This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
April 14, 2007
Palm Sketch: Starbuck's Afternoon
Girl at Starbucks, April 14, 2007.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
April 08, 2007
Palm Sketch: Sylvester's Head
The back of Sylvester's head, April 2007.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
March 27, 2007
Running with Scissors
"Running with Scissors" is an amazing, crazy film about an amazing young man named Augusten Burroughs, who grows up surrounded by crazy people in crazy circumstances.
Augusten is played with great directness and sincerity by Joseph Cross.
As a young teen, we see Augusten survive the apathy of an alcoholic, absentee father and the delusions of his self-absorbed, implosive (and possibly manic-depressive?) mother, a struggling and frustrated writer.
As an adult, Burroughs turned his heart breaking and witty observations into a novel and then a feature film. In the film, Annette Benning is mesmerizing and somewhat haunting as Augusten's mother, Deirdre. I watched with a mixture of shock and sympathy as she started out as an egocentric, frustrated writer, certain that the publishing world would soon discover her artistic genius, to a defiant and fragile single parent who jettisons Augusten, adopting him out to the quack psychiatrist who has her on a bathroom cupboard full of prescription drugs.
I felt Augusten's love and sympathy for her, as well as his fear and uncertainty - the trap of loving someone who's erratic moods and unpredictable circumstances continually affects your life.
Augusten says it all when he tells himself that he wished that his life had structure and rules, "because without that, every day is a surprise".
Profile of Augusten Burroughs - Washington Post
Augusten is played with great directness and sincerity by Joseph Cross.
As a young teen, we see Augusten survive the apathy of an alcoholic, absentee father and the delusions of his self-absorbed, implosive (and possibly manic-depressive?) mother, a struggling and frustrated writer.
As an adult, Burroughs turned his heart breaking and witty observations into a novel and then a feature film. In the film, Annette Benning is mesmerizing and somewhat haunting as Augusten's mother, Deirdre. I watched with a mixture of shock and sympathy as she started out as an egocentric, frustrated writer, certain that the publishing world would soon discover her artistic genius, to a defiant and fragile single parent who jettisons Augusten, adopting him out to the quack psychiatrist who has her on a bathroom cupboard full of prescription drugs.
I felt Augusten's love and sympathy for her, as well as his fear and uncertainty - the trap of loving someone who's erratic moods and unpredictable circumstances continually affects your life.
Augusten says it all when he tells himself that he wished that his life had structure and rules, "because without that, every day is a surprise".
Profile of Augusten Burroughs - Washington Post
March 25, 2007
Palm Sketch: Granville Island Cafe
Seen at the Blue Parrot Cafe, Graville Island, Vancouver, BC.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
This sketch was done on a Palm Treo PDA.
March 10, 2007
Does music connect us through Time?
What is it worth that I know a song that my parents or grandparents knew?
Whether or not there's any real purpose or reward in such a moment of sentimentality, I still have it. It is little bit of obsessive curiousity that my heart and mind goes into whenever a piece of music or drama arouses old memories. Some tune or other blows a little air across a few old embers, bringing out fresh feelings, and it's always a little bit of surprise just how much they resonate like new each time, just for a moment.
Miles Davis plays "Autumn Leaves", and as I listen to his bop-jazz rendition, I hear someone's voice in my head, saying "That was your Grandmother's favourite song". "Sam", my mother's mother, liked music but I doubt that bop jazz played by a heroin-addicted jazz musician would have been Sam's cup of tea. I think she'd have been into Benny Goodman or The Mills Brothers.
Music and drama can underscore moments, they can draw people together. People usually sing when they're happy. Driving to Safeway one weekend a long time ago, my Dad and I sang along to "Dream" by the Everly Brothers. On their 13th anniversary, my Mum and Dad sang "You are my Sunshine" while Mum played the ukelele. My sister and I still remember that song. She sang it to her daughters, and my wife and I have sung it together too.
I can remember the theme song to "The Avengers" or "Are You Being Served?" - two TV shows that my Mum's father liked to watch on PBS. We all watched those together as a family. Without Poppy's influence - maybe his wish to have a family around him - perhaps we wouldn't have had that family time. Dad was too proud, and often a bit of a loner. He didn't tend to draw people around him that way. Living like that makes those moments of connections all the more rare and beloved.
It's like I need something to connect myself to these people - to have something, anything in common with them. I want to have a sense of connection with this family. "We all like music" or "we all sang that song together" - something like that.
Today, I get the same feelings when I hear those songs - like a time capsule has been opened in my mind, and there they all are inside, sitting and waiting for me to join them.
Whether or not there's any real purpose or reward in such a moment of sentimentality, I still have it. It is little bit of obsessive curiousity that my heart and mind goes into whenever a piece of music or drama arouses old memories. Some tune or other blows a little air across a few old embers, bringing out fresh feelings, and it's always a little bit of surprise just how much they resonate like new each time, just for a moment.
Miles Davis plays "Autumn Leaves", and as I listen to his bop-jazz rendition, I hear someone's voice in my head, saying "That was your Grandmother's favourite song". "Sam", my mother's mother, liked music but I doubt that bop jazz played by a heroin-addicted jazz musician would have been Sam's cup of tea. I think she'd have been into Benny Goodman or The Mills Brothers.
Music and drama can underscore moments, they can draw people together. People usually sing when they're happy. Driving to Safeway one weekend a long time ago, my Dad and I sang along to "Dream" by the Everly Brothers. On their 13th anniversary, my Mum and Dad sang "You are my Sunshine" while Mum played the ukelele. My sister and I still remember that song. She sang it to her daughters, and my wife and I have sung it together too.
I can remember the theme song to "The Avengers" or "Are You Being Served?" - two TV shows that my Mum's father liked to watch on PBS. We all watched those together as a family. Without Poppy's influence - maybe his wish to have a family around him - perhaps we wouldn't have had that family time. Dad was too proud, and often a bit of a loner. He didn't tend to draw people around him that way. Living like that makes those moments of connections all the more rare and beloved.
It's like I need something to connect myself to these people - to have something, anything in common with them. I want to have a sense of connection with this family. "We all like music" or "we all sang that song together" - something like that.
Today, I get the same feelings when I hear those songs - like a time capsule has been opened in my mind, and there they all are inside, sitting and waiting for me to join them.
Thinking about Addiction and Personal Suffering
I've been thinking about addiction today. On March 8th, it was the 12th anniversary of my Mother's death. She is the biggest example of addiction that I've had in my life.
Through my Mum, I saw some of the results of addiction:
I suppose I must include things like gambling, internet use, and anything else that people might do to extremes, which could hurt themselves or those around them. It does sound from my tone that I'm hesitant to acknowledge these vices as addictions - maybe that's my own ignorance at work. Perhaps compulsions is a more accurate term.
I do believe that substance addiction doesn't start or develop in a vacuum - there are always other people involved, encouraging or enabling the process. Each family member or friend who is involved in the addict's life may have to ask themselves what they can do to help.
Underneath it all, in each of us, is the issue of personal angst and suffering.
Buddhists see suffering as a fact of life, and encourage people to first accept it, and then to develop personal and practical methods to transform and transcend it. Words like enlightenment and nirvana tend to seem too fantastic for some people, but basically, Buddha was teaching inner understanding as a basis for happier living. His form of self-help therapy was first laid down in India over 2500 years ago.
Some people blame society for their addiction (my friends got me into it, drugs and booze are all around me - I thought it was normal /okay /expected of me). At the end of the day, we each must take some measure of personal responsibility for our health, both physical and mental, and for how our life and our behaviour affects those around us.
All the same, everyone has a time when they need to ask someone for help. We're all connected, so helping someone else is like helping yourself.
Through my Mum, I saw some of the results of addiction:
- the selfishness,
- the loss of interest in or sympathy for family or friends,
- the guilt, denial and defensiveness,
- the aftermath from the loss and betrayal of self.
I suppose I must include things like gambling, internet use, and anything else that people might do to extremes, which could hurt themselves or those around them. It does sound from my tone that I'm hesitant to acknowledge these vices as addictions - maybe that's my own ignorance at work. Perhaps compulsions is a more accurate term.
I do believe that substance addiction doesn't start or develop in a vacuum - there are always other people involved, encouraging or enabling the process. Each family member or friend who is involved in the addict's life may have to ask themselves what they can do to help.
Underneath it all, in each of us, is the issue of personal angst and suffering.
Buddhists see suffering as a fact of life, and encourage people to first accept it, and then to develop personal and practical methods to transform and transcend it. Words like enlightenment and nirvana tend to seem too fantastic for some people, but basically, Buddha was teaching inner understanding as a basis for happier living. His form of self-help therapy was first laid down in India over 2500 years ago.
Some people blame society for their addiction (my friends got me into it, drugs and booze are all around me - I thought it was normal /okay /expected of me). At the end of the day, we each must take some measure of personal responsibility for our health, both physical and mental, and for how our life and our behaviour affects those around us.
All the same, everyone has a time when they need to ask someone for help. We're all connected, so helping someone else is like helping yourself.
January 11, 2007
Personal Programming, Personal Conditioning: I See 1002 Everywhere.
Some people see the face of Jesus in a tree trunk, or Nixon in a potato, or maybe they see their destiny in the fiction of L. Ron Hubbard.
Me, I happen to see the number 1002. Everywhere.
I'm not into numerology and usually don't assign any symbolic or spiritual significance to numbers. I did want to have a lucky number back when I was a kid. Seven is the classic one, but for a personal number, I always thought four was more elemental - maybe because it's that much closer to one, the smallest whole number.
Anyway, I digress. Long story short: four is dead to me now. But I can't help seeing 1002 everywhere I look. Most of the time, it's 10:02 on a clock face - any clock face. I just look, and BAM - there it is.
Occasionally, I'll see a 10:03 or a 10:04, and once there was an 11:20 (I don't know what that was about), but these little faux pas have happened only ten or fifteen times in the past dozen years. Considering that 10:02 can be seen only twice within the 1440 minutes in each day, or up to 730 times within the 525,600 minutes in each year, it seems to me that statistically, observing that exact minute that often must put this little phenomenon somewhere outside the limits of dumb luck or random chance. (In fact, there's a 1 in 720 chance of it happening, if I were to see it each time twice per day.)
(Perhaps to be more accurate about the odds of this, I'd need to factor in an average of how many times per day I tend to look at the time. I think that would be hard.)
But none of this really answers the question: Why the hell have I been noticing 10:02 or 1002 in the world around me for the past dozen years?
Thanks for asking. Here are a few theories I have come up with:
Yeah, yeah, okay. But... Why?
In the process of writing about my younger years growing up (see http://truelife.ejohnlove.com), I have enjoyed reliving memories of the times when me and my Mum, Dad and sister lived with my maternal grandfather, Ernest Huntley Clarke ("Poppy"), in his home in Victoria, BC. His address was 1002 Cook Street. Actually, the way I hear it is " Ten Oh Two Cook Street". Ten o'Two. Ten-o-too...
Maybe this is a way of my brain being conditioned to not forget a small piece of him. Every time I see that number, I do think of good ol' Poppy.
My wife is correct when she says it's kind of weird. But it's kind of cool too.
Me, I happen to see the number 1002. Everywhere.
I'm not into numerology and usually don't assign any symbolic or spiritual significance to numbers. I did want to have a lucky number back when I was a kid. Seven is the classic one, but for a personal number, I always thought four was more elemental - maybe because it's that much closer to one, the smallest whole number.
Anyway, I digress. Long story short: four is dead to me now. But I can't help seeing 1002 everywhere I look. Most of the time, it's 10:02 on a clock face - any clock face. I just look, and BAM - there it is.
Occasionally, I'll see a 10:03 or a 10:04, and once there was an 11:20 (I don't know what that was about), but these little faux pas have happened only ten or fifteen times in the past dozen years. Considering that 10:02 can be seen only twice within the 1440 minutes in each day, or up to 730 times within the 525,600 minutes in each year, it seems to me that statistically, observing that exact minute that often must put this little phenomenon somewhere outside the limits of dumb luck or random chance. (In fact, there's a 1 in 720 chance of it happening, if I were to see it each time twice per day.)
(Perhaps to be more accurate about the odds of this, I'd need to factor in an average of how many times per day I tend to look at the time. I think that would be hard.)
But none of this really answers the question: Why the hell have I been noticing 10:02 or 1002 in the world around me for the past dozen years?
Thanks for asking. Here are a few theories I have come up with:
- Clairvoyant dreams about which episodes of Friends and Simpsons would be on TV tomorrow no longer satisfied me. I subconsciously wanted more mystery and quirkiness in my life.
(Likelihood: Possible.) - The number has personal symbolic significance.
(Likelihood: Getting Warmer.) - I am so susceptible to suggestion that I have actually programmed myself to notice this particular number everywhere possible.
(Likelihood: Ding ding ding! We have a winner!)
Yeah, yeah, okay. But... Why?
In the process of writing about my younger years growing up (see http://truelife.ejohnlove.com), I have enjoyed reliving memories of the times when me and my Mum, Dad and sister lived with my maternal grandfather, Ernest Huntley Clarke ("Poppy"), in his home in Victoria, BC. His address was 1002 Cook Street. Actually, the way I hear it is " Ten Oh Two Cook Street". Ten o'Two. Ten-o-too...
Maybe this is a way of my brain being conditioned to not forget a small piece of him. Every time I see that number, I do think of good ol' Poppy.
My wife is correct when she says it's kind of weird. But it's kind of cool too.
December 03, 2006
Wishing you a merry, er, everything...
Xmas is a time of mixed emotions. Most years, my cynicism is initially raised in early November by the sight of red, white and green decorations and the sound of xmas tunes played inside all the shops. It often starts that way, with my gut telling me that the once again, hungry money-makers are trying to get me into the spirit too damned early. (Canadian retailers have nothing in November to tide them over, since our Thanksgiving happens in October, not November. Thus, they want the Xmas sales frenzy to start just a little bit earlier than south of the border.)
By now, about a week into December, personal things start to seep into my brain, like the happiness of past christmases with family and friends. With these memories and expectations in mind, a personal xmas response starts to stick to my brain like a new, wet snowfall: the warm, selfish enjoyment of fatty foods like egg nog and mincemeat tarts, the anticipation of sharing food, laughter and gifts with friends and family, and the morose internal pledge to avoid depressing thoughts and let past personal holiday letdowns (or in some cases, disasters) rest on the sidelines for a little while.
Finally, for me as the next week or two bring me closer to X-Day, there's the surrender to the reality of shopping. Every year I dread the start of Xmas shopping in crowded malls. And yet, every year I end up enjoying the sense of accomplishment and in imagining the happy reactions of my recipients. "This is just perfect for her! He'll totally love that!"
It's the same way with cards and seasonal emails and letters: the list of recipients looks long, but during the act of giving each little letter, card or email, it becomes effortless, warm, real, fun, constructive and happy.
I think it happens when your head is focused on others' happiness and gratification, instead of your own.
I'm not a Christian, although that religion and it's words and songs are uncontrollably steeped in my culture. As kids, when my sister Kim and I had sort of stopped believing in Santa, my Dad tried to inflect the season with his own version of secular Christmas spirituality, telling us that Santa Claus was the "spirit of Christmas". Dad didn't go much deeper than that, but I have since decided for myself what that "spirit" means: mostly, the ideas of giving, sharing and creating happiness.
No single belief system has the last word on compassion or morality, but with or without an organized religion or philosophy, we can all make a moment or give some money or some comfort to someone who needs it. It's got to be personal, have personal meaning or resonance, or else it's just a hollow habit that won't mean anything at all. Look outside yourself and your own needs and rehumanize yourself.
And so friends, in that spirit, regardless of who you are or what you believe, take your own moment to reflect on your good fortune and then do something nice to improve the fortune of someone else.
By now, about a week into December, personal things start to seep into my brain, like the happiness of past christmases with family and friends. With these memories and expectations in mind, a personal xmas response starts to stick to my brain like a new, wet snowfall: the warm, selfish enjoyment of fatty foods like egg nog and mincemeat tarts, the anticipation of sharing food, laughter and gifts with friends and family, and the morose internal pledge to avoid depressing thoughts and let past personal holiday letdowns (or in some cases, disasters) rest on the sidelines for a little while.
Finally, for me as the next week or two bring me closer to X-Day, there's the surrender to the reality of shopping. Every year I dread the start of Xmas shopping in crowded malls. And yet, every year I end up enjoying the sense of accomplishment and in imagining the happy reactions of my recipients. "This is just perfect for her! He'll totally love that!"
It's the same way with cards and seasonal emails and letters: the list of recipients looks long, but during the act of giving each little letter, card or email, it becomes effortless, warm, real, fun, constructive and happy.
I think it happens when your head is focused on others' happiness and gratification, instead of your own.
I'm not a Christian, although that religion and it's words and songs are uncontrollably steeped in my culture. As kids, when my sister Kim and I had sort of stopped believing in Santa, my Dad tried to inflect the season with his own version of secular Christmas spirituality, telling us that Santa Claus was the "spirit of Christmas". Dad didn't go much deeper than that, but I have since decided for myself what that "spirit" means: mostly, the ideas of giving, sharing and creating happiness.
No single belief system has the last word on compassion or morality, but with or without an organized religion or philosophy, we can all make a moment or give some money or some comfort to someone who needs it. It's got to be personal, have personal meaning or resonance, or else it's just a hollow habit that won't mean anything at all. Look outside yourself and your own needs and rehumanize yourself.
And so friends, in that spirit, regardless of who you are or what you believe, take your own moment to reflect on your good fortune and then do something nice to improve the fortune of someone else.
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