I step outside into the middle of a group of young people, Indigenous. A girl of twelve or thirteen (though she looks older. her clothes make her look older. the pain on her face makes her look older) stares down a boy, pubescent and gangling.
"At least let me slap you." Her brown eyes are fire with angry tears.
He looks back defiant, trying on that gangster slouch, but his cracked voice betrays him. "What? Its not like I murdered you."
Her voice is calm. Cold. "I don't give a fuck about murder. When you kill someone, they're dead. When you raped me, you took everything from me." Her friends stand protectively around her, stony faced.
This isn't some petty preteen dispute I have walked into. This is Real Fucking Life.
I want to help. I want to tell her she's a hero for confronting her assailant, calling him out, demanding some sort of justice. I want to tell her that he hasn't taken everything from her -- the fire in her eyes proves it. I want to hug her, because this isn't something that any girl should go through.
I don't do any of these things. I keep walking to my bus, past a pair of cops who are aggressively interrogating a black man who affably insists he has done no wrong. As I wait for my bus, the girl and her friends approach the police. The police have no time for her.
No white knights there. But then, I'm not convinced white knights are the champions this world needs. I tell myself this, maybe because it excuses me from having to be one.
I sit on the bus and I can feel my whiteness on me like soap scum. White is clean, they taught us. Brown is dirty. Black is sin.
Little white people teach little white lies.
White is just the shit we scrub on ourselves to erase the blood on our hands. White is the talcum powder we tap out daintily to cover up our own colonial stink.
I am conscious of this scum on me constantly, the false cleanliness, the baby powder scent of privilege.
White is like mildew, clinging to a rotted out social construct that has so long been secure in its predominance that it doesn't realize it is caving in on itself.
I can feel that whiteness hanging off of everything around me, making the air thick, making my lungs burn. I watch it snaking, smothering, stifling, like smoke. In that group of Indigenous teenagers, whiteness hung like a shadow or a puppeteer behind a screen, pulling the strings of trauma that led to violence that led to beautiful brown eyes shining with angry tears.
No, there is no room for heroism from white knights. Not when white knights keep colored civilians pinned, squirming and bleeding on the lance.
I don't know what to do.
I don't know what to do.
I do nothing, and I hate my whiteness more.
Wednesday, 17 April 2019
Wednesday, 13 April 2016
Ferroelectric mixed media mayhem?
This is what I started with : a diagram of how ferroelectricity works that I didn't really try to understand. Base image courtesy University of Cambridge DoITPoMS Mathur, Shawl et al http://www.doitpoms.ac.uk/tlplib/ferroelectrics/printall.php
Then I made this on Gimp:
Then I printed out the Gimp work and made this:
Which should have been fine, except I'd just been reading a piece on handwritten mixed media art journals. So I cut the fucker up:
Don't feel too badly for it though. As the blue note on the front says: "Talking is just masturbation without the mess." So are most (read: all) of my artistic endeavors.
Which makes blogging them pornographic?
Sunday, 20 March 2016
Princess Ilse
Today's art project, at the suggestion of Stew: a double sided scroll telling a tale in collage.
The scroll is based on a German tale about the Princess Ilse, who, through her own pride,becomes lost and separated from her family and friends and wanders through the woods, falling prey to witches and devils before escaping to discover the value of hard work and the beauties of nature.
The full story can be read here at the International Children's Digital Library.
The scroll is a duct-tape base, layered over with printed excerpts from the story book, various mountainous naturey clippings, parchment paper, marker, watercolor and acrylic -- and a WHOLE lot of mod podge.
The scroll is based on a German tale about the Princess Ilse, who, through her own pride,becomes lost and separated from her family and friends and wanders through the woods, falling prey to witches and devils before escaping to discover the value of hard work and the beauties of nature.
The full story can be read here at the International Children's Digital Library.
The scroll is a duct-tape base, layered over with printed excerpts from the story book, various mountainous naturey clippings, parchment paper, marker, watercolor and acrylic -- and a WHOLE lot of mod podge.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Sunday, 22 November 2015
Terror and Grief
Have been thinking a lot lately about the recent attacks on Paris and the way people from all around the world have responded to it. Watching social media feeds, listening to people talk, following the news coverage, responses have ranged from a violent backlash against the Syrian refugees and Muslims in general, to a redoubled determination to reach out to and provide aid for those same people.
What struck me hardest was the hate. In the days following the attack, and even now over a week later, the degree of hate being spewed across my Facebook page rattled me. The hate--hate directed not at Islamic radicals, but at all Muslims and particularly those fleeing the same types of radicals who orchestrated the attack in Paris--shook me even deeper than the attacks themselves. Because what we should be fearing isn't refugees, or Muslims, or terrorists. What we (humanity) should fear is extreme hatred, no matter what form it takes, or who it's directed at. Responding to an act of extreme hatred with extreme hatred is self-defeating. Hate begets hate. And that's not just some hippy-dippy love-your-fellow-man theory--that's something that has been demonstrated in history again and again.
In trying to understand this outpouring of (in many cases misdirected) hate I am now framing peoples' reactions to the horrifying attack within the context of grief. When faced with a tragedy, it is natural to grieve, and when grieving, it is natural to go through the five stages of shock and denial, anger, depression and detachment, dialogue and bargaining, and acceptance. What I would like to think is that at least some of what I was seeing drift across my newsfeeds was not hate for the sake of hate, but a natural phase in the cycle of grief--the shock, denial, and anger that one goes through when grappling with the loss of life. I would like to think that a portion of these expressions of hate were expressions of the anger of grief, and therefore a necessary part of the process in moving towards acceptance, and something more positive.
Of course, the question then becomes is it possible to authentically grieve for people you did not know? Can you grieve when the loss is not personally your own? Does the cycle of grief still apply? I think so, though my feeling is that that cycle is significantly abbreviated for those of us not directly touched by a tragedy.
In the end, I suppose it might not matter whether the hateful words people speak and the actions they commit in the wake of November 13ths attacks stem from a place of grief, or from a place of actual hatred. The damage done is the same. But for me--grief, I can understand. I can forgive things said and done in grief. I cannot find it in me, however, to forgive anything stemming from pure unthinking hate.
To leave on a note of hope, and healing:
What struck me hardest was the hate. In the days following the attack, and even now over a week later, the degree of hate being spewed across my Facebook page rattled me. The hate--hate directed not at Islamic radicals, but at all Muslims and particularly those fleeing the same types of radicals who orchestrated the attack in Paris--shook me even deeper than the attacks themselves. Because what we should be fearing isn't refugees, or Muslims, or terrorists. What we (humanity) should fear is extreme hatred, no matter what form it takes, or who it's directed at. Responding to an act of extreme hatred with extreme hatred is self-defeating. Hate begets hate. And that's not just some hippy-dippy love-your-fellow-man theory--that's something that has been demonstrated in history again and again.
In trying to understand this outpouring of (in many cases misdirected) hate I am now framing peoples' reactions to the horrifying attack within the context of grief. When faced with a tragedy, it is natural to grieve, and when grieving, it is natural to go through the five stages of shock and denial, anger, depression and detachment, dialogue and bargaining, and acceptance. What I would like to think is that at least some of what I was seeing drift across my newsfeeds was not hate for the sake of hate, but a natural phase in the cycle of grief--the shock, denial, and anger that one goes through when grappling with the loss of life. I would like to think that a portion of these expressions of hate were expressions of the anger of grief, and therefore a necessary part of the process in moving towards acceptance, and something more positive.
Of course, the question then becomes is it possible to authentically grieve for people you did not know? Can you grieve when the loss is not personally your own? Does the cycle of grief still apply? I think so, though my feeling is that that cycle is significantly abbreviated for those of us not directly touched by a tragedy.
In the end, I suppose it might not matter whether the hateful words people speak and the actions they commit in the wake of November 13ths attacks stem from a place of grief, or from a place of actual hatred. The damage done is the same. But for me--grief, I can understand. I can forgive things said and done in grief. I cannot find it in me, however, to forgive anything stemming from pure unthinking hate.
To leave on a note of hope, and healing:
Saturday, 18 April 2015
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
Takakkaw Falls
Felt like brutalizing a piece of paper with a pencil this evening:
Not really meant to be an accurate representation, but I used the image on the right as inspiration
Friday, 13 March 2015
The Barrel Organ
We all have peripheral images left over from childhood storybooks of monkeys turning cranks on boxes from which cheerful organ music piped. One type of organ operated in this way was the barrel organ, which consisted of bellows and one or more tiers of pipes housed in a (usually highly ornamented) box. The music was created by the turning of wood "barrels" or cylinders which were encoded with music using an array of pins and staples.
Amazing what you can make music out of, isn't it? While the playing of this device doesn't require great musical talent--just a steady arm, the composing of music on one of these barrels is quite complex, so hats off to those who did and still do create their own barrels.
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| ("Detail of barrel organ (1)" by Chmee2, Wikimedia Commons) |
But, on to what I really wanted to share:
First, this guy, because he's awesome
And second some historic images of barrel organs and their grinders. I find these fascinating, as they show a type of street performing you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere in the world today (though organ grinder hobbyists do still exist, as is evidenced by the awesome dude above). These images show a quirky array of people, many of them seeming a bit rough around the edges, which really makes you wonder about their stories. How did they come by their barrel organs? Were they all hand-made, or inherited? If not, what sort of a business investment is a barrel organ? How much would that have set you back in the early 1900's? Were these people wacky free-spirits, or hard-working individuals desperate for a few coins in an over-saturated job market? Literature from the time depicts them as almost exclusively as vagabond extortionists, however as with any profession, I'd imagine the personal histories of those involved were as varied and colorful as the instruments they played.
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| Organ Grinder, 1922. Toronto Public Library X 65-211 |
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| Eugene Atget's Organ Grinder |
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| Children with Organ Grinder in New York |
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| The scene with the organ grinder and the Gypsy girl |
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| Organ Grinder With Monkey, Ohio County Public Library, W.C. Brown Photo 83 |
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| "An organ grinder at Mtskheta" by N_Creatures, Wikipedia Commons |
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
Pro-life vs. Pro-choice : Perspective
Long time no blog, dawg. Not gonna make excuses, except that Christmas happened, and appraisal season is coming up, and I've been battling off the winter blues, and and and. . .
Ahem
So, today's rumination of choice is on the pro-life versus pro-choice debate. Typically, I have avoided getting into discussions about this topic, as everyone and their dog seems to have very strong opinions, and will fight tooth and claw for one side or the other.
The truth is, I don't really have a strong opinion. If it came down to it, I would fall on the "pro-choice" side of the spectrum, as I believe ultimately what a woman does with her body should be her own to decide. But I don't feel the need to back that belief up with philosophy, constitutional babble, feminist rage, or the typical series of "what if's " (what if she was raped? what if giving birth would kill the mother? what if she cannot afford to raise the child?).
It is not that there is no validity in these arguments -- there is. However, from my perspective, these discussions tend to take away from the reality of the choice in pro-choice.
By turning the topic into a matter of philosophy or politics, putting it in the drawing room or on the political platform, the emotional impact of the choice is drained away, and you might as well be discussing taxation or smoking pipes and rambling abstractly about ethics.
"Pro-choice" is often used in feminist hands as a sort of weapon, another blade from the armory. Again this distracts from the reality of the choice -- "pro-choice" becomes more of a tagline or a battlecry, than something centered on a real decision to be made.
As to the "what ifs", I find them irrelevant. Certainly, they play a role in how the choice might come to be made, but they make weak pillars when upholding the right to make that choice, because they take something that is very real, and throw it into the realm of the hypothetical.
What I'm trying to get at here is that it is easy to lose track of the choice in pro-choice when everyone gets caught up in picking sides and debating themselves blue in the face.
Yes, I believe every woman should have the right to choose. I am happy to live in a country where abortion is legally an option for me. But if it came right down to it, and I found myself with an unwanted pregnancy, would I choose abortion?
I honestly don't know.
If I were thinking just in terms of philosophy, politics, or what I believe about women's rights, I'd go for it in an instant. But when faced with such a choice, none of that really matters, does it?
And, for that matter, the choice of whether to bring a life into the world, or hold it back, is one that exists independently of the law. Abortions were performed before safe medical procedures were ever invented, and abortions would continue even without governmental approval and proper medical support.
Strip away the philosophy and the politics, the question of a woman's rights and the "what ifs", and you are left with a choice, the same choice women have been making for centuries.
And it is, and always will be the most difficult--and most important--decision a woman can make.
Ahem
So, today's rumination of choice is on the pro-life versus pro-choice debate. Typically, I have avoided getting into discussions about this topic, as everyone and their dog seems to have very strong opinions, and will fight tooth and claw for one side or the other.
The truth is, I don't really have a strong opinion. If it came down to it, I would fall on the "pro-choice" side of the spectrum, as I believe ultimately what a woman does with her body should be her own to decide. But I don't feel the need to back that belief up with philosophy, constitutional babble, feminist rage, or the typical series of "what if's " (what if she was raped? what if giving birth would kill the mother? what if she cannot afford to raise the child?).
It is not that there is no validity in these arguments -- there is. However, from my perspective, these discussions tend to take away from the reality of the choice in pro-choice.
By turning the topic into a matter of philosophy or politics, putting it in the drawing room or on the political platform, the emotional impact of the choice is drained away, and you might as well be discussing taxation or smoking pipes and rambling abstractly about ethics.
"Pro-choice" is often used in feminist hands as a sort of weapon, another blade from the armory. Again this distracts from the reality of the choice -- "pro-choice" becomes more of a tagline or a battlecry, than something centered on a real decision to be made.
As to the "what ifs", I find them irrelevant. Certainly, they play a role in how the choice might come to be made, but they make weak pillars when upholding the right to make that choice, because they take something that is very real, and throw it into the realm of the hypothetical.
What I'm trying to get at here is that it is easy to lose track of the choice in pro-choice when everyone gets caught up in picking sides and debating themselves blue in the face.
Yes, I believe every woman should have the right to choose. I am happy to live in a country where abortion is legally an option for me. But if it came right down to it, and I found myself with an unwanted pregnancy, would I choose abortion?
I honestly don't know.
If I were thinking just in terms of philosophy, politics, or what I believe about women's rights, I'd go for it in an instant. But when faced with such a choice, none of that really matters, does it?
And, for that matter, the choice of whether to bring a life into the world, or hold it back, is one that exists independently of the law. Abortions were performed before safe medical procedures were ever invented, and abortions would continue even without governmental approval and proper medical support.
Strip away the philosophy and the politics, the question of a woman's rights and the "what ifs", and you are left with a choice, the same choice women have been making for centuries.
And it is, and always will be the most difficult--and most important--decision a woman can make.
Saturday, 15 November 2014
Dress up time?
About once a year I feel the need to color myself stupidly and take pictures in some sort of costume. This day does not necessarily need to fall on Halloween. This year I was only off by a couple weeks. So like a reasonable adult, I indulged myself and played dressup, and then dicked around with the pictures to make them look more frightening than I look already. And that's saying something. This is what happens when I marathon watch American Horror Story.
Monday, 27 October 2014
BDSM PSA
So, by now, most of us who are interested have heard that the CBC's Jian Ghomeshi has been fired over his sexual practices, which seem to be centered around the BDSM culture. For those of you unfamiliar, BDSM is defined as "erotic practices involving dominance and submission, roleplay and restraint".
He is suing the CBC for $50 million (taxpayer dollars), claiming both defamation, and an unjust termination based on his sexual preferences. And if they were firing him just because he was involved in BDSM, this would most certainly be the case. It would be the equivalent of firing someone because of their sexual orientation, or because they have tattoos. Not fair.
However, what seems to be missing for many people in the discussion of whether or not the CBC ought to have terminated his employment is the fact that three women have come forward with claims of sexual abuse. Ghomeshi has countered this, saying that he has never engaged in sex with a non-consenting partner, and that the claims of abuse are most likely lies planted by a crazy ex-girlfriend.
I can't speak to his crazy ex-girlfriends, but I can talk a bit about BDSM culture and abuse. BDSM can be violent--it is frequently centered around seeking pleasure in pain. To someone unfamiliar with the culture, it might seem like anyone engaging in this sort of sexual practice deserves whatever abuse they get. But this is not the case. Making this assumption is, in fact, the same thing as saying that a woman in slutty clothes deserves to be raped.
The reason? There is something of a golden rule in BDSM culture that REAL and FINAL power lies in the hands of the submissive. This means if at any point the submissive gets uncomfortable and says "Stop" or some other safeword, it is the dominant's responsibility to do as he or she is told. If the dominant (in this case Ghomeshi) were to ignore this rule, he would no longer be engaged in the same sexual act the submissive originally consented to. In BDSM, an act morphs from consensual sex to sexual abuse the moment final power is wrested from the hands of the submissive.
Now, I'm not saying that this is absolutely the case with Ghomeshi. I don't know, I wasn't there. But I feel like if this is a case of Ghomeshi repeatedly breaking the golden rule BDSM and hurting women who didn't know what they were getting into, the CBC is most certainly right in terminating his employment, because what we are dealing with is an illegal act of sexual abuse. Too often in our culture we are willing to write off the words of a woman claiming sexual abuse as just that -- a groundless claim. I for one am glad that the CBC is taking these allegations seriously, and I hope that there is a full and fair investigation.
It is also my hope that people won't lose sight of the three women who came forward. This isn't a question of whether a person should be fired for engaging in BDSM culture--the answer to that is a simple "absolutely not." The question here is, should a person be fired for perpetrating sexual abuse to which the answer, in my book, is yes.
He is suing the CBC for $50 million (taxpayer dollars), claiming both defamation, and an unjust termination based on his sexual preferences. And if they were firing him just because he was involved in BDSM, this would most certainly be the case. It would be the equivalent of firing someone because of their sexual orientation, or because they have tattoos. Not fair.
However, what seems to be missing for many people in the discussion of whether or not the CBC ought to have terminated his employment is the fact that three women have come forward with claims of sexual abuse. Ghomeshi has countered this, saying that he has never engaged in sex with a non-consenting partner, and that the claims of abuse are most likely lies planted by a crazy ex-girlfriend.
I can't speak to his crazy ex-girlfriends, but I can talk a bit about BDSM culture and abuse. BDSM can be violent--it is frequently centered around seeking pleasure in pain. To someone unfamiliar with the culture, it might seem like anyone engaging in this sort of sexual practice deserves whatever abuse they get. But this is not the case. Making this assumption is, in fact, the same thing as saying that a woman in slutty clothes deserves to be raped.
The reason? There is something of a golden rule in BDSM culture that REAL and FINAL power lies in the hands of the submissive. This means if at any point the submissive gets uncomfortable and says "Stop" or some other safeword, it is the dominant's responsibility to do as he or she is told. If the dominant (in this case Ghomeshi) were to ignore this rule, he would no longer be engaged in the same sexual act the submissive originally consented to. In BDSM, an act morphs from consensual sex to sexual abuse the moment final power is wrested from the hands of the submissive.
Now, I'm not saying that this is absolutely the case with Ghomeshi. I don't know, I wasn't there. But I feel like if this is a case of Ghomeshi repeatedly breaking the golden rule BDSM and hurting women who didn't know what they were getting into, the CBC is most certainly right in terminating his employment, because what we are dealing with is an illegal act of sexual abuse. Too often in our culture we are willing to write off the words of a woman claiming sexual abuse as just that -- a groundless claim. I for one am glad that the CBC is taking these allegations seriously, and I hope that there is a full and fair investigation.
It is also my hope that people won't lose sight of the three women who came forward. This isn't a question of whether a person should be fired for engaging in BDSM culture--the answer to that is a simple "absolutely not." The question here is, should a person be fired for perpetrating sexual abuse to which the answer, in my book, is yes.
Friday, 17 October 2014
Forgetting to Remember / Remembering to Forget
I have come to the realization over the past few years that I have a memory like a sieve. And I'm not just talking walking into a room and forgetting what I went in there for (although that happens, too, many times over the course of a day). It isn't just my short term memory that's shot--I'm not just forgetting where I put things, or what appointments I have in a day, or what I was saying from one sentence to the next -- I'm also forgetting large chunks of my own history.
Short term memory I'm not too worried about. If I rehearse a thing enough it'll still stick. And if not, there's always the option of writing things down. Being forgetful in the short term is irritating at times, but I don't think it affects Who I Am.
My slowly dying long-term memory is a different issue, however. The speed at which I am losing memories is increasing--it used to be that I had trouble remembering things from childhood. Now I have forgotten almost all of my childhood, and have trouble remembering who I was last year, last month. Someone will try to remind me of something that happened in my childhood, and I'll draw a total blank. Someone will try to remind me of an argument we had a month ago, and again, total blank. It is interesting that most of what I'm forgetting seems to be negative things. Cruel things done to me, or that I have done, sad things, moments of anger and confusion and upset. Poof, gone, like they never happened. I don't know why my mind seems to be locking away all of my negative memories -- and, here is the really alarming bit : I've stopped caring.
In fact, I've actually started to enjoy it. Its sort of nice not being able to remember any of the bad crap in my life--it makes it much easier to forgive and move on. Sometimes I will have a vague sense that I've been wronged by someone, but because I can't pin it on any specific recollection, the feeling fades away soon enough. Sure, it might be difficult to maintain any sort of identity without really clearly knowing where I came from--but what I can remember of where I came from was worth forgetting in the first place.
So, onward, forward, and no looking back. If I want to look back, that's why I keep this blog, and have a camera. A true archivist, I will select those memories worth preserving and discard the rest--save that shelf space for something more vital.
In honour of Halloween, though, let me share with you something a bit on the creepy side which I think might be related to my memory gaps--or might not.
I have started talking like a little girl in my sleep. Child Stevie, the one adult Stevie's subconscious seems so hellbent on forgetting comes out at night and says things like "Help" and "I don't want to!" and "You can't make me!"
Proof of this? Both my mother and my boyfriend have heard me do it,
Further proof?
How about a suitably spooky and poorly done recording? 'tis the season. You hear me say "I don't want to! Don't want to!" and some other sleepybabble.
Short term memory I'm not too worried about. If I rehearse a thing enough it'll still stick. And if not, there's always the option of writing things down. Being forgetful in the short term is irritating at times, but I don't think it affects Who I Am.
My slowly dying long-term memory is a different issue, however. The speed at which I am losing memories is increasing--it used to be that I had trouble remembering things from childhood. Now I have forgotten almost all of my childhood, and have trouble remembering who I was last year, last month. Someone will try to remind me of something that happened in my childhood, and I'll draw a total blank. Someone will try to remind me of an argument we had a month ago, and again, total blank. It is interesting that most of what I'm forgetting seems to be negative things. Cruel things done to me, or that I have done, sad things, moments of anger and confusion and upset. Poof, gone, like they never happened. I don't know why my mind seems to be locking away all of my negative memories -- and, here is the really alarming bit : I've stopped caring.
In fact, I've actually started to enjoy it. Its sort of nice not being able to remember any of the bad crap in my life--it makes it much easier to forgive and move on. Sometimes I will have a vague sense that I've been wronged by someone, but because I can't pin it on any specific recollection, the feeling fades away soon enough. Sure, it might be difficult to maintain any sort of identity without really clearly knowing where I came from--but what I can remember of where I came from was worth forgetting in the first place.
So, onward, forward, and no looking back. If I want to look back, that's why I keep this blog, and have a camera. A true archivist, I will select those memories worth preserving and discard the rest--save that shelf space for something more vital.
In honour of Halloween, though, let me share with you something a bit on the creepy side which I think might be related to my memory gaps--or might not.
I have started talking like a little girl in my sleep. Child Stevie, the one adult Stevie's subconscious seems so hellbent on forgetting comes out at night and says things like "Help" and "I don't want to!" and "You can't make me!"
Proof of this? Both my mother and my boyfriend have heard me do it,
Further proof?
How about a suitably spooky and poorly done recording? 'tis the season. You hear me say "I don't want to! Don't want to!" and some other sleepybabble.
Further to this creepiness, I've started having dreams--at least once a week now. Dreams where I am running through dilapidated, mold-ridden, collapsing, rat-infested iterations of my childhood homes. I spend my nights scampering through these "rooms of ruin", breathing in the cinnamon scent of mummified mice and old paper, and I look for things. Childhood relics. I find them on shelves, or perched precariously under a bit of ceiling about to fall in, or under all the ooze and muck and grime, and I find them, and I salvage them. I am driven to do it. Salvaging these trinkets in my dreams is the most important thing. Sometimes I am being chased by something that threatens my life, but I still always find the time to pluck a jewelry box from the closet where I'm hiding and stow it away, with the sense that even if I'm killed now, at least I've accomplished something.
Simple analogy, perhaps. Houses--particularly childhood homes, are meant to represent the mind. Mine is collapsing. The trinkets are the memories that are left.
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
Thanks Giving
So, Canadian Thanksgiving was this past weekend and although we didn't celebrate in the traditional sense, I thought I'd harness the spirit of the season and throw down a few things from the past year that I have been thankful for (in no particular order):
* First of all I am thankful that my Dad wasn't horribly crushed in his tractor accident a few weeks back.
* I am thankful for having a family that I am close to, and getting closer to. Even if we don't always agree and sometimes have fighting and sadness and hurt feelings--in the end its all worth it.
* I am thankful for the friendships I am building/rebuilding. I am grateful for all of the people who let me be a part of their lives and put up with my weirdness.
*I am thankful for Stewart--for his patience, gentleness, warmth, intelligence, and humor.
*I am thankful that I have a truly great set of co-workers that make going to work a pleasure. Likewise, I am thankful for my job which has enough variety and fast-paced interesting action to keep me busy and absorbed for hours and hours.
*I am thankful that I seem to have matured from the person I was even this time last year. I am more honest with myself and others, and this has had the added benefit of making me feel less shitty about myself.
*I am thankful for nachos and salsa, which I have recently rediscovered.
*I am thankful for nerdy television, which will get me through the coming winter.
*I am thankful, always, for hot baths. Preferably hot baths with candles, incense, bath salts, and a beverage.
*I am thankful that I have rediscovered the joys of reading for pleasure in the past year.
*I am thankful for my health plan.
*I am thankful for my little RAV, and my drivers license, which let me get from place to place to place at a whim. They don't call me "road warrior" for nothing.
* I am thankful for the unseasonably warm October we've been having.
For awhile there I was keeping a gratitude journal--writing down five things every day that I was grateful for. You'd think this would be hard, but really it's not. The world is full of amazing things--small miracles and big ones--that can be seen only when you're in the frame of mind to look. I'd like to get back in the habit of a gratitude journal. Its a good way to remind oneself that no matter how you square it, things are never as bad as you might first think. There is always *something* to be thankful for,
* First of all I am thankful that my Dad wasn't horribly crushed in his tractor accident a few weeks back.
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| What's left of the tractor |
* I am thankful for having a family that I am close to, and getting closer to. Even if we don't always agree and sometimes have fighting and sadness and hurt feelings--in the end its all worth it.
* I am thankful for the friendships I am building/rebuilding. I am grateful for all of the people who let me be a part of their lives and put up with my weirdness.
*I am thankful for Stewart--for his patience, gentleness, warmth, intelligence, and humor.
*I am thankful that I have a truly great set of co-workers that make going to work a pleasure. Likewise, I am thankful for my job which has enough variety and fast-paced interesting action to keep me busy and absorbed for hours and hours.
*I am thankful that I seem to have matured from the person I was even this time last year. I am more honest with myself and others, and this has had the added benefit of making me feel less shitty about myself.
*I am thankful for nachos and salsa, which I have recently rediscovered.
*I am thankful for nerdy television, which will get me through the coming winter.
*I am thankful, always, for hot baths. Preferably hot baths with candles, incense, bath salts, and a beverage.
*I am thankful that I have rediscovered the joys of reading for pleasure in the past year.
*I am thankful for my health plan.
*I am thankful for my little RAV, and my drivers license, which let me get from place to place to place at a whim. They don't call me "road warrior" for nothing.
* I am thankful for the unseasonably warm October we've been having.
For awhile there I was keeping a gratitude journal--writing down five things every day that I was grateful for. You'd think this would be hard, but really it's not. The world is full of amazing things--small miracles and big ones--that can be seen only when you're in the frame of mind to look. I'd like to get back in the habit of a gratitude journal. Its a good way to remind oneself that no matter how you square it, things are never as bad as you might first think. There is always *something* to be thankful for,
Thursday, 9 October 2014
Master of Extremes
Because talking about myself never gets old--AHAHAHAHAHAHA
ahem. . .
Trying to get out a thought that's been bobbling about in my head all day regarding two equal and opposing beliefs about myself that I hold with absolute conviction.
The first will surprise those of you that spend any amount of time with me. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that I am a great person--maybe even an amazing person, with massive amounts of potential, mad skillz. a good head on her shoulders, more personality than your average bear, a unique way of looking at the world, and a good deal of inherent strength.
At the same time, I believe, just as strongly, that I aim a huge failed waste of flesh, and should probably be trampled to death by a rogue mammoth. This will be more familiar to those around me, as I tend to talk myself down more than up (something I think I do because I fear talking myself up would make me unbearable to be near--and I'm already unbearable enough (there she goes again)).
Having these two contrary self images--that I am invaluable, and that I am un-valuable; that I am both awesome and insignificant--sometimes feels like the emotional equivalent of being strung up spread-eagled on barbed wire, being pulled in two different directions.
You might laugh, say "Stevie, Stevie. Don't you know you are not either of these things? You are just a human, like anyone. You have successes, you make mistakes" , and I would have to agree. Let me rephrase : CONSCIOUSLY , LOGICALLY , and RATIONALLY I would be inclined to agree. Unfortunately I am rarely rational, infrequently logical, and usually just barely conscious. I am unable to disabuse myself of either the notion that I am somehow super, or the notion that I am superfluous. I have been trying, for a long time.
So, I suppose my question for you, dear reader, is this : do you ever feel this same way? Torn between two extremes, neither of which reflects the reality in which you exist?
ahem. . .
Trying to get out a thought that's been bobbling about in my head all day regarding two equal and opposing beliefs about myself that I hold with absolute conviction.
The first will surprise those of you that spend any amount of time with me. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that I am a great person--maybe even an amazing person, with massive amounts of potential, mad skillz. a good head on her shoulders, more personality than your average bear, a unique way of looking at the world, and a good deal of inherent strength.
At the same time, I believe, just as strongly, that I aim a huge failed waste of flesh, and should probably be trampled to death by a rogue mammoth. This will be more familiar to those around me, as I tend to talk myself down more than up (something I think I do because I fear talking myself up would make me unbearable to be near--and I'm already unbearable enough (there she goes again)).
Having these two contrary self images--that I am invaluable, and that I am un-valuable; that I am both awesome and insignificant--sometimes feels like the emotional equivalent of being strung up spread-eagled on barbed wire, being pulled in two different directions.
You might laugh, say "Stevie, Stevie. Don't you know you are not either of these things? You are just a human, like anyone. You have successes, you make mistakes" , and I would have to agree. Let me rephrase : CONSCIOUSLY , LOGICALLY , and RATIONALLY I would be inclined to agree. Unfortunately I am rarely rational, infrequently logical, and usually just barely conscious. I am unable to disabuse myself of either the notion that I am somehow super, or the notion that I am superfluous. I have been trying, for a long time.
So, I suppose my question for you, dear reader, is this : do you ever feel this same way? Torn between two extremes, neither of which reflects the reality in which you exist?
Sunday, 28 September 2014
Transparencies
In honour of nuit blanche which was held here in Saskatoon last night, I decided to try some strange arts this morning. It didn't turn out splendid, but it was fun. I scribbled a bunch of nonsense on saran wrap, folded it over, taped it into a frame, and then held it up to the light to see what could be seen.
Its almost like a fucked up landscape. Almost.
Its almost like a fucked up landscape. Almost.
Observations from/about Saskatoon's first Nuit Blanche:
* Great use of social media. Having the twitter feed projected on the side of a building was a very cool idea
* Blacksmithing is a mind-blowingly great idea for a nuit blanche , combining the light show element with live art-making.
* I now have a thing for fire dancers in baggy pants
*Outdoors exhibits are preferable to indoors ones
*Noise pollution makes for an irritating artform--and this from someone who listens to Nine Inch Nails on a regular basis.
*Nonsensically dancing in a crowd is a great way to keep a bubble of personal space
*Librarians are still cool.
*Mexican food is exciting
*The Canadian Light Source fails at lights.
*Finding a free mixed tape is awesome, even if you don't have the wherewithal to play it.
Friday, 5 September 2014
Thursday, 31 July 2014
On Beauty
I shall be as drab as a peahen.
My hair shall be as tangled ivy,
My teeth stained to ivory.
My legs and darkened places will bear the prickles of a cactus--both warning and challenge.
My flesh shall roll as the hills and meadows; bear those same scars.
My wardrobe a coat of many colours, clashing and threadbare.
And I will be beautiful, for I will be myself.
My hair shall be as tangled ivy,
My teeth stained to ivory.
My legs and darkened places will bear the prickles of a cactus--both warning and challenge.
My flesh shall roll as the hills and meadows; bear those same scars.
My wardrobe a coat of many colours, clashing and threadbare.
And I will be beautiful, for I will be myself.
Saturday, 31 May 2014
Fear and the University
So, all of us who care to have heard about the drama going on at the University of Saskatchewan lately will have heard by now. The TransformUS project, which really translates into another crippling bout of layoffs and department mergers in the name of a maybe-deficit that isn't too different from the deficit facing pretty much any public institution in the country. Soon-to-be retired professor R. Buckingham's outcry against the TransformUS plan and the rather brutal reaction of the provost/president with his termination and a lifelong ban from campus. The popular outcry that this was an affront to academic freedom and freedom of speech and the resulting resignation of the Provost and termination of President Ilene Busch-Vishniac.
I am ashamed to say that, as an employee of the university, I did very little to speak out against TransformUs, or Busch-Vishniac's treatment of Dr. Buckingham. I didn't blog about it, facebook about it, didn't reshare any of the articles I was avidly reading, didn't attend the May 21st rally. I didn't do any of these things because I was afraid -- like, stupid, paralyzing, lay in my bed in the dark and fear for my job/develop dental tooth-grinding problems afraid. I am only talking about it now because I feel a bit safer under the administration of our new temporary president Gordon Barnhart.
So, why so afraid? Aside from the obvious fear of losing a job that I love, being a new employee in a unionized setting where there is a push towards "last in the door, first out," I was afraid because under the regime of Busch-Vishniac, there was a seemingly conscious effort to create a climate of fear. All employees regardless of union/non-union/tenure-track/faculty status were at risk of coming to work one morning to find a pair of security guards and (if lucky) a cardboard box waiting at their desk. No two weeks warning, no gentle words of explanation and an honourable goodbye--just the University equivalent of gestapo making an example of you in front of people you'd worked with, maybe for decades, and a long escorted "perp walk" off campus.
Management through fear, while it may work fine in many corporate environments, is absolutely contrary to everything an academic institution should stand for. This is because fear is so frequently partnered with ignorance. I won't say that you can't have one without the other, or that one causes the other, but chances are: where there is fear, there is ignorance, and where there is ignorance, there is fear.
By encouraging an atmosphere of fear on a University campus, Busch-Vishniac was also encouraging ignorance. Innovative thinking on the part of the students can hardly be fostered in a place where staff are bullied to thinking and behaving like drones. And without innovative thinking on the part of at least some percentage of the University population, what, really, is the point of the academic institution? We become some sort of Dr. Seussian machine churning out identical creatures with stars on their bellies and stamped pieces of paper in their hands.
I am ashamed to say that, as an employee of the university, I did very little to speak out against TransformUs, or Busch-Vishniac's treatment of Dr. Buckingham. I didn't blog about it, facebook about it, didn't reshare any of the articles I was avidly reading, didn't attend the May 21st rally. I didn't do any of these things because I was afraid -- like, stupid, paralyzing, lay in my bed in the dark and fear for my job/develop dental tooth-grinding problems afraid. I am only talking about it now because I feel a bit safer under the administration of our new temporary president Gordon Barnhart.
So, why so afraid? Aside from the obvious fear of losing a job that I love, being a new employee in a unionized setting where there is a push towards "last in the door, first out," I was afraid because under the regime of Busch-Vishniac, there was a seemingly conscious effort to create a climate of fear. All employees regardless of union/non-union/tenure-track/faculty status were at risk of coming to work one morning to find a pair of security guards and (if lucky) a cardboard box waiting at their desk. No two weeks warning, no gentle words of explanation and an honourable goodbye--just the University equivalent of gestapo making an example of you in front of people you'd worked with, maybe for decades, and a long escorted "perp walk" off campus.
Management through fear, while it may work fine in many corporate environments, is absolutely contrary to everything an academic institution should stand for. This is because fear is so frequently partnered with ignorance. I won't say that you can't have one without the other, or that one causes the other, but chances are: where there is fear, there is ignorance, and where there is ignorance, there is fear.
By encouraging an atmosphere of fear on a University campus, Busch-Vishniac was also encouraging ignorance. Innovative thinking on the part of the students can hardly be fostered in a place where staff are bullied to thinking and behaving like drones. And without innovative thinking on the part of at least some percentage of the University population, what, really, is the point of the academic institution? We become some sort of Dr. Seussian machine churning out identical creatures with stars on their bellies and stamped pieces of paper in their hands.
While the relief when the Provost stepped down was great, and the relief accompanying the termination of Busch-Vishniac even greater, I think the true sign that this attitude of ruling-by-fear is changing comes with interim president Barnhart's assurance that Perp Walks are a thing of the past. Perhaps with the withdrawal of the cloud of fear that has been hovering over the campus for the past few years, the entire institution can get back to the important task of focusing on enlightenment over ignorance.
Monday, 26 May 2014
A Note on Elliot Rodgers
I have ten minutes to write down my thoughts on the mass murderer behind the killing of six people at UC Santa Barbara earlier this week--and ten minutes is more than he's worth.
First: You, Elliot Rodgers, were a spoiled self-absorbed whiny little prat who couldn't take responsibility for your own failures and insecurities, choosing to instead project that self-hate outwards. You lacked the self awareness anyone dealing with mental issues needs to pursue a normal, healthy life. More than that, you were too blinded by your own selfishness to have any degree of that needed self-awareness.
Second: Yes, you were a misogynist asswipe, Elliot, but contrary to what the media is yowling about, the real issue here isn't misogyny. Misogyny played a role, yes. It heavily influenced the heavily influence-able Elliot, for certain, but the real issue is mental illness, and our inability as a society to read the warning signs of someone about to flip their lid, and do something useful with that information. And lets face it, our Elliot was throwing up plenty of red flags. Society as a whole needs to both understand mental illness more completely, take its manifestations more seriously, and deal with it more directly and decisively if we are to prevent these tragedies from occurring.
That's all I've got to say on the issue.
First: You, Elliot Rodgers, were a spoiled self-absorbed whiny little prat who couldn't take responsibility for your own failures and insecurities, choosing to instead project that self-hate outwards. You lacked the self awareness anyone dealing with mental issues needs to pursue a normal, healthy life. More than that, you were too blinded by your own selfishness to have any degree of that needed self-awareness.
Second: Yes, you were a misogynist asswipe, Elliot, but contrary to what the media is yowling about, the real issue here isn't misogyny. Misogyny played a role, yes. It heavily influenced the heavily influence-able Elliot, for certain, but the real issue is mental illness, and our inability as a society to read the warning signs of someone about to flip their lid, and do something useful with that information. And lets face it, our Elliot was throwing up plenty of red flags. Society as a whole needs to both understand mental illness more completely, take its manifestations more seriously, and deal with it more directly and decisively if we are to prevent these tragedies from occurring.
That's all I've got to say on the issue.
Monday, 12 May 2014
Crispy Cauliflower with Capers, Raisins, and Breadcrumbs
Okay, so I don't even like cauliflower, but this turned out *amazing*. It is probably the longest I will ever spend preparing cauliflower in my life, because there were so many goofy little components, but well worth it.
2 heads cauliflower, cut into florets
6 tbsp olive oil
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2 tbsp salt-packed capers, soaked, rinsed and patted dry
¾ cup fresh, coarse breadcrumbs
½ cup low-salt chicken stock
cup sultanas1 tbsp white wine vinegar or
Champagne vinegar
Sea salt and freshly ground
black pepper
30g Italian parsley, chopped
6 tbsp olive oil
3 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
2 tbsp salt-packed capers, soaked, rinsed and patted dry
¾ cup fresh, coarse breadcrumbs
½ cup low-salt chicken stock
cup sultanas1 tbsp white wine vinegar or
Champagne vinegar
Sea salt and freshly ground
black pepper
30g Italian parsley, chopped
[Preheat oven to 220°C]
Toss cauliflower florets with 3 tbsp of olive oil in a large bowl. Spread the cauliflower out in a single layer on two shallow baking trays lined with baking paper. Roast, tossing occasionally, until the cauliflower is golden and crispy, about 20–25 minutes.
Heat 3 tbsp of olive oil in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Add garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until just golden, about 2–3 minutes. Watch carefully that the garlic does not burn. Turn the heat up slightly, add the rinsed capers and cook until they start to pop, about 3 minutes longer. Add breadcrumbs and toss to coat. Cook, stirring often, until breadcrumbs are golden, about 2–3 minutes. Transfer the breadcrumb mixture to a plate and set aside.
In the same saucepan, heat the chicken stock to a boil. Add the sultanas and the white wine vinegar and cook until almost all the liquid is absorbed, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.
Transfer warm cauliflower to a serving bowl. Scatter the sultana mixture over, then toss to distribute evenly. Season to taste with salt and white pepper. Sprinkle the cauliflower with the garlic capery breadcrumbs and the chopped Italian parsley.
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