18 years.
I was a baby once. I crawled and drooled and pooped and made funny noises and chewed on things. That was the beginning of things.
And time went by and before anyone knew it, I was a kid. We all were kids, all of a sudden. I was very concerned with things like recess and playstation and cookies and grandma's house. I waited all year for summer and day camp, and knew that my mom would always be at home with peanut butter and jelly waiting for me after school.
And more time went by, and I was a "young man". I never really understood what it meant to be a young man. I took it to mean that everyone expects you to grow up but they know you're not going to. It's like they set themselves up to be disappointed. All of a sudden there was long division and algebra and book reports and essays and lots and lots of homework. Who you sat with at lunch was a big deal. There was lots of sports and brand name t-shirts, a lot of boyfriends and girlfriends. And no one really cared about each other anymore.
The "young man" stage quickly turned into "ok, time to grow up now". Nothing was ever really different from being a young man, except there was more of everything. There was more homework, more papers, more books to read and presentations to give. There was more sports and cliques and boyfriends and girlfriends, all of them more places I didn't fit.
"time to grow up" turned into "grow the fuck up already." I ditched a lot of school to go play hackey sack with all the kids who are going to change the world someday, but at the time they smoked a lot of weed instead.
And now I've grown up, I guess. Somehow, I got to college. I work all day and save my money. I have a "plan for my life," whatever that means. My parents say they're proud of me. They say I'm going to do great at school, and that I'll do great at my job. I don't know if that matters to me. I do what I do because I want to. Somehow that makes it more rebellious, I suppose.
I want my transition into "grown up" to be abrupt. I know many people I've grown up with who are lingering around their pasts. They're going to college in packs, or staying at home. I cannot understand them. We grew the fuck up already, right? Just as we had to leave the ground and learn to walk, or leave the playground to learn long division, we have to ditch our pasts now. Right?
We grew the fuck up already. Just like our parents and teachers and culture told us we had to. It's time for us to leave them in the dust. I know I am.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Ice.
I once met a man who changed my life forever, and I never asked his name.
I was sitting in a small, ramshackle room on the second floor of a rented building. Old wobbly school chairs lined the four plaster walls, and the floor creaked. Around me were 17 or 18 Albanian villagers and one pasty white engineer from San Diego; this was the Albanians' church, and the pasty engineer was Eric, my less-than-fluent translator.
Church service had started, and we had sung a few praise songs to an old, out-of-tune guitar and 17 or 18 pairs of off-beat clapping hands. We were sitting down listening to the pastor - a 30-something man with a weary but passionate look about him - speak from 1st Peter, when a man came in to the service late. He walked with this apologetic stoop; he seemed as if he wasn't sure if he had walked into the right place. The only open chair was beside me, and he sat down. Eric had pulled a stack of Albanian New Testaments out of his bag, and had began passing them around. I handed one to the man.
He took the bible, which I had handed to him upside-down, and opened it. He looked at it for a moment, closed it slowly, and handed it back to me with the same apologetic expression he had on when he walked in. I realized he couldn't read what I had given to him. I felt as small as an ant. And I looked directly into his eyes.
These eyes were unlike any eyes I had ever seen. Most people have eyes that are blue, or brown, or green. Their eyes have depth, and this depth has a bottom. Depending on the person, eyes can be bright or sullen, kind or calloused. This man's eyes were none of these things.
The core of his eyes were as ones forged of frigid, harsh steel, embedded in a spehere of fractured ice. Looking at them was like staring into an arctic sun, so utterly cold. I could see so many years of suffering in those eyes, and so much shattered hope. They were filled with these things, and they were bottomless.
My team returned to this village a couple days later, and this man came and found us. He wanted some of us to come to his house and pray for his mother. I wanted to come.
His house was smaller than my living room. His mother, wife, and two small daughters lived in this house, and they were there when we arrived. His mother was very, very old, and her sight and hearing had all but gone from her. His wife's teeth were askew, and she was completely deaf. When she communicated, she used violent hand motions and made puffing sounds with her mouth. I wasn't sure whether she was telling us a story about war and protest, or demonstrating a recipe for bread.
The man began talking with us about his life and family. He brought out a small photo album with pictures of his extended family, and his wedding. (everybody in Albania does this.) He began to tell us about how his marriage had been difficult, because of the challenges communicating with his deaf wife presented. He also said that he would never trade it, because even though it is so very hard, he loves her.
He talked about his daughters with a smile, telling us that both of them can hear perfectly. His daughters are beautiful, he says, and he is right. One of them is about six years old, and sits on his lap. The other is newborn, and is sleeping in the back room, which is about the size of an American walk in closet. He then speaks of his mother with a grim and joyless look on his face; she is dying, he says. His mother continues to sit beside him, smiling and talking to herself.
We gather around and pray for his family. I keep my eyes open, and I look at this man. His head is bowed, his knotted hands clasped together. I shed a tear for him.
And though this man may have forgotten me already, I will never, ever forget him. His eyes will pierce my memory, those eyes of steel and cold, cold ice.
I was sitting in a small, ramshackle room on the second floor of a rented building. Old wobbly school chairs lined the four plaster walls, and the floor creaked. Around me were 17 or 18 Albanian villagers and one pasty white engineer from San Diego; this was the Albanians' church, and the pasty engineer was Eric, my less-than-fluent translator.
Church service had started, and we had sung a few praise songs to an old, out-of-tune guitar and 17 or 18 pairs of off-beat clapping hands. We were sitting down listening to the pastor - a 30-something man with a weary but passionate look about him - speak from 1st Peter, when a man came in to the service late. He walked with this apologetic stoop; he seemed as if he wasn't sure if he had walked into the right place. The only open chair was beside me, and he sat down. Eric had pulled a stack of Albanian New Testaments out of his bag, and had began passing them around. I handed one to the man.
He took the bible, which I had handed to him upside-down, and opened it. He looked at it for a moment, closed it slowly, and handed it back to me with the same apologetic expression he had on when he walked in. I realized he couldn't read what I had given to him. I felt as small as an ant. And I looked directly into his eyes.
These eyes were unlike any eyes I had ever seen. Most people have eyes that are blue, or brown, or green. Their eyes have depth, and this depth has a bottom. Depending on the person, eyes can be bright or sullen, kind or calloused. This man's eyes were none of these things.
The core of his eyes were as ones forged of frigid, harsh steel, embedded in a spehere of fractured ice. Looking at them was like staring into an arctic sun, so utterly cold. I could see so many years of suffering in those eyes, and so much shattered hope. They were filled with these things, and they were bottomless.
My team returned to this village a couple days later, and this man came and found us. He wanted some of us to come to his house and pray for his mother. I wanted to come.
His house was smaller than my living room. His mother, wife, and two small daughters lived in this house, and they were there when we arrived. His mother was very, very old, and her sight and hearing had all but gone from her. His wife's teeth were askew, and she was completely deaf. When she communicated, she used violent hand motions and made puffing sounds with her mouth. I wasn't sure whether she was telling us a story about war and protest, or demonstrating a recipe for bread.
The man began talking with us about his life and family. He brought out a small photo album with pictures of his extended family, and his wedding. (everybody in Albania does this.) He began to tell us about how his marriage had been difficult, because of the challenges communicating with his deaf wife presented. He also said that he would never trade it, because even though it is so very hard, he loves her.
He talked about his daughters with a smile, telling us that both of them can hear perfectly. His daughters are beautiful, he says, and he is right. One of them is about six years old, and sits on his lap. The other is newborn, and is sleeping in the back room, which is about the size of an American walk in closet. He then speaks of his mother with a grim and joyless look on his face; she is dying, he says. His mother continues to sit beside him, smiling and talking to herself.
We gather around and pray for his family. I keep my eyes open, and I look at this man. His head is bowed, his knotted hands clasped together. I shed a tear for him.
And though this man may have forgotten me already, I will never, ever forget him. His eyes will pierce my memory, those eyes of steel and cold, cold ice.
exciting.
I feel as if I'm on the verge of a new world.
History has been erased and I can write my tomorrows however I like. I posses the ability to be whoever I wish. I am no longer tied to my past.
and i can hear the shackles being unlocked
it's a brave new world
History has been erased and I can write my tomorrows however I like. I posses the ability to be whoever I wish. I am no longer tied to my past.
and i can hear the shackles being unlocked
it's a brave new world
Friday, June 29, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
april 14: the sexy seven.
team chosen took first place up at BattleGround on saturday in 7-man. Way to go, guys!more pictures from this tourney coming up.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
the creepiest thing i've seen all day:
I am a Christian. It's not a religion, or a denomination; I simply believe that there is a God, and that Jesus was God, and that the way he lived his life is the way I should try and live mine. I believe that God is alive and working today, and that his main goal for us is to be our friend, and enable us to live lives that are fufilling and have purpose.
That being said, I am freaked out by this new documentary, Jesus Camp.
The synopsis, as far as i can tell from clips off YouTube (the dvd is being downloaded as I speak), is that these guys followed a christian kids camp in Colorado around for a while. It's hosted by this evangelical mega-church, and the clips i'm seeing remind me of Hitler Youth. 10 year olds are spouting words that do not belong in their mouths, talking about fighting god's enemies, how god spoke to them and told them to go talk to random people about Jesus, and a whole bunch of stuff that seems really really creepy. I understand the bias of the people who shot and edited this film, but it still quite unnerves me.
I am a youth leader. Could this sort of thing happen at my church?
jesuscampthemovie.com
That being said, I am freaked out by this new documentary, Jesus Camp.
The synopsis, as far as i can tell from clips off YouTube (the dvd is being downloaded as I speak), is that these guys followed a christian kids camp in Colorado around for a while. It's hosted by this evangelical mega-church, and the clips i'm seeing remind me of Hitler Youth. 10 year olds are spouting words that do not belong in their mouths, talking about fighting god's enemies, how god spoke to them and told them to go talk to random people about Jesus, and a whole bunch of stuff that seems really really creepy. I understand the bias of the people who shot and edited this film, but it still quite unnerves me.
I am a youth leader. Could this sort of thing happen at my church?
jesuscampthemovie.com
Monday, January 08, 2007
oh crap. i am.
I'm addicted to all the things i own. I'm in bondage to my checking accountand it's disgusting.
i need to move the hell away from here. it's getting hard to breathe...
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
I decide to write tonight.
What does art mean?
After all, this is an art blog. That question should be asked.
I think that we can classify art as all of the things that are cool to look at/read/listen to, and that allow us to think differently about things, but don't have a whole lot of "usefulness".
It's hard to create an effective business model or build a bridge with a photograph or an essay.
I can inspire those things with art, but creating them is not considered art.
That stuff is work.
Why?
When I make a photograph, the process of creating it is a lot more satisfying than having a cool print. And showing a cool print to people is way more fun than making it.
But I would never go buy a print, or make a copy of someone elses. Even if it was the coolest thing in the world; it wouldn't be mine.
However, when doing Calculus, I'm more than happy to take someone elses work. All I want is the finished product. The answer is all that matters. The journey to get to the answer is boring and tedious, and I do everything I possibly can to shorten the ammount of time I spend journeying.
But it takes just as much intelligence to solve a calculus problem as it does to create a photograph. Perhaps more.
But it isn't art. It's work.
What if we took math, or science, or accounting, or elctrical engineering, and started doing it in ways no one had ever thought of before.
What if all the accountants got their books together, got a lil high, and tried to be accountants in a creative way.
I've always been told there is one way to solve an equation. One right answer. That "this is the correct data that you should have gotten from your experiment if you did it right." There's one way.
But what if i thought up a new way?
It's almost impossible to make myself think in a new way about Calculus. Mostly because calculus is a very complex system, and people have been thinking about it for so long that they've pretty much figured out all of the ways to do calculus effectively.
But art is viewed as ever-changing. There is no right way to do compose music, or paint, or photograph.
Why does math have to have a "right" way and a "wrong" way?
Culturally, we have put a schizm between art and science. It is a hindrance to the advancement of the sciences, particularily math. There are free-thinking scientists out there, but they don't stray very far from the roots of their given fields.
What if science and art were the same?
What if instead of telling people how to find x, they were left to figure out what x was themselves?
What if science exepermiments is 5th grade were truly experiments, and not step by step instructions to find data?
What if there wasn't a "right" way to get the answer?
After all, this is an art blog. That question should be asked.
I think that we can classify art as all of the things that are cool to look at/read/listen to, and that allow us to think differently about things, but don't have a whole lot of "usefulness".
It's hard to create an effective business model or build a bridge with a photograph or an essay.
I can inspire those things with art, but creating them is not considered art.
That stuff is work.
Why?
When I make a photograph, the process of creating it is a lot more satisfying than having a cool print. And showing a cool print to people is way more fun than making it.
But I would never go buy a print, or make a copy of someone elses. Even if it was the coolest thing in the world; it wouldn't be mine.
However, when doing Calculus, I'm more than happy to take someone elses work. All I want is the finished product. The answer is all that matters. The journey to get to the answer is boring and tedious, and I do everything I possibly can to shorten the ammount of time I spend journeying.
But it takes just as much intelligence to solve a calculus problem as it does to create a photograph. Perhaps more.
But it isn't art. It's work.
What if we took math, or science, or accounting, or elctrical engineering, and started doing it in ways no one had ever thought of before.
What if all the accountants got their books together, got a lil high, and tried to be accountants in a creative way.
I've always been told there is one way to solve an equation. One right answer. That "this is the correct data that you should have gotten from your experiment if you did it right." There's one way.
But what if i thought up a new way?
It's almost impossible to make myself think in a new way about Calculus. Mostly because calculus is a very complex system, and people have been thinking about it for so long that they've pretty much figured out all of the ways to do calculus effectively.
But art is viewed as ever-changing. There is no right way to do compose music, or paint, or photograph.
Why does math have to have a "right" way and a "wrong" way?
Culturally, we have put a schizm between art and science. It is a hindrance to the advancement of the sciences, particularily math. There are free-thinking scientists out there, but they don't stray very far from the roots of their given fields.
What if science and art were the same?
What if instead of telling people how to find x, they were left to figure out what x was themselves?
What if science exepermiments is 5th grade were truly experiments, and not step by step instructions to find data?
What if there wasn't a "right" way to get the answer?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
negative scan experiment
I'm always willing to try new things, so i tried this. It's dirty, low-resolution (because the negatives are so small), but i like the effect. This technique seems to bring out all of the imperfections in the negative; notice the left side (film casing popped open). I'll try scanning the print i made of this when i get it back, for comparison.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
www.nmpa.org <---BITCHES.
these weinerheads are taking down tab sites.
thats right guys. it's now illegal to take down guitar tabs.
pretty soon, it'll prbably be illegal to play someone elses songs without paying for the right to do so.
how screwed up is that?
victims:
guitartabs.com
guitarbash.com
mxtabs.com
guitartabs.cc
more are coming.
oh yeah, these guys killed Grokester too.
and do i hafta mention the RIAA suing dead people?
this has gotta end somewhere folks. The recording industry combating people who blatantly pirate illegal copies of music the release is one thing.
but this strikes the heart, man.
if you don't know what tabs are:
lets say I hear a song on a cd that i wanna learn how to play on my guitar or bass. I get out my axe, a pen and some paper and listen to it again and again while trying out fingerings on the guitar until they match up with whats coming through the speaker. Like trying to learn how to sing a song.
tabs are a notation that guitarists use to write down fingerings for songs. It used to be that one could go online and find tabs to any song you wanted to know how to play, posted by people who figured them out.
its not stealing music. its like posting lyrics online.
and now... it's illegal.
someone should freakin lock these RIAA and NMPA policy makers in the looney bin. They're skrewing over the most important part of their business: their consumers.
Our country was founded on the idea that if a large power is being unfair, people have the right to revolt. That's John Locke philosophy.
We can revolt against the music industry. It's called boycott. If they don't have consumers, they don't have a business.
Theres a place where we have to draw the line. For me, it's here.
these weinerheads are taking down tab sites.
thats right guys. it's now illegal to take down guitar tabs.
pretty soon, it'll prbably be illegal to play someone elses songs without paying for the right to do so.
how screwed up is that?
victims:
guitartabs.com
guitarbash.com
mxtabs.com
guitartabs.cc
more are coming.
oh yeah, these guys killed Grokester too.
and do i hafta mention the RIAA suing dead people?
this has gotta end somewhere folks. The recording industry combating people who blatantly pirate illegal copies of music the release is one thing.
but this strikes the heart, man.
if you don't know what tabs are:
lets say I hear a song on a cd that i wanna learn how to play on my guitar or bass. I get out my axe, a pen and some paper and listen to it again and again while trying out fingerings on the guitar until they match up with whats coming through the speaker. Like trying to learn how to sing a song.
tabs are a notation that guitarists use to write down fingerings for songs. It used to be that one could go online and find tabs to any song you wanted to know how to play, posted by people who figured them out.
its not stealing music. its like posting lyrics online.
and now... it's illegal.
someone should freakin lock these RIAA and NMPA policy makers in the looney bin. They're skrewing over the most important part of their business: their consumers.
Our country was founded on the idea that if a large power is being unfair, people have the right to revolt. That's John Locke philosophy.
We can revolt against the music industry. It's called boycott. If they don't have consumers, they don't have a business.
Theres a place where we have to draw the line. For me, it's here.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
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