yes the medium can surpass entertainment, not always leaving it behind as it reaches for the higher (superior?) caste.

If experimental film can be described as linear motion added to paintings, why can't games be participation/interactivity added to paintings. The games of Jason Rohrer and Daniel Benmergui, even Braid, the Path and Shadow of the Colossus are great examples of surpassing the basic goal completion to create a thought provoking experience.

Really though, this is not an attempt to argue the point, but an entry point, an incentive for you to try out this game, Windowsill by Vector Park. I bought this game a few months ago, and since then he has made it free for in browser play as well as to download. The game is absolutely beautiful, each section a seperate work of art to drink in and savour. Yes there is a task, a puzzle for each stage, but that is hardly the point of the game. Give it a try and tell me what you think.

This is not an ending

It has been a very long time since I written anything on here. I almost wrote "too long" but then I considered that that wouldn't be true. It has not been that I haven't had anything to write, I have. I have just chosen not to write. And so the amount of time it took for me to write has been the perfect amount of time.

This past month plus since I have written has been filled with auspicious occasions and important events. My brother and his fiancee came to the city for a wedding shower, I bought my first cell phone, and I just returned from an amazing 5 days at Folk Fest. All of this is all the more special because it is my first summer in the city in 7 years. Life happened and I felt no need to document it. I simply felt the desire to enjoy them in their moments and let them pass, because really that's part of what makes them valuable and beautiful. Their fleeting, their temporary existence made them something to be savored in that moment and digested into memory. And in memory they will grow to be something more wonderful as I forget the small troubles and trails that happened leaving only sunshine and smiles. And it all melds into what will be later referred to as the good old days.

So here's to the second half of summer yet to come. May it's days be as wonderful and memorable as the ones that proceeded them. The house is quiet and there is a cloudless blue sky outside. It should be a nice evening.

The Done Manifesto

I learned about the Done Manifesto about a month ago, but oh do I need to follow it right now. I'm backed up with projects. I am a perfectionist. I fiddle, edit, make, assess, delete, redo, rinse and repeat. I need to get these projects done so I can clear up my life and get moving on paying work, because they are in my way. I'm pretty sure that there will always be projects like these around, but for right now I need to get the ones in front of me done. Onwards and upwards my friends, surge through the fray.

The Done Manifesto

1. There are three states of being. Not knowing, action and completion.
2. Accept that everything is a draft. It helps to get it done.
3. There is no editing stage.
4. Pretending you know what you’re doing is almost the same as knowing what you are doing, so just accept that you know what you’re doing even if you don’t and do it.
5. Banish procrastination. If you wait more than a week to get an idea done, abandon it.
6. The point of being done is not to finish but to get other things done.
7. Once you’re done you can throw it away.
8. Laugh at perfection. It’s boring and keeps you from being done.
9. People without dirty hands are wrong. Doing something makes you right.
10. Failure counts as done. So do mistakes.
11. Destruction is a variant of done.
12. If you have an idea and publish it on the internet, that counts as a ghost of done.
13. Done is the engine of more.

I think I'm going to print out this interpretation for my room.

Whoo! Alright - Yeah...Uh Huh

I forgot how good this felt. How did I forget this? It's been so long since I edited something for fun. My brain is a buzz with potential cuts for this video. No more polar bears, no more dry and serious interviews. How much fun this is to let the beats and tempo be expressed as visuals. There is life in these hands and fingers, and I'm sure if I was looking at myself I'd see it in my eyes as well. This is first love rediscovered, the honeymoon revisited, a reminder of why. I am going to leave my Cedarwood era with such a good video, most likely my last video for them ever, if this inspiration keeps flowing. It will be shared upon completion.

Admitting weakness can be one of the hardest things to do.

When I die, remember that I was a jerk sometimes.

The In-Laws Have Cows

The chosen from the roll shot at my brother Jon's fiance Danelle's parent's farm.

This Octopus Is Going to Eat Your Face

I slipped. It was on ice, which makes it about month or so ago. I caught myself with my right arm positioned straight putting all the force on my shoulder. I can't articulate what I felt, it was just a general feeling of sharp pain which kept me from concentrating on such details. I might have felt my shoulder pop out, I might have felt it crack, I couldn't recall as I lay on the ground rubbing my throbbing shoulder. I suffered through the next few days of severe discomfort, but felt all it needed was some time to heal.

I should have know to go get it checked out right away from my previous experience with my breaking my right knee cap. I'd been down this path before, but of course, my testosterone told me I would be fine and to not worry about it. I'll walk it off. So now it's a month later (better than the six months it took for my knee), and I'm spending a good chunk of my day in the waiting room at the Pan Am clinic.

I've been here before so I know the wait that is ahead of me. I brought a copy of CS Lewis's 'Voyage to Venus' but find it hard to concentrate due to the TV playing over my head and the growing impulse to peek over the top of the book and people watch. That guy right across from me looks like a mess with road rash on the side of his face and his arm cradled into his body. The twenty something possibly farmer, possibly construction worker in the corner has a cast peaking out from the sleeve of his mud encrusted jacket while the girl beside him reading some generic women's magazine has a tensor bandage wrapped around her knee. I start to analyze how I must look amidst such apparent injury. No abrasions, no bandages, I'm not even limping. I must look like some hypochondriac come to waste the doctors time. I feel inadequately injured amidst such bodily trauma. I should have faked a limp.

After what seems like the better part of the day watching the more deserving lead away to the doctor one by one, my name is called. "Just in here," she says, "and have your shirt off." There is no more self criticizing time than sitting in the doctors room looking at the lump of pasty white winter weight that has secured itself to my midriff. I'm here to get my shoulder checked out, but I fear the doctor might in the objective interest of my health say something or at least cast chastising glance. Anyone else, in any other situation has the obligation of social etiquette to not speak of it, but a doctor, no matter how low he makes your self-esteem must be thanked for his sage advice. There is no greater motivation to hit the gym than sitting in an examination room trying to find the least unflattering sitting position.

Thankfully my fears are not realized as the doctor who eventually arrives is fully concerned with the state of my shoulder, not my waistline. I feel silly for worrying, but still, you better count on the fact that the urgency of obtaining a gym membership is at the top of my to do list. The prognosis of my shoulder becomes my main attention, leaving my future hours on the elliptical to be pondered over another time. Dr. Teo believes I may have chipped cartilage off of my shoulder which can only be fixed with scope surgery. I will be booked for an MRI and we will proceed from it's findings.

After covering my insecurities with my shirt again I make a quick exit into the slightly raining daylight. The remainder of the day contains viewing my first film photos in over a year, coffee coupled with conversation from friendly coffee shop employees wearing old navy officer caps, and the first listening of a new experimental classical album with a clever title while riding the bus home amidst the proletariat. The little joys that brighten the day despite insecurities.

What you've dreamed of has become real

Why can't more commercials be this awesome. (This ones my favorite)



I love the Fleischer inspired animation, colour scheme, and the songs not bad either. Wouldn't be surprised to see this at next years Cannes Lions.

The others are good to.

Warp

The idea and practice of growth has been mental mantra since graduating in september. I fear/ed that without the pressure of assignments nor the doors and windows presented by the constant inflow of information, I would stall. I would become routine and bland, slowly erode adventure and spark into flab. Sometimes growth takes personal effort to create the situation, sometimes it is thrust upon you without option. And sometimes the opportunity is there but you need to step out of your comfort zone. Last week Junior Boys was in the city. I didn't end up going because I couldn't find anyone to go with me. It was just something I wasn't comfortable with. I felt kind of disappointed that I missed it. Then while dropping by my favorite coffee shop to work, Sara/h, (the girl who works there that I have sort of gotten on a first name basis with) said, "I'm really disappointed in you. I thought you would have just gone and let what happens happen." I realized that I was more upset that I wasn't confident enough to go to the show myself. Another situation presented itself for me to venture forth into the social jungles alone. This Friday I went to the Sebastien Grainger concert, alone. I've been to movies alone, eaten in restaurants alone, but never a concert alone. I had my ears completely blown out and enjoyed being, sitting alone sipping a sprite while waiting for the next set. Here's to stepping out and new experiences.

(this was written over a period of 5 or so sittings, so I'm not sure if the thought process followed. Busy Easter weekend.)

American Wheeze

Any group that willingly or unconsciously side-steps creativity and human expression gives up their effective role in the society in which they live. In christian terms, their ability to be the salt of that society is greatly diminished. - Franky Schaeffer

Those who know me know how passionate I can get over the general North American Christian culture and it's lack of recognition of true artistic merit, and production of flat bland trinkets instead. Yesterday, while chatting with my father as we cooperatively scrounged through our kitchen for some savory late night bite of food he said something that surprised me. "I can't listen to CHVN. I don't like it," he said sincerely in a way I've come to realize I've adopted as my own, "the songs mean nothing. They have no meaning." I don't know why it surprised me so much. I know my father and what he chooses to listen to for music. I guess that it was that I had never heard him express distaste for certain music based on artistic merit. The same distaste that I had expressed myself so many times for the same reasons. He then continued talking about a musician named Evie that he had listened to from the 70s and how God had blessed her to be a song writer. I didn't hear all he said because I was so overwhelmed by the feelings of pride and connection. I am perhaps more my father's son than I realize.

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I repeat: art, creative human expression, and the enjoyment of beauty need no justification. The ultimate justification is that they come as a good and gracious gift from God above. - Franky Schaeffer

There is a longing within each one of our hearts. There is a longing. Listen to what DH Lawrence said, “ We want to delude ourselves that of the problem of our emptiness love is at the root. I want to say to you it isn’t. Love is only the branches, the root goes beyond love. A naked kind of isolation. An isolated me that does not meet and mingle and never can. It is true what I say. There is a beyond in you and a beyond in me which goes further than love. Beyond the scope of starts just as some stars are beyond the scope of our vision, so our own search goes on beyond the scope of love. And at least I think that it is at the root going beyond love itself.” Lawrence in one of the few occasions he writes is absolutely right here. It is not just love. I have a family that I love dearly. I cling to them past anything else that I possess. But there is a point at which you look for something more. You may be completely in love with another human being who fulfills the deepest desires of your heart except one desire that the human being cannot fulfill. There is always that haunting sense of emptiness that mankind cannot fill. Who put this there? This is an existential struggle. This is why I think the arts will always be so powerful in our existence, because the arts give us the privilege, as it were, of creating another reality. But it just assumes it is another reality. What it is is the reality in here. -Ravi Zacharias

In looking at the diversity of the Scripture in its content and form, one can hardly imagine that the Bible has anything to do with the present narrow theological sloganeering aspects of evangelical Chrisitianity. It seems to me that if the Bible had been written along the lines of what much of evangelical Chrisitanity represents today, instead of being the full comprehensive wonderful Book of diversity, beauty, knowledge, truth , wisdom, it would be a three-page pamphlet printed probably in words of one syllable, preferably on pink paper (because pink sells), possibly with a scratch and sniff section on the back to stimulate some spiritual experience while reading it. In contrast, the real Bible, the Word of God, is solid, human, verifiable, divine indeed. - Franky Schaeffer (zing)

something pretty for your eyes

Sisters - Kelly Vivanco

Wake Up Early

This is my favorite part of the week. Saturday afternoons after I finish my radio shift I slow down and breathe. I cook and eat a lunch of something from scratch and eat it while looking out our kitchen window onto what is right now our snow covered garden, while the sun pours back upon me. I then will often leisurely nurse the day's second cup of coffee as I follow whatever whim my heart chases (reading, crossword, blog scanning...). It is the most freedom filled moment of my week. The furthest possible moment from obligation and work.

It's not that I'm counting the minutes till I'm done at the station. I actually enjoy the experience and unique challenge of the job. I in fact gained a new appreciation for it this week. I realized while in the midst of a meeting this week that this is helping me be a better story teller. I can talk, I can B.S., but I need to better tame and train the beast. Containing eloquence, witt and entertainment in a coherent 45 second bite is a difficult task. I must plan my pronounced perceptions and pauses instead of allowing it to spill free form as I more often do. Perhaps this alchemy will produce a tongue of silver yet.

I Am Hollywood

My first ever threadless tees came in. At $5 (well, before the exchange and then there's shipping) who could resist? A perfect addition to an already stellar day. Breakfast with Nikky, her boy Mike and Matt (sort of first meeting) at Stella's. Hanging out at the station and distracting people from work. Hanging out at the Cedarwood office distracting people from work. Hanging out at the new MCC coffee shop/used book store "Sam's Place" and purchasing some good reading material. All of this topped with lots and lots of good coffee. I'm just afraid that something is going to happen to balance everything.




Still all creased and crinkled from the package they came in.

Not a different shirt, but I like this one.

One Day He Went Out for Milk and Never Came Home

Here is a glimpse at the aforementioned Moleskine notebook that I have been drawing in (not enough by my standards). It ends up holding a few thoughts besides the visual experimentation.

Our minds are anchored
to nature
to experience
to everything that has come before
but as spiritual creatures
we experience the unseen
immaterial and unknowable.
As experiencers of the spiritual
is our visual representations
flavoured by the unseen and unknown
spiritual realm?
on left page

Talks about the radio station, "christian" music, my reading of "Addicted to Mediocrity" and moments of overheard truth about art have concentrated my thoughts in this area lately. The above is where my mind ran to one day (most likely as I consumed mass amounts of caffeine spurring thought). Do we in some way see the unseen in art? I had another thought as I was shoveling snow today. Perhaps Christian art has generally been dumbed down to trinkets (as Des so well articulated for me yesterday) because art is viewed by the North Am Christian community as entertainment based instead of a medium of communication.



This is one piece in my Moleskine that I really like. I think Aaron called him Bubba. I'm finding I draw more cartoony pieces like Bubba here than anything realistic. I'm not very good at drawing realistic and find it intimidating to try, so I'm not very good at it. I wonder if I had some critical flaw might I be more "artistic". You hear of so many great artists creating amazing works as a result of wrestiling with their inner demons, their dark crippling past, etc. Maybe I should have a string of bad relationships or take to the bottle.

Meta

I decided that I wouldn't give the meaning of Akunon until someone asked. Yesterday someone did.

When I was starting this blog I knew that getting the right name would be important. It is the frame to everything you present within, it affects how you read the contents. It sets the boundaries. Originally I wanted to call it "Manalive" after the Chesterton book of the same name that affected me so much. It was however taken, not only on blogspot but every blog provider I checked. The name Akunon just popped into my head (well ok, there were a few variations thought out). Its a completely euphonic word with absolutely no meaning. I realized it was perfect. Having no meaning it could in fact mean anything and nothing at all in the same moment. Exactly how I saw my blog.


Saw this on FFFFOUND! Love it.

Our Friends Appear Like the Dawn

I have been wrapped up heavily in a video project recently leaving me too depressed to actually do much else. I did though find the opportunity to buy a scanner. This means I can bring you the latest adventures of Claude that I have had sitting in my room.

I get shot in every film I'm in

I posted some time ago about David OReilly's "Please Say Something". He has finally finished it and has put it up for viewing. It's beautifully done despite it's somewhat disturbing portrayal of a cat and a mouse in an abusive relationship.


Please Say Something - Full Length from David OReilly on Vimeo.

The Bear Who Wasn't

"Your not a bear! Your a silly man who needs a shave and wears a fur coat!"

Even as the words were crossing my lips I had no idea why I said it. It didn't fit within the context of the situation nor have any connection to a recent event or discussion. It just birthed from my mouth as the physical manifestation of an unprovoked memory breaking the surface of my consciousness. And in that instant, I was a child again.

The words were from a story I would listen to as a kid about a bear who hibernates in a cave. When he wakes up he finds that a factory has been built around his cave. He is mistaken for a worker by everyone he meets having to explain to them in storybook repetition how he is a bear, not a man. Each person responds in the same storybook rhythm and repetition the line that popped into my head.

The story was on a cassette that was a copy of an LP my mother used to listen to herself as a child. I remembered the huge collection of story tapes that we had, and how I would spend hours lying on the carpet in front of the tape deck listening to stories I had heard many times before. For a moment I was there again in our livingroom in Britain curled up on the carpet beside the heater listening to the stories of Norse gods, daring Arabians and the small baker who made himself into a talking pie.

This was the happiest moment of my day.

Spoken Word

I love the art of verbal storytelling. There is a voice in writing, but the pacing, intonation and character of storytelling makes it a special experience when done right. Recently I have fallen in love with Stuart Mclean and his Vinyl Cafe, and blues artist Seasick Steve. Both have the ability to weave words and moments into a masterpiece as enrapturing as a net and as pleasant as a sunny afternoon.


Seasick Steve - A Take Away Show - Part 2 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

The latest Seasick Steve album has some excellent stories of when he was a hobo jumping trains. This is just a taste of his tale prowess. (Plus a taste of his amazing blues)

And I couldn't find any Stuart Mclean, but do yourself a favour and subscribe to the Vinyl Cafe podcast.

Built then Burnt (Hurrah! Hurrah!) by Thee Silver Mount Zion

Dear brothers and sisters
Dear enemies and friends

Why are we all so alone here
All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy
All we need is a little more light, a little less weight, a little more freedom.
If we were an army, and if we believed that we were an army
And we believed that everyone was scared like little lost children in their grown up clothes and poses
So we ended up alone here floating through long wasted days, or great tribulations.
While everything felt wrong Good words, strong words, words that could've moved mountains
Words that no one ever said We were all waiting to hear those words and no one ever said them
And the tactics never hatched
And the plans were never mapped
And we all learned not to believe
And strange lonesome monsters loafed through the hills wondering why
And it is best to never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever wonder why
So tangle - oh tangle us up in bright red ribbons!
Let's have a parade
It's been so long since we had a parade, so let's have a parade!
Let's invite all our friends
And all our friends' friends!
Let's promenade down the boulevards with terrific pride and light in our eyes
Twelve feet tall and staggering
Sick with joy with the angels there and light in our eyes
Brothers and sisters, hope still waits in the wings like a bitter spinster
Impatient, lonely and shivering, waiting to build her glorious fires
It's because of our plans man; our beautiful ridiculous plans
Let's launch them like careening jetplanes
Let's crash all our planes in the river
Let's build strange and radiant machines at this jericho waiting to fall


Bayside #1 by Travis Nichols

There has been too much sadness, sickness and mourning lately. Let's have a parade and build the glorious fires of hope. Lets have a spring of the soul and renew our light hearts.

The Lost Waltz

Late late wednesday night I stagger lazily to my room and close the door. I turn off the lights and put on my headphones. I sit on the verge of sleepiness, not yet ready to succumb to the sheets, but lacking the will to really do anything worthwhile. The sterile light of the computer screen adds the slightest glow to the room as I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and melt into the sound of Godspeed!YouBlackEmperor. I exhale slowly as the notes start to dance through my mind, and I begin to think back over the past week.

I. "I'm sorry, but we don't have a position for you," she says. I'm equally crestfallen and relieved. "We went with someone with more experience." She speaks with a slight impediment that flavours her words with a child like kindness, and makes any response but one of warmth unthinkable. "That's OK," I say, "I understand." Not getting this job makes my life less complicated since I had no idea where I would have found a car, let alone pay for it. But the work opportunities, let alone the life experience, would have been irreplacable. Relief mixed with meloncholy. "Everyone was really impressed with you and really liked you," she continues, "So I'd like your permission to forward your resume to Buffalo Gals and Frantic Films." No is not even a concievable answer for an offer to recommend you to the two biggest film companies in the city. She apologizes again for the lack of a position and reiterates how much they were impressed with me before the call ends. Perhaps this will work out better than my hopes for the internship. Maybe God has bigger plans and better paths.

II. "We would like you to come on with us a little more," he says. I'm equally glad and internally restrained. "We are losing Adrienne soon and would have more shifts for you." He sounds hopeful that I will say yes, but there is hint in his voice that he senses a repressed no. More shifts means money which I have so little of, but what little heart I had inclined towards this stepping stone has dwindled down to barely a spark. "Sure, sounds great," I say with encouraged exuberance, though I may have taken a moment too long in responding to sell it. I have hardly felt like a valued employee at Ignite over the past month's absence of contact, not to mention having my opinions and ideas brushed off with a smile. If my vision for what a christian radio station should be is completely perpendicular to theirs, I don't think I can work there. I hope that another job works out soon so that I don't have to depend on the station for income. Maybe God has plans for me there, but he will need to move my heart or the mind and mouth will hardly be willing.

III. "You're an artist," he says. I feel pride tinged with doubt. If only everyone judged art by childlike standards we would all be Da Vinci. The twisted and gapped teeth of of his seven year old smile show his honesty and adoration before he turns his face to lean his head on my arm. I'm not sure whether he is Jordy or Davey. He and his twin brother are so similar and I can never tell them apart. "Draw me an orc fighting a horseman next," he says getting another piece of paper ready. I finish off the castle I was drawing for him, take the paper he offers me and attempt to draw an orc. I sit with them almost every sunday morning in church to help them behave. They get me to draw them pictures. Recently their Star Wars fascination has been replaced by Lord of the Rings. "That's not an orc," he speaks louder than he probably should, "he's too small." I wish I could listen to the pastor. I'm honoured that they want me to sit with them, but why every sunday? But maybe this is better. "Don't stop the little ones from coming to me," Jesus said. Maybe by showing them love here and now I am doing something more important than listening to the sermon. Maybe I'm learning more than the pastors point from the pulpit. This is living out my faith instead of acting it.

IV. "Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer," I speak in unison with the rest of the congregation. My heart feels and peace and yearns upward. There is something about St Benedict's Table that feels right, that feels authentic. The smokey sweet smell of the incense wafts past me as we sing worship songs that feel thick with substance, and resound with rejoicing despite their solemnity. There is a respect and fear of God that is found in ceremony. The building feels as warm as the fellow worshipers around me. Afterward I run into long unseen friends who have also come to the service. We talk of life, work, the lack there of, and God's plans while we sip dark roasted coffee and nibble dry brownies. I like this place. I will come again.

I listen through the entire album enveloped in the warm womb of my dark room. It's late. Sleep will come easily now.

Up on Mt. Okay

Much to speak of, but so little desire to write at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow after a good sleep. However I wanted to share the new work of Christian Faur that I've seen making the rounds. Crayons as pixels. Creative and stunning to think of the logistics of creating these.

Familiar Ground

Things No One Else Saw - Cedarwood 2008 from Joel Schwab on Vimeo.

Shadows/Doorways

It might be the lack of sleep, the caffeine wearing off, or a combination of every event that has happened in the past few days, but life feels surreal. I took in my paper work to the Manitoba Film Training office last week completing my full application for the internship to work on the production of 'Less Than Kind'. I find out in the next few days whether I have it or not, but the anticipation is killing me. If I get the internship I have a paying job for 3 months, not to mention the experience gained. But the reality of it would mean I need to get a car and cell phone. It scares me a little that I might need to go in to debt to get these things. If I don't get the job I don't have these financial obligations, but I still need to find work. And then today the radio station phones me after a month plus of radio silence. It appears they still remember that I work for them. They told me that I will be going to Steinbach on thursday to talk about more work opportunities with them as the program director is going on mat. leave. It's work, but I'm not sure if it's work I want. As well, a friend who works for Siloam Mission told me that they are looking to hire some staff and that I had come to his mind. While I was out at Cedarwood this weekend the idea danced around in my mind, positioning itself as a very viable option. This isn't a fork in the road, this is the metaphorical cousin to Winnipeg's confusion corner. And here I float in limbo unsure of where to step to. I'm just going to sit here and pray while I wait for the pieces to fall into place.



Abraham and Issac by Sam Webber


The Gaurdsman by Sam Webber