Faith in Brilliance

What the?!- I'm stuck in tiny font! It was an accident, and now the computer won't let me change back to "Normal Size." This is like a bad dream. Alice and Wonderland shit. Is this better? Thank you Jesus.
As I was about to say: I think I'll take myself down to the Flying M and attempt to be creative. I'll bring a sketch book, journal, maybe some fiction, and possibly some nonfiction. Something to nurse every possible mood I'm capable of falling into. I mean, except for the mood "horny." I'll have to deal with that somewhere other than atop the M's cushy leather couch. As liberal as the M is, I suspect that "reading" Penthouse within the shop's doors might actually force one of its too-liberal-for-school baristas to do something they never thought they'd do-engage in censorship. On the other hand, if they're like me (too-liberal-fo-yo-mama...?), they'd just sit back and enjoy the show.
I apologize for that.
Let me get back to something like a point. I want, I need, to do something creative. I'm sure everyone reading understands. Most people need a creative outlet. We all need to express ourselves in a way that transcends our normal day to day communication. Art is to conversation as conversation is to small talk. Or so says I. Regardless of whether or not my last statement is valid, I think we can all agree that in order to feel good, and feel good about ourselves, most of us need to create. Ok, so here's the issue: creating can be a struggle. It can be work. Here's a related issue: we've been missled into thinking that something called "brilliance" will cause us to produce something profound and beautiful over night. Personally, I'm getting sick of having faith in brilliance. I'm tired of sitting around waiting for it to tap me on the shoulder and say, "er, excuse me sir, but here is that masterpiece you've been expecting." Its just not that easy and it most likely never will be. Fate does not owe me a masterpiece. The sum of all the emotional pain I've experienced will not someday spill out onto canvass as an instant classic.
Creating can be effortless, but its not supposed to be. And we're not supposed to be able to create something amazing effortlessly, especially within a given period of time. If we won't be satisfied expressing ourselves in a manner of average quality, then the bare minimum we must do is accept that it may take years or decades to become capable of greatness. It takes patience. And possibly a complete abandonment of expectations. But I think its best to remain in state of expectation/excitement over our future work-the stuff we know we'll create and love if we stay committed to art-if we keep playing with art and working with art-if we make it a part of our lives. The quality of our art will progress over time. Its also possible that we could produce something great today. So, logically speaking, the excitement we have for creating something new or great should remain at a pretty high level each and every day. There's a degree of unpredictability about the whole creative process. Maybe I'll take my own words to heart and become more excited about drawing, painting, and writing.
In the end though, my mood and my creativity are not governed by logic. So, I can't make myself feel happy simply by thinking about creating something cool sometime down the road. And, like Stewart Smiley, I'm ok with that. I'll sit down with a pen and paper when I find the time, and I'll go at it. I'll draw and write and paint when I feel creative, and I'll do the same when I don't feel very creative. When its a struggle I'll work at it with patience. I won't do anything when I simply can't do anything. (Its possible to be physically/mentally incapable of creating) I'll try to remember that those times are going to happen...
Ok, clearly I'm in "self help" mode this morning. I think I'll help myself to a mocha and chocolate chip cookie now. bye.

Extra Cheese

This is going to be a bit cheezy, but I went to the trouble of writing it for the Noe Venable message board, so I might as well post it here too. Just ignore the cheeze and maybe you'll get my point.

Noe's lyrics "You will awaken your sensuality, it is an eventuality" are both thought provoking and very quotable. Its not a complex or new idea--the notion of living passionately, or even "sensually". So many claim that this is their goal. But, the cliche doesn't speak to the point I want to discuss. That being sensuality as it stands in stark contrast to rampant, blaring machismo or art infused with primitive, ugly, "male" sexuality...if that makes sense. It seems like a crime that beautiful, sensitive, sexual, soft n' quiet (?) "female" sensuality is all but nonexistent in comparison to the assertive, prideful, and loud "male" music and art that saturates our culture. (sorry for being vague, but I'm working this out as I go) The power of music created by female artists who plug into all the energy and creativity issuing from their sensuality (sexual desire/awareness + artistic/imaginative intelligence) is awe inspiring (see Noe, Tori Amos, Ani Defranco, and so on). I'm not speaking generally of passionate music written by female artists. I'm thinking of an uber-femininity that far outshines the uber-machismo of popular culture. Yet this more impressive feminine sensuality infects only a fraction of the art we experience. Is it that female sensuality is still subserviant, on a subconsious level, to male sexuality after all these years of progress? How many females continue to hand over their hearts and minds to men when it comes to sex and ideas about sensuality? They hand over their sexual beings as well, falling silent, as if they have nothing to say, as if sex and sensuality is not there for them as well, as if they do not have just as much right to define and feel sex for themselves as men do. As if they are being shouted down. I can't help but wonder how the world would be different if it could experience a flood of creativity, passion, and love from women who awakened their sensuality.

Earth Wind and Fire

I've got ten minutes to write whatever follows. Then its bed time, I swear.
I went camping this weekend with Jennifer Thompson, aka Fern. We drove to Grand Jean at the base of the Sawtooth mountains. I don't know about others, but I think that a name like "Grand Jean" should denote some sort of municipality. Or atleast a ghost town. In reality, Grand Jean is a campground consisting of several outhouses, firepits, and semi flat spots where tents once were and tents will most certainly be. That's pretty much it. FYI. Well, ok, there is a "lodge" not far from the camping area. It appeared to me to be a glorified cabin. Very rustic. In other words; small, dirty, and made up of a lot of wood. It wasn't open. Actually, I don't think there was anyone else at the camp ground except Fern and Known Male. What does this tell us? That there are a lot of anti-camping lame asses in this state. Jesus. You'd think Idahoans would be crawling all over their beloved Sawtooth mountains during the first gorgeous weekend in many many weeks. My hypothesis is that while Fern and I were marching beneath towering granite along side a very white raging stream, everyone else was packed inside Edwards watching someone turn all sinister n' dark. Good for them, good for us.
So, the big news is that it was cold. Bitterly cold. But get this. If you haven't experienced camping in the high high mountains, you may not be aware of a certain phenomenon. Its called extreme temperature variation between night and day. Jennifer and I froze our asses off Friday night through Saturday morning. It made sleeping just that much more, um, not happening. {The other things that made it a challenge were: not being in my own bed; trying to stay on a narrow lumpyish air mattress (me being a tosser and a turner with supa long arms); the rain; and the wind. The whole experience, basically.} Ok, so it was the kind of cold that will keep people lying awake in their sleeping bags for hours after sunrise despite needing to pee like, um, people who haven't peed in 12 hours. Then, it was warm and glorious and perfect all of a sudden. And we were hiking up a trail (of the name "trail lake trail") that was the perfect grade up the perfect mountain forest along the perfect mountain stream. I felt like we were really getting somewhere. We were going up, up, up at a pretty good clip. The plan was to hike 4-5 miles to several high mountain lakes. Having already seen the indescribable beauty of a few high mountain lakes when I spent a summer at Redfish lake, I couldn't wait to share such an experience with Fern. Sadly, it wasn't to be, as snow happened. It didn't fall from the sky, it was just in our way, there, squatting on the trail. And it wouldn't move. So, we walked over it, because, well, the lakes couldn't be THAT much further...right? We tried to walk over it, but sometimes we walked down in it. Every few steps, the snow would swallow a foot, an ankle, a shin, or an entire leg. As you can imagine, it takes a little extra energy to extract oneself from snow on a regular basis, when trying to travel from point A to point B. At first it wasn't hard. In fact, I recall some lauging. I felt the need to formally recognize that things were still ok despite the snow. I said matter-of-factly, "this is NOT hard"-just to put it out there, you know. Then, at some point, it got tough. Or else it just plain sucked. I'm not sure which came first, but the toughness and the suckiness combined to make the whole ordeal, well, an ordeal. And then came the fear that I would see my lovely warm and alive Fern staring back at me in horror as she flailed in icy cold water which quickly swept her out of site, over falls, against rocks, and under debris...ugh....SO not cool... Thus, as she stepped out onto a very old and somewhat rottenish looking log to cross the raging creek, I quickly reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her back. Which, understandably, she didn't fully appreciate. Apparently, she hadn't heard my request to "test" the log before either one of us stepped out onto it. Anytoot, later, we rehashed the whole thing, much as I'm doing now, and came to understand in depth all the reasons why any grumpyness coincided with the occurance. We hiked back. No bear was seen. I didn't have to employ any of the evasive manuvers I conjured up while hiking through the scrubby, beary sections of trail. For some reason, if a bear had been spotted, I doubt Fern would have jumped onto my shoulders holding a big branch, yelling and waving it wildly. Instead, I'm sure we would have done as Jennifer suggested; scream at the top of our lungs and run away as fast as we can. Anyway, we finished out the hike with singing and wild gesticulations toward the sky. Back in the shade of our roomy tent, we lounged, satisfied with the attractive way in which we moved our bodies up and down the mountain. Next, we moved our bodies in a different, but also highly attractive way...we ate lunch. I had the best sandwhich of all time (it made all of my dreams come true). We packed up. We drove away. We engaged in conversation and listened to music that were both of a hightened quality. The time flew by, and before we knew it, we were home.
Exactly 9 minutes and 50 seconds have passed, I swear. Time to go to bed. G'night.

Grass Stains

How many times in one day can I bitch about the weather? Many, many, many times is the correct answer. Am I capable of complaining about the weather not only verbally, but in writing? Damn straight I am. Here, allow me to demonstrate.
Fucking rain. I'm chomping at the bit to get out and engage in activities that most people find extremely painful; yet mother nature, for no good reason, has decided to ground me to my room, barring me from romping all over her lush landscape. I'm ready and willing to suffer-I need the pain to feel alive, to feel good. This might sound a little like Big Brother, but for me, pain really does equal fun when that pain comes from charging over miles of Boise front single-track, either on two wheels or two feet. Feeling fast is feeling strong is feeling healthy is feeling good. Sometimes feeling fast requires feeling pain. Its really simple. I try to avoid pain in general, but when it comes to biking or hiking, I'm very willing to take a whooping for the rewards I receive. Anyway, this macho "no pain no gain" tangent has gotten me off topic. What I mean to say is, I'm actually dying to engage in activities that are very healthy but are so often avoided due their tendency to hurt, yet I can't even do that....the weather won't let me. Mother nature is being a bitch these days. That's all.
So Jennifer and I threw a Nerf football and a Frisbee around Camelsback park today. That was good. Not to mention fun. Fern and I both have this obsession about needing to feel our hearts race, so you can be sure we hustled all over the park, chasing every wild throw, and lunging for anything that fell within 10 feet of our bodies. We actually threw the frisbee so much that our catching hands got sore from all the impact. Fern's arm even received something like a blood blister. Despite the acrobatics and overuse injuries, we both managed to avoid grass stains on our outrageously expensive but worth every penny jeans. I'm so proud of us.

Different me

Today I thought for the umpteenth time that I am "different". It made me feel a little better. You see, I'm one of those individuals who gets a kick out of thinking that he's not like everyone else. I don't drive an SUV or live in the suburbs or work behind a desk or feel that I must buy things in order to enjoy life yada yada yada. I'm "different", therefore I'm "better". Which, of course, is complete bullshit. That false conclusion is constantly being implied by liberals such as myself when we discuss the state of the world today with like-minded creatures. For the record, I recognize that I'm not "better" than anyone else. Still, I prefer the ideas that I prefer, and I don't think there's anything wrong with thinking that those ideas are superior to the ideas which seem to be most popular these days. I'm not better, but I am different than most, and this is how:
I believe that-
1. Religion is dumb.
2. There's nothing wrong with sex. Plus, I'm all for public nudity.
3. Love, romance, and commitment are to be sought after, but marriage is a traditional institution, and I don't put a lot of stock in tradition.
4. We're so much a product of our environment that individuality is nearly a facade, so if we hope to create anything new or better, we must actively rebel against the status quo and our natural tendencies, as well as accept some degree of randomness and chaos.
5. We're born innocent and there's very little a person can do throughout his/her life to change that status.
6. There's nothing, I mean nothing, wrong with homosexuality.
7. We humans are really really stupid; relatively speaking, of course (relative to what, I'm not sure).
8. Things can be so much better and would get much better if we all wised up (I'm progressive).
9. Abortion isn't the biggest deal (in the first two trimesters). Choice should be allowed.
10. Euthenasia is a big deal. Choice should be allowed.
hmm... These aren't really the reasons I had that thought today. In fact, the thought that I was different immediately followed the thought that I don't seem to talk as much as others, and, therefore, I likely don't think and feel just like the average guy. Which is a good reason to think I'm different. It made me feel better, mainly because I'm a lover of variety and originality...the prospects of original/progressive thought or art is exciting...and I truly believe that I'm capable of producing something original/new someday. That's not being too cocky, is it?

The Merits of Art

I was in the park a couple of days ago playing frisbee with some friends. At one point, I glanced up at the branches of a tree. I saw that in stark contrast to the branches, filling the empty space between them, was the bright blue of a brilliant spring sky. I had a brief thought. One that was neither new nor original, but a thought that seems truer and truer each time it pops into my head. It was something like, "the art of nature is far better than the art of man." Normally, when I have this thought, I also tend to think that perhaps all of man's efforts to create art have been somewhat futile and silly. The fact that I am so very rarely impressed by any art lends support to those reoccuring thoughts and feelings. I wonder, is art dumb? Pointless? Silly? Does it have any value? Is it worth devoting any time and energy to?
These questions come from someone who is very fond of art, and especially sensitive to beauty. Some music has a way of "killing me softly." There have been times when I felt like I was being crushed by the emotional weight of certain songs. I'm also a fan of visual art. I started drawing on a regular basis around the age of 9. I drew nonstop throughout school. Over the years, I developed a style that I feel is distinct and interesting, though I've had trouble finding the motivation and time to create many pieces that are worthy of display. I'm not a successful artist, yet I still feel as though I've got this sharp sense of what is "perfect" or of high quality when it comes to art. Call me an elitist. please. I really want to believe...
Anyway, about art. I think that we live in an art depressed society. We need more of it. I've always thought that Americans, at least, could benefit highly from waking up a few more neurons on the right side of their brains. Creativity, imagination, feeling are things of living and core components of the process of creating art. If we aren't being creative or feeling deeply, can we say that we are really living? Yet, here I am, posing questions like, "is art dumb?" I don't know about you, but I'm ok with it, because, as much as I like to glorify art, there is something I find even more important, and that is questioning my most basic assumptions and predispositions. The questioning of ideas and ideologies is an act that, in large part, defines who I am. What complicates this process of questioning is a belief that also defines who I am. That is: its nearly impossible for us to determine what is true. In other words, I'm agnostic. I question, but then I have a hard time believing the answers I come up with. Its the only way to be.
That said, we can ask this question about the merits of art, or the merits of creating art, and look for answers without any interference from a pro-art bias.
If there is any merit to art, what is it, and what is it not? And, what types of art have the most value? My opinions are:
Art which is an exact representation of something real is low art (art with little merit). I can't see the point in trying to replicate on paper, canvass, or film, what is in front of our eyes. If there is any creativity or expression in that sort of exercise, it is not significant at all. So, I don't like a lot of photos, still life paintings, landscapes, portraits, etc.
Art which is created very methodically, in extreme detail, is not usually art of high value. Slow, deliberate work on pieces of high complexity, I believe, will have been created with a greater detachment from an artist's passions or guiding emotions, and made by employing something of a heartless, robotic love of process and perfection.
Art that arises from very simple, primitive, and/or negative emotion is low art as well. Sure, everyone knows that people, especially men, feel anger from time to time. Anger is not unique or special. Also, there is nothing subtle about anger. There is usually nothing intelligent or beautiful about it either. Anyone can embrace anger and create angry art. I'm thinking of heavy metal music, gansta rap... I recognize that most emotions are simple and primitive, but that doesn't mean an artist should not have standards. She shouldn't produce art that expresses simple emotions exclusively. So much art would be the same, if that were the case.
So, art shouldn't be too methodical, or left brained; but at the same time, it shouldn't be made slave to emotion. Instead, art should arise from some sort of artistic sensibility; which involves a little imagination, some thought, a willingness to resist basic urges, the ability to embrace randomness, and a feeling for flow, balance, and contrast--which is related to the minds ability to really see detail (contrasts, curves, repetition, layout, etc) and to "remember" much of the visual details it has experienced throughout life..and then reproduce it in its core forms/patterns.
Let me note that I find little value in art that isn't different or somewhat original. I'm very aware of how we are all a product of our environment. To break free from the mold, people should create. Art allows us to explore ourselves-to look for a way to free our minds and "hearts" by tinkering with our core programming-the core programming put in place by things outside our control--our environment, the teachings of our parents, and so on. Art is something that, if exercised properly, can help us increase control over who we are and who we will become. A lot of people aren't happy with who they are. I think one way to change is to find out what makes us tick, and then begin to probe, push, and stimulate those core emotions/sensibilities through art. ((this is rather vague. oh well))
So art does not lack value (surprise!). It helps free us from ourselves. It brings us joy, both in the creation of it (fun, and an ego builder) and seeing it.
As much as a desire to be better than others or dissatisfaction with oneself motivates some people to become good artists, art cannot be about competition, and it shouldn't be relied upon to give us a sense of self worth. If it were a competition, nature would win hands down. And even if we became famous, we'd still be mortal, which means we'd always be capable of being unfairly dissatisfied with ourselves.

Things that make you go "weee"

I'm going to prove to myself that I can write a blog under no pressure whatsoever to entertain or inform. I'm so not pressured right now. I'm very relaxed. Breath in, Breath out. Everything is going to be ok. Don't force the word. Just....let it come.
Opps, I farted.
Ok, don't relax that much. Perhaps its time I pick a topic. God, I wish I could get some help with this. I'd like suggestions. May I see some hands? Hrm, that won't work. Shit, there I go again, trying to think of something funny to write about. Maybe as a warm up I could type single words that might be considered funny or fun to say. That shouldn't require much effort. Hmmm, lets see...
waddle. piddlywink. diddly. nipple. poo. toledo. jig. jizim. mignonette. sulfamethoxazole.
I looked up the last two in the dictionary. So.
Oh, here's something funny. I just glanced down into the trash can next to my desk and saw a bunch of CDs that belong to a girl I know. They're the CDs that weren't cool enough for the Record Exchange; or so the girl I know assumed after witnessing an RX employee place them in the reject pile without due consideration. I swear, this disgrace occupied her mind for atleast two full days. A fact which I find mildly amusing. I also thought it might be funny to tell all my readers which CDs they were, but then realized that, no, it wouldn't be that funny, and that, sadly, this entire subject is lacking in any real entertainment value at the moment. At any rate, I think I'm doing this girl I know a favor by throwing away the CDs. I'm sure she'd approve.
So, I guess someone said that Fern and I seem like a "fun couple". (change of subject, by the way) Evidently, we've got a reputation. Yesterday, we bolstered that reputation by engaging in unadulterated fun. We played. On playgrounds even. You really can't get more fun than that, can you? Anyway, as we played, there was a whole lot of "weee"ing going on, and if I know anything about human behavior, its that "weee"ing is indicative of people having fun. The first playground we visited was Camelsback's. It was ok, I guess. It had a pretty elaborate fortress complex thingy. You know, one of those multicolored, mostly plastic forts made up of tunnels, bridges, rails, and slides. You know, those forts that are at the center of all the parks these days. They're obnoxious, really. Regarding the Camelsback playground, I've got a couple gripes. First, there were WAY too many munchkins running around hogging all of the fortress and occupying the swingset. Second, the swing's creeking didn't inspire confidence in its ability to handle some real Xtreme swinging by an Xtreme athlete such as myself. My only reassurance was the thought that if the swingset fell on me, it would make for a dramatic scene and subsequent rescue which would look great on TV; thus, my lawsuit would surely bring in the maximum reimbursement for my alleged life-altering injuries, which in reality, wouldn't be more than a bruised rib or stubbed toe. Yeah, I'd milk it. I'm sort of broke, you see. The final complaint I have about the playground concerns the wood chips all over the place. (thanks fern for "all over the place) In my day, playgrounds came equiped with sand; which was cool, because, while it tended to make its way into all your crevasses, the fun you could have building things out of it made up for any extra cleaning that had to take place when playtime was over. Honestly, I don't know what you're supposed to do with wood chips, unless you brought wood glue to the park with you. Besides, I'd much rather have some exfoliating sand in my shoes than splinters the size of toothpicks. Stupid wood chips.
Later in the day, the girl and I sampled the playground behind her old elementary school. Again, there were dumb woodchips and a multicolored plastic fortress thingy. We managed to have a lot of fun anyway. I've got to admit that I like the halfdome viewing windows on those forts. For a moment, I felt like a hamster. The only bad thing about the whole experience was the fact that I was electrocuted while sliding down the plastic slide. I wasn't shocked, mind you. I was fucking electrocuted. I think they must've built the fortress over a buried powerline or something. When the girl I was playing with came out after me, her hair was standing straight up, as if she was just hit by a bolt of lightning. Now that I think of it, we could have been killed.
Next, we road our bikes approximately 200 feet down the path towards another happy fun place. There, we found the most exciting plastic fortress thingy of all. It was huge. We managed to make our way up several stories to the lookout room, in which we engaged in some tasteful PDA before we were interrupted by two hobbits who evidently lived in the fortress. One male hobbit had climbed up onto the outside of the tunnel slide and sat precariously just outside the lookout room. Despite the fact that a fall from such a height would have meant instant death, the hobbit acted as if nothing were the matter. The female hobbit didn't seem concerned either. She focused her attention on the girl and I, and provided us with helpful tips for surviving the trip down the extra-twisty tunnel slide. We were told to go slow and be mindful of the sharp turns. That I did, as the thought of bending my spine beyond its natural bendiness was very unappealing.
Anyway, you get the point. We had a lot of fun. Our reputation should be safe from, um, refute. Perhaps fun was had at the expense of our pride and self respect, but then again, I don't put a lot of stock in pride and self respect.