Achilles Heel

(alternate title: trust.)

And the answer

to the question of the stalled elevator, would be to give Rachmaninov the shotgun, were it to come to it.

Of course, of the two of them, Rachmaninov would not use the gun.

Which is the reason why the world keeps turning and people keep getting hurt.

(I am aware of course, that I am making a brash generalization about Rachmaninov based on his music, which is Also potentially bullshit, so really, there's just no answer to who's good and who's evil, is there.)

Today i found out

that the world is home to people who very Consciously do not care about other human beings. 

i do not understand this. 

i Do Not understand this. 

i DO NOT UNDERSTAND this.

And what I am doing instead of looking for a job...

The Fantastic place I work.

Last weekend, I came into work only to bump right into the girl whose shift I've been covering (while she was on two weeks' vacation). I had known she was coming back, but thought perhaps her plans had changed since I received the call to cover the shift for the next month. We were both baffled. Went upstairs to check the schedule. Her name was completely missing. Two days later she had no further access to inter-office email. The scheduler blames admin and admin blames the scheduler, but basically she is the second person (with the same position I have) to be laid off without being told. After two and a half years. 

Awesome world. AWESOME.

What I want.

(besides a motorcycle, that is) is to know what would happen if you put Rachmaninov and GW Bush in an elevator together and shut it down. What would happen. How would they relate to each other, what would they say, HOW would they connect and make friends.
THAT is what I want to know.

Motorcycle Whore.

Using people shamelessly for their motos from 2006.
sigh. Perhaps growing up and getting my own is an idea.

Again with the shower

Pondered this morning the interesting notion that I seem to cave in to doubt and cynicism and early warnings in every department except for that of other people. Faith is fickle, goddammit.

As for this Art business, maybe this is the three-year (Art) itch. 

To push through, or to step back, to push through, or to step back? 

The answer of course; a bike ride, a sketchbook and skinned feet at the anatomy museum.

fiction vs. fact.

Realized this morning, whilst in the shower, that I've been expecting Art to save my life for Far Too Long. From the 8 year old with the pile of paper and pencils copying picture books before giving them away as birthday presents, to the 35 year old who looks at every single situation as if the strategics of artistic fate are going to solve it/make it come clear/workable in a real-life platform.
Ass is ass. Doesn't matter how good the story is or the drawings look.

Work.

Since I don't have alot of it at the moment (ah, the life of a freelancer) i decided this morning to look up the term itself to see what I am in fact missing. The Oxford English Dictionary (1980; illustrated version) dedicates two-thirds of a page to this little word and its offshoots alone.

The following are selections from said definition:

- operation of a force in producing movement or other physical change
- something to do or to be done
- literary or musical composition, product of any fine art as statue, picture etc.; person's writings, compositions, paintings, etc as a whole
- internal mechanism, moving parts of piece of machinery
- Engage, be engaged, in bodily or mental work; make effort; be craftsman (in some material)
- Carry on, manage, control; have influence or effect, exercise influence on; bring about, effect, accomplish, produce as result.
- gradually become (tight, free, etc) by motion
- Knead, hammer, fashion, into shape or desired consistency; artificially and gradually excite (person) into (a rage, etc)
- bring gradually to efficient state; elaborate in description; advance gradually to (climax); excite, incite, stir up, arouse (to)
- stir up, make up (materials), compose, produce, construct; study (subject) carefully and in detail.

I Love work.
Everything should involve work.
Everything.

The Haircut

now re-published online at Top Shelf 2.0.
All hail previously completed work.

How I wish The Editors wrote novels

given song lyrics like these:

...every little piece
pulls in its own direction
please love, don't be scared
it's just your own reflection...

grave decision about trial separation with Art

was of course followed by finally being able to get back to sleep, and a subsequent dream of strange and unsettling proportion.
A while back I made mention of my Draw Cuter Things campaign, and perhaps this is what prompted the subject matter, tho' of course never far removed from my trademark Bleak.
In my dream there was a bird bleeding to death that flew in the door and landed in my apartment (which of course wasn't my apartment) I was horrified, grabbed it and put it out the door into a flower pot, so it had somewhere to nest while I called the SPCA (or whoever one calls). It came back in and there was blood Everywhere. I put it out again.
Then I was lying on the floor looking at a baby bunny that came out of nowhere (oh cuter things) and the bleeding bird came back in and settled on my back and would Not be removed.

I wonder if anyone can be committed based on random blog entries like this.

me and Art

After mental disputes that have been escalating for a few months now, me and Art (my art, specifically, that is) had it out at 4.30am this morning, and have agreed to a Trial Separation. And while I'm not convinced the separation is permanent, and it makes me extraordinarily sad, I do think the decision is at this point anyhow, a healthy one.

One reaches a point where one's partner must needs offer up either an explanation for its unwillingness to put out, or walk away, and Art has not been able to provide this adequately in the past few months. It is perpetually underemployed, and demands relentless nourishment. It speaks to me incessantly in muddled terms that are time-consuming to untangle, and taxing on my brain. 

Tho' I do tend to partner with fickle communicators, it is time for a New, simpler, less trouble-ridden epoch.
So as with life, so with Art.

This transition (which makes it quite certain that "The Fairy Tales" launch will unfortunately be delayed to late this year/possibly next), is assuaged by a few illustrations I have committed to an upcoming issue of Descant Literary Journal, as well as awesome author Ibi Kaslik, who has approached me about possibly illustrating a kids book for her. Though this is only in its preparatory/first draft stages, it's something I'm really excited about, and poses a great relief hitherto unforeseen with independent projects. So, Yay!

Yes.

Yoga, Beer, Bicycle, Movies, A Best Friend. All In One Evening.

YES.

Paper.

The thing about growing up with paper for friends is that it makes real life quite a bit more difficult. 

Paper allows you to see the entire story, all at once.

Paper doesn't move around or change. 

Even Paper's lies have been cemented in ink, so that they become the Truth. You can go back and reference Paper, and understand everything in context. 

Paper and intention are not the same thing. 

If you Follow the Instructions on a piece of Paper as you see them, you will reach the desired result. Rules can be rewritten on a piece of Paper, and every player has a chance to decide beforehand, in an unchangeable state.

And Paper will accept anything you offer it, and will wait patiently for your answer, and will not judge until you reach the end of the page, or the end of your sentence.

I couldn't decide before, really, but this photo above really is more accurate than this one. 

This Paper isn't abstract; it's not a concept: it's a thousand shredded people/Possibilities and one unopened instruction booklet. It makes me Sad.

Potential.

Like trying to rest my head on a pillow only to realize I'm lying on the edge of a staircase with my head facing down.

Hypocrisy.

Feel like this post bears revisiting. It is Fundamental that what one puts into the world through words, and what one puts into Action in the world— it is fundamental that these things match, as closely as possible, at the very least. 

It is hard. But one must be accountable, for this, I believe, if for Nothing else.

Boring details about my eating habits, followed by the revelatory nature of High Park and the humble tomato.

So I've started this diet. 

Die.t.

I would like to preface my posting on this with the Fervent conviction that I think diets in general are FUCKING RIDICULOUS. The idea of denying onesself food of any sort at any time is torturous anathema to me, and contrary to life itself. 

This is a brash generalization, true. There is stuff you really just don't put into your body on a regular basis if you have an ounce of logic to you, and people also have a tonne of different reasons/concerns with their food consumption or lack thereof. I also appreciate we have obesity in the world, and related problems, but I'm quite sure this is a problem of inactivity, not of consumption. 

Whatever. I try not to judge. I Do, however, judge self-torture. Harshly. No No No. I want to go out having had as much ice cream and french fries as spinach salad and green beans, and happily so.

Pourquoi, then, dear reader(s), pourquoi, you may ask, am I even entertaining this outrageous D word in my life, much less in my blog?

Well, it's a new (hopefully tiny) chapter in my ongoing experiments to find out why I'm such an over-energetic and constantly anxious Nutter. The latest theory is that I may have an allergy to certain foods and my body is in permanent panic mode having delayed reactions to them. So far I've seeked (sook?) four opinions and three of four say it's a possibility, one of them being my mum, who said my father claimed a severe allergy to gluten and wheat which caused much histrionics and anxiety. 

So for 21 days in gustatory hell eliminating practically everything good, I may find out a thing or two about the effect certain foods (read: everything) have on my body. In short, no cheese, no dairy, no caffeine, no alcohol, no sugar, no chocolate, and, worst of all, no tomatoes. For 21 days. And then re-introduce them, see what happens, etc. etc.

And, dear reader(s), I will give it a Try, whatever I may think about it. 

The crucial thing, I feel (as with everything) is Not To Judge Before Trying.

Enough boring details about eating and food and such. Dear reader(s), you really are most tolerant. NOW ONTO THE TOMATOES.

So I went for a walk in the park with my good friend jrbi today and was lamenting over the imminent lack of tomatoes in my life. He too was reserving judgement on whether or not the whole D--- was going to meet with any success, but pointed out I may well learn a few other things about my psyche inadvertently, which could be cool.

For instance, he pointed out:

Here we are standing on a street corner talking and the only thing that is true at this moment is that you are not eating a tomato. If you were not presently forbidden from eating tomatoes, you wouldn't be thinking about your tomatoeless state two days from now at all, much less three weeks from now, but because you now have this restriction, the panic sets in. Really though, standing here not eating a tomato is not causing you much pain, and probably won't tomorrow, nor the day after that. THIS is the significant thing. The moment of understanding that it is all in your brain. This concern over tomatoes. And the future.

And he did, as he often does, have a Very Good Point.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

I think about the title of this book So often, in So many ways, and with So little levity. 

And I can barely remember what it is actually about, it's been so many years since I've read it.

I wonder how many authors would bother completing their books if they realized how much they had accomplished merely by putting the title to paper.

(sigh)

Bad weather in my brain all day long.

Shredded paper and empty sketchbooks and foreign countries.

I went to bed thinking about the photo of shredded magazines (below) and had the most lovely dream that I was stuck on Toronto Island for some reason and had to camp out in a bookshop that was floor to ceiling 360 degree books 'xcept for a little bunk much like the sort you'd find in a ship cabin, also covered in books. The lighting throughout the whole dream was (of course) the sort you would find on a stormy early evening by the ocean. So excellent!

Anyhow.

As someone who would cut off my own toes before letting a paper shredder near my house, I remain fascinated to death by this photo. There's something so valiant about shredding so much paper, all of which held some sort of record of somethingthat was once significant on its surfaces. Photos, writing, whatever.

It's like leaving the country with just an empty sketchbook and a pencil in your bag.

WHICH BRINGS ME TO LEAVING THE COUNTRY!

I have just got news that I have an apartment sublet for Berlin this summer. And with both a subletter and an emergency backup subletter for my place here, and my passport in hand, ALL'S I NEED IS MY TICKET. YAHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

yesterday's fascinating reminder

that paper and people are not the same thing.
Easy to forget, but easy to relearn.

(this morning's) Deep Thought. by stef lenk.

It's always easier to justify hypocrisy from the inside out. But try justifying it from the outside in, now there is the challenge.

Gleefully reincarnated online: The Alteration

For those of you who haven't seen it yet (SHAME!), The Alteration is now up at Top Shelf 2.0 for your online viewing pleasure. As always, real-life full-colour books of the story (that one and others) available at steflenk.etsy.com

And today, ladies and gentlemen

I am thirty-five-and-a-half-years-old.

Another six months of successful (?) living.

And a friend of mine remembered said event before I even did this year, oddly enough, presenting me with a cake last night in celebration.

I was unexpectedly touched. All thirty-five-and-a-half-years of me!