Day dreaming is such a prejudice term. Not because it discludes creatures such as vampires, werewolves, and gargoyles,--though one could make an extremely convincing argument for that--but because it discludes those who dream at night.
Now you're thinking, "Yea but that's called regular dreaming." and I say you are in fact absolutely wrong, because I'm speaking of day dreaming while still totally and fully conscious at night. To call such a thing day dreaming is either some kind of crime or an absolute paradox. It should be impossible to do something at night which includes the word, "day" in the description and/or title. Daybreakers do not come out at night, and day time does not happen at night time. Night and day are opposites.
Opposites most often don't happen at the same time, except when opposites attract. But that is of course an old wives tale which attempts to relate the behaviour of magnets to the relationships of human beings. It is ludicrous to make such an assumption as magnets are pieces of metal which are completely incapable of having any emotion whatsoever, never mind love or affection.
However it HAS been scientifically proven that people with the same personalities often clash for reasons which don't really seem to make any sense but upon further investigation make even less sense than before, in turn giving us the realization that it actually makes perfect sense because nothing ever really makes sense anyway.
Much in the same sense that day dreaming at night makes absolutely no sense to anyone who has any sense about having sense in the first place. To day dream at night is to defy the laws of creation--or the universe if you would prefer--and so one comes to a certain revelation when considering this. It would be nice--and ideal--to come up with a name for day dreaming at night so as to make life a little confusing and a little more sensible, but the fact of the matter is that we don't like it when things make sense, because then life becomes less exciting and less mysterious, and when removing words such as exciting and mysterious from a sentence, the only word that comes to mind is dull.
Unofortunately, for the most part, life is a great big heap of dull. Until we stumble across things such as day dreaming at night, and fascinate ourselves with the idea that such a thing should be impossible, and yet we continue to do it even as we think so, creating a heroic moment for ourselves as we bask in the small yet triumphant light of somehow doing the impossible--even though it's really only impossible on paper.
It is in these imaginative day-dreaming-at-night moments that we truly live, and we must never forget to cling tightly to the Impossible-made-possible moments by re-enacting them time and time again. On paper. With a pen. At exactly 2:26 in the morning. Which for some reason is the only time I can ever get any inspiration to do anything: When I day dream at night.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Nothing Ever Makes Sense
I am Isaac.
I like doing many things. Most of which many people also like doing, but in a different way and for different reasons. Some people do things because everyone else is doing them, and some people like doing things because it makes them look cool. Others try doing things to get attention. Others still need something to brag about, so they do stuff that they can brag about.
I do things because I enjoy doing them. I don't care if one person is doing it, or millions of people are doing it, I will do what I want when I want.
Some of the things I enjoy doing are writing, filming, reading, writing, watching movies, writing, hanging out with friends, writing, and jumping off of cliffs. I also sometimes like to write.
If you know me, you'll know that you know me, and no one will be able to dispute that fact because only you can know what you know you know about the things you know. That's called self-confidence. Sometimes I feel like I have way too much of it. Another thing you'll know if you know me is that I take far too much enjoyment in sarcasm, irony, satire, anti-jokes and the like. Basically I am heavily influenced and very over saturated by British humor. Sometimes I think about that. That previous sentence is a completely true fact, by the way.
I think that anything else you want to know about me should probably be asked personally and quickly, as I might forget it soon.
Nothing ever makes sense.
I like doing many things. Most of which many people also like doing, but in a different way and for different reasons. Some people do things because everyone else is doing them, and some people like doing things because it makes them look cool. Others try doing things to get attention. Others still need something to brag about, so they do stuff that they can brag about.
I do things because I enjoy doing them. I don't care if one person is doing it, or millions of people are doing it, I will do what I want when I want.
Some of the things I enjoy doing are writing, filming, reading, writing, watching movies, writing, hanging out with friends, writing, and jumping off of cliffs. I also sometimes like to write.
If you know me, you'll know that you know me, and no one will be able to dispute that fact because only you can know what you know you know about the things you know. That's called self-confidence. Sometimes I feel like I have way too much of it. Another thing you'll know if you know me is that I take far too much enjoyment in sarcasm, irony, satire, anti-jokes and the like. Basically I am heavily influenced and very over saturated by British humor. Sometimes I think about that. That previous sentence is a completely true fact, by the way.
I think that anything else you want to know about me should probably be asked personally and quickly, as I might forget it soon.
Nothing ever makes sense.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Lovingly Ludacris
The book of love is long and boring. Peter Gabriel wrote that. I like to think that if I ever meet Peter Gabriel I will slap him in the face, call him an idiot, and politely ask that he never attempt to write his own lyrics ever again. And for the sake of the millions who can't stand him I'll also tell him to give up his musical career...but only if I feel like it.
Of course with my luck I won't get to meet the ancient fellow before he passes. Then again, he'll probably die of a drug overdose--and if you think that's a little pretentious then feel free to show me a musician who HASN'T died of a drug overdose in the past several decades.
However we must return to the main topic of this spiel before I forget exactly what it is in the first place.
The topic of this spiel is love, believe it or not(There must be some kind of record for going off topic right at the very beginning of a meaningless paper. If there is I've won it. Multiple times).
The reason I find Peter Gabriel to be an idiot in concordance with that particular line is because he couldn't be more wrong. Anyone who has ever experienced real, compassionate, unending, caring, patient and understanding love will tell you that love is anything but boring. Especially those who have experienced the kind of love a random stranger gives when they lend a hand without even being asked. Or the kind of love a songwriter has with their music and instruments, or an artist with their brush. Love is not boring to a 90 year old man who hardly has the strength to wake up in the morning, but still has the ability to muster a smile for his wife who he still finds beautiful with or without the countless wrinkles. Love is not boring to a woman who comes home every year to a different surprise from the man who never forgets their anniversary.
Anyone who has experienced real, pure love will tell you that there is never a dull moment in their lives, and that the book of love isn't long by any means; it actually never ends.
Unfortunately, the few who have experienced real love are too busy being loved and loving others so they don't have time to write on and on about the wonderful experiences they have. I have yet to experience real love, but I have done my best to demonstrate it to others, and I hope that you will do the same as I will continue to do so.
However, this is not the book of love, so it does have an ending. I think I'll put it here.
Of course with my luck I won't get to meet the ancient fellow before he passes. Then again, he'll probably die of a drug overdose--and if you think that's a little pretentious then feel free to show me a musician who HASN'T died of a drug overdose in the past several decades.
However we must return to the main topic of this spiel before I forget exactly what it is in the first place.
The topic of this spiel is love, believe it or not(There must be some kind of record for going off topic right at the very beginning of a meaningless paper. If there is I've won it. Multiple times).
The reason I find Peter Gabriel to be an idiot in concordance with that particular line is because he couldn't be more wrong. Anyone who has ever experienced real, compassionate, unending, caring, patient and understanding love will tell you that love is anything but boring. Especially those who have experienced the kind of love a random stranger gives when they lend a hand without even being asked. Or the kind of love a songwriter has with their music and instruments, or an artist with their brush. Love is not boring to a 90 year old man who hardly has the strength to wake up in the morning, but still has the ability to muster a smile for his wife who he still finds beautiful with or without the countless wrinkles. Love is not boring to a woman who comes home every year to a different surprise from the man who never forgets their anniversary.
Anyone who has experienced real, pure love will tell you that there is never a dull moment in their lives, and that the book of love isn't long by any means; it actually never ends.
Unfortunately, the few who have experienced real love are too busy being loved and loving others so they don't have time to write on and on about the wonderful experiences they have. I have yet to experience real love, but I have done my best to demonstrate it to others, and I hope that you will do the same as I will continue to do so.
However, this is not the book of love, so it does have an ending. I think I'll put it here.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Giant Space Ships
People don't take life seriously enough. They also take life way too seriously. Of course, half the time they don't even realise they're doing either, and most of the time they know it full well but pretend they don't. The rest of the time they imagine what it would be like if they took the proper dosage of serious and stopped pretending not to know what they know about what they don't know in regards to seriousness.
Of course, a schedule like this leaves no free time, and so it is obvious that any self-proclaimed writer is immune to any such thoughts, but somehow victim to a thousand-thousand worse and more complicated ones.
But I digress(if you don't believe me check your local newspaper's mediocre section. They always have the latest news on the world's most boring habits. Digression is the newest addition; I'm currently ranked number one! If you're having trouble finding the mediocre section of your newspaper, go buy the most powerful microscope you can find and look under the period at the end of the last article in the newspaper; you'll find everything there). See?
My original point was that humans spend a lot of time wasting time by doing things that don't matter and having literally endless arguments about things that do matter, but most of the time end up not doing or learning anything about any of it.
If things were vice versa, there is a good chance that humanity would be getting a lot more done not only in respects to this lovely little planet which has so graciously donated its tender and beautiful surface for our destructive pleasures, but also in respects of space, time, and the universe. If humanity spent less time inventing potato chips and more time inventing giant space ships, we might know much more than what we like to think we know about much more than anything we can even begin to comprehend, never mind know.
I once imagined what it would be like if humanity built a ship the size of earth. I imagined humanity leaving earth upon completion of the project due to earth's general disappearance after having every last life-supporting-morsel sucked from its' veins. I then imagined humanity exploring the entirety of the galaxy, killing countless planets with pollution and resource abuse. Over time our pitiful species forgot all about the beautiful planet from which we originated, and quickly went extinct right after the death of the last known galaxy in the Universe--and no one was there to congradulate us for surviving the longest.
Needless to say I wasn't surprised.
One could argue that one can never be surprised by one's own imagination, and I'm sure one could have some very interesting points; possibly even winning the argument. Typical.
Of course, a schedule like this leaves no free time, and so it is obvious that any self-proclaimed writer is immune to any such thoughts, but somehow victim to a thousand-thousand worse and more complicated ones.
But I digress(if you don't believe me check your local newspaper's mediocre section. They always have the latest news on the world's most boring habits. Digression is the newest addition; I'm currently ranked number one! If you're having trouble finding the mediocre section of your newspaper, go buy the most powerful microscope you can find and look under the period at the end of the last article in the newspaper; you'll find everything there). See?
My original point was that humans spend a lot of time wasting time by doing things that don't matter and having literally endless arguments about things that do matter, but most of the time end up not doing or learning anything about any of it.
If things were vice versa, there is a good chance that humanity would be getting a lot more done not only in respects to this lovely little planet which has so graciously donated its tender and beautiful surface for our destructive pleasures, but also in respects of space, time, and the universe. If humanity spent less time inventing potato chips and more time inventing giant space ships, we might know much more than what we like to think we know about much more than anything we can even begin to comprehend, never mind know.
I once imagined what it would be like if humanity built a ship the size of earth. I imagined humanity leaving earth upon completion of the project due to earth's general disappearance after having every last life-supporting-morsel sucked from its' veins. I then imagined humanity exploring the entirety of the galaxy, killing countless planets with pollution and resource abuse. Over time our pitiful species forgot all about the beautiful planet from which we originated, and quickly went extinct right after the death of the last known galaxy in the Universe--and no one was there to congradulate us for surviving the longest.
Needless to say I wasn't surprised.
One could argue that one can never be surprised by one's own imagination, and I'm sure one could have some very interesting points; possibly even winning the argument. Typical.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Timed Writing Collab
This is just a random collaboration of some things I wrote in writer's craft this semester. I'm gonna miss this class...
None of these are finished, they're what I came up with in 8-12 minutes of straight writing when given a single topic by Mrs. Crawford. Maybe you can figure out what all the topics are? Try it if you dare...
The titles are just that, not the actual topic for the piece. The topic is hidden within the writing.
The Five Senses:
It looks like garbage, smells like fetus, feels like goo, sounds like death, and tastes like candy. What is it? Who knows, and frankly, who cares?
I move on to the next sample. This one looks more like apples, so I'm okay to touch it. Ew: feels more like soggy diapers. Take a bite? Gosh, I really don't want to. I bring it up to my mouth, and am suddenly overwhelmed with a putrid stench of rotten raspberries. As I bite into this mushy munchable, it makes a crunching noise, which is odd because it felt so soft.
The taste is unbearable, and I vomit as I have so many times before.
"Take it away!" I cry, "I can stand this torture no longer!"
"But sir," whimpers the chef, "We have been called the greatest resturaunt in all of France and even Europe!"
"And I am known as the world's hardest food critic." I bluntly reply: "I bid you good day, monsieur, but know I will not be returning for a very long time."
I hate my job, but the pay is good, and no one knows my secret.
After all, being autistic DOES heighten one's senses.
Blanker Boy
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Kind of sounds like bank.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
The sound of my pen scribbling this down on the paper reminds me of a drummer boy, proudly wielding his brand new snare drum through the town streets as a small addition to the glorious marching band.
He is happy, and pounding his drum with all the passion in the world. Blank. Blank. Blank. Do not read the word but hear it. Take a pen, and scribble it down as fast as you can.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Do you hear the drummer boy parading across your empty page? Do you see him on the streets making a glorious parade?
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
What a sound, what a sight! This little drummer boy is filled with delight!
Blank. Blank. Blank. Goes the drum. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. He is happy as can be, with his brand new little drum.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
I apologize if it is all you read, but the sound is fascinating and intriguing for me.
Blank. Blank.
"That is it and that is all!" he shouts as the song comes to a close, and finishes it off with one final beat of the drum.
Blank.
Searched
Finding a topic for writing is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack--pardon the cliche--but it is. The ironic reason for this is that there are so many topics to choose from. One simply has to walk outside and witness whether the weather is good or bad, if the neighbor's dog is outside, or if the tree's leaves have changed color. Look at the sky, look at the ground, look left, look right, look at doors, look at windows(not in them), look at flowers, look at trees look at grass, look at sand. The list is endless. One simply has to observe, and the mind is flooded with ideas. But the problem is this: which one to use?
The Dress-Lady
She was enchanting. A long, flowing white dress and beautiful blond hair. She gazed at me with eyes so stunning and so...commanding...in a gentle sort of way. She led me through the dark, tormenting forest, and I followed with no question because...well...what else could I do but get lost even more so in the evil forest. She led me, but kept her enchanting spell of a stare upon me, always seeming to get further and further away. She glowed like a star at midnight, so it was not hard to keep her in sight as I did my best to match her alarmingly quick steps. It seemed as though decades had passed before she stopped.
And when she did, my heart nearly leapt with joy. We were standing at the edge of a large, open green valley--a haven amongst the terrible darkness of the evil forest. The lush plants were supplied with beautiful sunlight--something I had not seen in many days--and broke their glorious pattern only once to make way for an entrancing and roaring waterfall which ran its course into a river chich again flowed back into the hellish forest. I knew then, that this was the place I had been searching for.
I turned to thank the lady--but she was gone.
The Sandbox
Let's go on an adventure, let's get on a plane. Let's catch kangaroos and wildabeasts and gophers too. Let's go to Africa and roam with the lions. Let's get on a boat and sail across the ocean. We'll skydive and deep dive and maybe even tunnel dive to our heart's content. We'll climb the eiffel tower and worship every hour. We'll ski the alps, we'll tour Italy, maybe even visit Sicily. Let's go on an adventure, let's have lots of fun. We'll dance and we'll play and we'll laugh in the sun. Eat fine cheeses and dine on savory chocolates. An adventure sounds good, yes it sounds fun to me. We'll go on an adventure and we'll do it from our own backyard.
Unbelievable
The sun said no. I can't believe it. After thirty years of partnership, the Toronto Sun turned me down. That is, until the dragons showed up. The Toronto Junior Dragons: A local child's sports team who had recently been involved in a most unfortunate series of events. I wanted to write an article on the outlandish ongoings of the young athletes, but the Toronto Sun wouldn't believe a single word I said.
So I called the team. Every single little sports fanatic showed up at the door of the paper's big-city-high-rise and testified to each and every one of my claims.
Billy DID land in an erupting volcano while skydiving. It was a science project gone wrong at the local fair.
Jonathan's grandfather WAS up for the electric chair. It was a new kind that did special massages
Matthew DID have an invisible tumor the size of your face--on his face. It was an excellent drawing.
Alex could NOT find his pinky toe for the life of him. He really needs to lose weight.
Jerry CAN jump over the moon. He just has to wait until it's as close to the horizon as possible.
And Larry WAS just robbed of a million dollars without the authorities giving a care. Some people just don't know how to play monopoly.
The Christian Count
"Welcome to the count's ball monsieur. We've been long awaiting your arrival."
I smiled curtly at the french valet as I stepped outside of my road-weary coach, then turned to assist my wife on the coach steps.
"You ready?" I asked as she placed her foot on solid ground for the first time in three hours.
She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
We linked arms and made our way to the large front doors of one of the most magnificent ballrooms in Paris.
"This is quite the anniversary present." giggled my wife as a tuxedo-clad butler smiled, bowed, and slowly opened the door for us.
"Enris is a very generous man." I replied, then looked at her and added, "and a very good friend to have indeed."
We made our way down a long, wide, red-carpeted set of stairs into the party.
There were people everywhere. Rich people, poor people, black people, white people, pretty people, and ugly people.
"But he's obviously a christian." I frowned.
hard soft spots
There is a hard spot in a very soft place many many miles away. I know not what it is or where it goes or how it goes or why it goes, but it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes, and goes. Forever and ever. Always. It never stops, never will stop, never can stop, and never wants to stop. I don't know hy. I just know it does. And does, and does, and does, and does. Somehow it is always full of energy: never even slowing. I wish I could be like the hard place: long, black, noisy, and with a dotted line running down the middle.
Like a snake.
The END
None of these are finished, they're what I came up with in 8-12 minutes of straight writing when given a single topic by Mrs. Crawford. Maybe you can figure out what all the topics are? Try it if you dare...
The titles are just that, not the actual topic for the piece. The topic is hidden within the writing.
The Five Senses:
It looks like garbage, smells like fetus, feels like goo, sounds like death, and tastes like candy. What is it? Who knows, and frankly, who cares?
I move on to the next sample. This one looks more like apples, so I'm okay to touch it. Ew: feels more like soggy diapers. Take a bite? Gosh, I really don't want to. I bring it up to my mouth, and am suddenly overwhelmed with a putrid stench of rotten raspberries. As I bite into this mushy munchable, it makes a crunching noise, which is odd because it felt so soft.
The taste is unbearable, and I vomit as I have so many times before.
"Take it away!" I cry, "I can stand this torture no longer!"
"But sir," whimpers the chef, "We have been called the greatest resturaunt in all of France and even Europe!"
"And I am known as the world's hardest food critic." I bluntly reply: "I bid you good day, monsieur, but know I will not be returning for a very long time."
I hate my job, but the pay is good, and no one knows my secret.
After all, being autistic DOES heighten one's senses.
Blanker Boy
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
Kind of sounds like bank.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
The sound of my pen scribbling this down on the paper reminds me of a drummer boy, proudly wielding his brand new snare drum through the town streets as a small addition to the glorious marching band.
He is happy, and pounding his drum with all the passion in the world. Blank. Blank. Blank. Do not read the word but hear it. Take a pen, and scribble it down as fast as you can.
Blank. Blank. Blank.
Do you hear the drummer boy parading across your empty page? Do you see him on the streets making a glorious parade?
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
What a sound, what a sight! This little drummer boy is filled with delight!
Blank. Blank. Blank. Goes the drum. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. He is happy as can be, with his brand new little drum.
Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank.
I apologize if it is all you read, but the sound is fascinating and intriguing for me.
Blank. Blank.
"That is it and that is all!" he shouts as the song comes to a close, and finishes it off with one final beat of the drum.
Blank.
Searched
Finding a topic for writing is about as easy as finding a needle in a haystack--pardon the cliche--but it is. The ironic reason for this is that there are so many topics to choose from. One simply has to walk outside and witness whether the weather is good or bad, if the neighbor's dog is outside, or if the tree's leaves have changed color. Look at the sky, look at the ground, look left, look right, look at doors, look at windows(not in them), look at flowers, look at trees look at grass, look at sand. The list is endless. One simply has to observe, and the mind is flooded with ideas. But the problem is this: which one to use?
The Dress-Lady
She was enchanting. A long, flowing white dress and beautiful blond hair. She gazed at me with eyes so stunning and so...commanding...in a gentle sort of way. She led me through the dark, tormenting forest, and I followed with no question because...well...what else could I do but get lost even more so in the evil forest. She led me, but kept her enchanting spell of a stare upon me, always seeming to get further and further away. She glowed like a star at midnight, so it was not hard to keep her in sight as I did my best to match her alarmingly quick steps. It seemed as though decades had passed before she stopped.
And when she did, my heart nearly leapt with joy. We were standing at the edge of a large, open green valley--a haven amongst the terrible darkness of the evil forest. The lush plants were supplied with beautiful sunlight--something I had not seen in many days--and broke their glorious pattern only once to make way for an entrancing and roaring waterfall which ran its course into a river chich again flowed back into the hellish forest. I knew then, that this was the place I had been searching for.
I turned to thank the lady--but she was gone.
The Sandbox
Let's go on an adventure, let's get on a plane. Let's catch kangaroos and wildabeasts and gophers too. Let's go to Africa and roam with the lions. Let's get on a boat and sail across the ocean. We'll skydive and deep dive and maybe even tunnel dive to our heart's content. We'll climb the eiffel tower and worship every hour. We'll ski the alps, we'll tour Italy, maybe even visit Sicily. Let's go on an adventure, let's have lots of fun. We'll dance and we'll play and we'll laugh in the sun. Eat fine cheeses and dine on savory chocolates. An adventure sounds good, yes it sounds fun to me. We'll go on an adventure and we'll do it from our own backyard.
Unbelievable
The sun said no. I can't believe it. After thirty years of partnership, the Toronto Sun turned me down. That is, until the dragons showed up. The Toronto Junior Dragons: A local child's sports team who had recently been involved in a most unfortunate series of events. I wanted to write an article on the outlandish ongoings of the young athletes, but the Toronto Sun wouldn't believe a single word I said.
So I called the team. Every single little sports fanatic showed up at the door of the paper's big-city-high-rise and testified to each and every one of my claims.
Billy DID land in an erupting volcano while skydiving. It was a science project gone wrong at the local fair.
Jonathan's grandfather WAS up for the electric chair. It was a new kind that did special massages
Matthew DID have an invisible tumor the size of your face--on his face. It was an excellent drawing.
Alex could NOT find his pinky toe for the life of him. He really needs to lose weight.
Jerry CAN jump over the moon. He just has to wait until it's as close to the horizon as possible.
And Larry WAS just robbed of a million dollars without the authorities giving a care. Some people just don't know how to play monopoly.
The Christian Count
"Welcome to the count's ball monsieur. We've been long awaiting your arrival."
I smiled curtly at the french valet as I stepped outside of my road-weary coach, then turned to assist my wife on the coach steps.
"You ready?" I asked as she placed her foot on solid ground for the first time in three hours.
She just smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
We linked arms and made our way to the large front doors of one of the most magnificent ballrooms in Paris.
"This is quite the anniversary present." giggled my wife as a tuxedo-clad butler smiled, bowed, and slowly opened the door for us.
"Enris is a very generous man." I replied, then looked at her and added, "and a very good friend to have indeed."
We made our way down a long, wide, red-carpeted set of stairs into the party.
There were people everywhere. Rich people, poor people, black people, white people, pretty people, and ugly people.
"But he's obviously a christian." I frowned.
hard soft spots
There is a hard spot in a very soft place many many miles away. I know not what it is or where it goes or how it goes or why it goes, but it goes. And goes, and goes, and goes, and goes. Forever and ever. Always. It never stops, never will stop, never can stop, and never wants to stop. I don't know hy. I just know it does. And does, and does, and does, and does. Somehow it is always full of energy: never even slowing. I wish I could be like the hard place: long, black, noisy, and with a dotted line running down the middle.
Like a snake.
The END
Monday, September 27, 2010
Thinklings
I love blank pages.
They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.
Almost.
The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.
Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).
Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.
In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.
Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.
Oh, and happy birthday dad :)
They're so smooth and crisp. Smudge-free, ink-less, and--not to be taken offensively--white, a blank page is almost completely and totally inviting.
Almost.
The only thing I hate about a blank page is exactly the thing I love a bout a blank page: It's so perfect. The first and last thing I want to do when I chance upon an un-tainted piece of industrialized tree is ruin it with smudges and scribbles and ideas which usually won't make it past a few comments and, "likes" on facebook and other various websites I make the mistake of posting my mind ramblings on.
Still, I quite often find that I can't help myself, and the page that was once a beautiful metaphor for so many pretty things becomes an adjective one would use to describe laundry that's seen a little too much of the inside of a furnace(Yes, there are oddish people who accidentally place their clothes in furnaces instead of dryers because they're too preoccupied with being worried about the next family party occuring at five minutes past noon but everyone arrived at four minutes past noon and so they now have to rush to get wood in the fire AND get the laundry done all before the dog starts puking on the floor from being fed too much human food).
Many people often try to convince me that the page is in fact not ruined, but is instead made more beautiful with the ideas of a creative mind. I then promptly inform these disillusioned people that I wish my ramblings were the result of a creative mind, but more often than not, whatever creative idea may have started the writing is quickly overpowered by an inner dialogue-argument between my mind and my brain about something totally unrelated to which I am currently writing. These inward arguments also cover the topic of inward arguments versus creativity every time I lay eyes on a blank page, and so such comments from friends and passers-by are quite often totally unnecessary but quite easily forgiven with the donation of an extra-strength pain-killer for the headache. Unless of course the inner-conflict has not yet been resolved in which case such comments are more than welcome so as to sway the argument in creativity's favor and get rid of the headache without the aid of chemically enhanced drugs.
In short-and as you have no doubt been praying for-conclusion, a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and a blank page is a terrible thing to waste. Even if it means enduring endless hours of torturous mind-banter.
Because in the end of things, words that are written on paper and then typed onto the everlasting internet will outlive me even when I've outlived them. And someday I'll come back to my thoughts and be reminded that thinking is only for those with far too much time on their hands, and writing is for those who wish there was a pest control for the stuff.
Oh, and happy birthday dad :)
Friday, September 10, 2010
Daily Mind Grind
Emotions. All over the page. Feelings splayed everywhere. Like the legs of a lazy chair. Creativity running dry. Need an idea; something to spark the tip of my pen and set my mind to racing. Once racing I'll need some fuel. No NASCAR champion ever became that way on one tank of gas. They also never stopped, because then cars start passing, and ideas stop flowing. The brain loses interest, and falls prey to facebook, youtube, or some other form of deadly time predator.
It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.
I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.
But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.
It's a weird feeling when the brain and mind conflict. I don't know many who suffer this sort of torture, but I endure it almost daily. I find my mind trying to hit the daily grind again and again with ideas through the roof-the roof being my skull-and my brain will repeatedly refuse to provide material with which to support said ideas, and they then begin to argue about how feasible the idea is in the first place. When this happens I begin to write the ideas in spite of everything, and end up having ridiculous ramblings like the one you are currently forcing yourself to read.
I don't mean forcing in a bad way, but you wouldn't be reading if you weren't telling your brain to read now would you? I wish I had that sort of control over my brain. It would make writing SO much easier.
But here I sit: pen still moving furiously and my mind and brain still having a go at eachother-it's giving me something close to a headache-and all I wanted to do was tell Melissa Smith what a wonderful person I think she is.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
That's all.
Grammar has always fascinated me-or should I say fascinated I?
The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!
That's all.
The reason people tell you not to say, "me and so and so" is because it would be weird to say, "me went to the bar last night." or something like that, but the latter sentence shouldn't even come into question. I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." I'm saying, "me and so and so went to the bar last night". I'm not saying, "me went to the bar last night." so why are you asking me if I would say, "me went to the bar last night"? I obviously wouldn't say that because it sounds ridiculous, but it does not come into play in the other sentence! So you're being completely illogical!
That's all.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
A Much Needed and Well Overdue Nap
The Universe is constantly expanding, but the world isn't. And the human population is. What will happen if there's too many of us? the other day I sat and wondered what would happen if there were so many people covering the surface of the earth that one couldn't even sit down without crushing a baby or a foot of some strange person you don't even know. Would gravity even put up with that sort of nonsense?
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.
Everything has a limit, so either gravity would grow exhausted from the effort of holding onto several zillion people, or the crust of the earth would simply say something along the lines of, "Fuck it" and collapse under the pressure of a seemingly endlessly powerful force of gravity. If gravity continued to stand faithfully oblivious by its post even after the collapse of the earth's crust, then the end result would look something like a mass of melted crust, humans, buildings, animals, and steam. The reason it would look like such is because it would quite literally be such.
The other option for gravity at this point would be to agree with the earth's, "Fuck it" decision and let go as well, at which point space would suddenly be filled with tiny imploding, exploding, and screaming humans and animals. I can't imagine the buildings would complain much; they're already used to being walked all over.
So it appears that even if we don't rape the earth of its resources or kill each other with wars over those resources, or if our star(sometimes called, "the" sun...don't know why we act like it's so important though...it's actually one of the smallest stars in the universe) doesn't die of old age or kill us with the same energy that keeps us alive, then we are bound to kill ourselves anyway by simply living. There's some iron for your diet.
Now imagine for a moment that gravity is on steroids and has chosen to split the steroids fifty-fifty with the earth's crust-as if the surface hasn't gone through enough abuse already-and both manage to sustain the ridiculous pressure that is literally a mass of humans covering the earth's surface. The only plausible thing to happen is that many would die of mass disease and starvation due to the inability to move around much. The starvation would lead to cannibalism, and the disease would most likely lead to a zombie epidemic of some sort. Humans would eventually die out, and the earth would breathe a sigh of relief as the last most intelligent earthly organism passed into oblivion.
With a slight smile, earth would probably simply let loose all the stress of supporting self-centered, reckless organisms, and enjoy the peace and quiet, perhaps even uttering a little, "Good riddance." before taking a much needed and well overdue nap.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Paradoxical Renditionings of Nothing
A Paradox is a fascinating thing. Of course, so are a lot of other things involved with literature and the universe and everything, but I'm not going to write about any of them at the moment.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Well, maybe one.
There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.
It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.
I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.
This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.
Monday, July 19, 2010
A Thought
I was sitting eating a bag of chocolate chips today when a thought struck me. Then I almost lost the thought due to it hitting me rather hard and almost rendering me unconscious. This was, of course, combined with the fact that I had only just recently returned home from a rather long and tiring shift at work. Under normal circumstances a strike from any thought--large or small--is barely enough to leave a mark.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Nonetheless, I managed to keep my consciousness somewhat intact, and I grasped the thought before it slipped away into the abyss of thin air and graced some other poor fellow with its presence.
I say some other poor fellow not because the thought is anything of dastardly or disgusting proportions, but because the thought is so extraordinarily subtle that if it weren't for the blow it delivers one would hardly notice or begin to interpret the thought. I do not mean to talk myself up by saying the following, but the thought is so subtly clever that it seems to think of itself as being something worth a substantial sort of note--more so than any other important thought, that is--and tends to strike harder than any other thought I have ever encountered before in the entirety of my life. It is on this that I base my logic which states that any other bloke to be struck by the thought would be a poor bloke indeed due to a probable inexperience of being struck by any thought at all, never mind an important one.
I apologize if my digression bores you, but I found(and find) all these things to be important when I was struck by the original thought, and so I can only assume they must be as equally important to any other person who intends to hear the thought as well--I also truly wish that the digression will lessen the pain and possible force of the blow that the thought will no doubt deliver once it has made its appearance in the mind of any unfortunate reader.
I believe we are at the point of which I stopped to read the nutritional information concerning the chocolate chips which I was currently stuffing down my esophagus at an alarming rate. This alarming rate was, of course, simply to distract myself from the throbbing headache which the blow of the thought had given me. At any rate, alarming or not, I was reading the nutritional information on the back of the chocolate chip package. I'm not quite sure why I was reading it, because I have no intention of ever going on a diet or setting a curfew on the population of calories and fats in my body, but I read it nonetheless. It was during the reading of the nutritional information that I had the latter thought, and this time around the blow was substantial enough to erase the previous thought about which I am supposed to be writing but seem to be failing horribly.
As it turns out, I have no miraculous thought to share with you, dear reader, and I must apologize that the reason for this is something as mundane as petty nutritional information on the back of a plastic package containing chocolate chips. It appears that you, faithful reader, are left with the disappointment of an unsatisfied curiosity. If it is any condolence, I not only experience the same dilemma, but I also have a rather bad headache and an upset stomach.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Creativity Paradime
There comes a moment in every person's life when an epiphany is in order. Some have small epiphany's concerning things such as how to solve a meal plan dilemma, and some have epiphany's which could almost definitely classify as a serious problem to keep an eye on on the richter scale.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
Some are even lucky enough to have multiple epiphany's, and these folk are often classified under the, 'artsy' category of earth's inhabitants. Perhaps the most frequent, 'epiphanizers'--if you will--are author's and writers and the like. A good author will tend to have an epiphany every day, or possibly even more depending on the amount of time spent observing life versus the amount of time actually spent composing works of fiction.
These particular writers will often interpret their own epiphany's and beliefs into the numerous characters of their stories, and the genius behind the epiphany will be discredited by the readers to a fictional character which wouldn't possess the ability to breathe had it not been for the author.
This sort of situation occurs all too frequently, and many famous authors spend so much time trying to be recognized as the source of their many character's epiphany's and mindsets, that they eventually give up and decide to become alcoholics for the rest of their epiphany-filled lives. Though, it should be noted that the epiphany's become less and less frequent as the authors spend more and more time being inebriated than being anything at all.
Young, unpublished and unnoticed authors as myself, however, have not yet run into any such problems, and have the chance to be recognized for their epiphinatic--again, if you will--deeds before being betrayed by their loveable characters. It is in the composing of this piece that I wish to convey a recent epiphany of mine without having the glory snatched from me by the very characters I nurtured to life.
I was going over and revising one of my as-of-yet-unpublished novels for the trillionth time(this is something authors enjoy doing to pass away the moments of not yet being published. It's very silly but it works, and sometimes can even improve the original story), when I was struck with a sudden idea--no, this is not the epiphany--for a sub-plot in the sub-plot of my story's sub-plot. I furiously began to tap away at my keyboard, letting the idea pour out onto the screen before me.
After several moments I stopped, stared blankly at the screen before me, blinked twice, selected the paragraph I had just completed and hit the wonderful, 'delete' button on my keyboard with no remorse whatsoever, sending the sub-sub-sub-plot idea screaming away to the depths of idea's hell(sometimes referred to as writer's block, depending on the situation).
I slowly placed my hands behind my head and leant back in my chair. I had not blinked since the last two times, and my eyes were beginning to sting, so I decided to blink because it seemed like a good idea. It was, and I've continued blinking regularly since.
But I digress. The epiphany was that my own creativity had contradicted my own creativity, and that this was indeed possible. I'm sure if you go back and read you'll be able to make sense of this. I'm feeling far too lazy to explain in detail, and I could quite definitely go for a glass of whiskey at the moment.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Literary Award Letter
As some of you may know, I won the literary award at graduation this year, and it came totally unexpected to me. I had applied for the award and a couple others, but didn't really expect to get anything because of the letter I had included. Apparently, the literary award requires a letter explaining why I am eligible for the award, and the letter that I included with my awards applications(not intended to go with the literary award) earned me the literary award...which I thought was pretty awesome. Anyway, this is the letter, enjoy!
******
To Whom it May Concern,
As I sit here and fill out this award application sheet, I cannot help but have thoughts and subsequently have the urge to write down said thoughts and share them with yourself; the application reviewer.
These thoughts entail many things, some to do with unicorns prancing on clouds, some with infamous heros robbing large banks, and others with soaring around in the sky wearing blue tights and red underwear cleverly placed outside of my pants to appear as some sort of, “costume”. These are, of course, trivial thoughts, but the main thought on my mind is more related to the subject of this green, leafy package of paper lying—blank--on the table before me.
My mind is in a turmoil as I stare at this package, and for a while I couldn't understand exactly why I was so unsettled by this seemingly harmless bundle of colourful papers. Then the thought struck me—which is when I started writing this letter which you—the one whom it concerns—are now reading intently—I hope.
The thought that struck me left me feeling quite out of sorts for a moment, and I fear it might have left a bruise on the spot it struck. Then I let it sink in and register—with the Isaac Golle's Brain Board of Directors of course—and I came to understand that I was upset with the awards listed within this little green package of paper. Don't get me wrong, they're all wonderful awards, and congratulations to any and every person who is fortunate enough to receive one. However the better part of my somewhat crazy and artistic conscience cannot seem to settle with the fact that the only award even closely related to video production skill/ability is a generalized visual art award. There seems to be no specific award for each of the visual arts, but rather a generalized award. One would think this to be quite an acceptable issue, but how does that one go about deciding if this amazing video creator is better than this painter? The two are quite different subjects and differently judged, and so it brings to question in even the craziest mind that something is amuck.
I was going to end on that note, but my mind had yet another sort of, “fart” if you will(keep in mind it is not the sort of commonly-known fart which may have been the first thing to come to your mind, but be assured my noggin did not pass wind in any way shape or form. Rather, it is more of a figure of speech). My mind reminded me—at a very low price—that almost all of the awards listed on this listless green paper are only available if the chosen recipient plans to take part in some form of post-secondary education related to their award.
Most would find this to be a perfectly reasonable requirement, and I did as well, when my mind again went on a joyride and proceeded to persuade me—in a most persuasive manner—to rethink my acceptance of this requirement. To think: a thinking tool telling me to think. What a thought.
Getting back to the third segment of the original thought, I couldn't help but think—because my brain was telling me to do so in a most persuasive manner as you might remember—that perhaps a student is the best candidate for the award for visual arts—or any other award for that matter—and yet they cannot receive it simply because they are not planning on being affiliated with any post-secondary organizations in any way.
On the final note of the latter thought, I finally managed to get a word of my own in, and my thoughts and I decided that we would like to have an award entitled, “The Freelancing Artist's Award”. The only requirements of the award would be that the recipient is in fact not planning on attending any form of post-secondary education for the journey of their career, but either plans on travelling and using their talent along the way(videographer making a documentary) or acting as an independent artist for the rest of their life. My thoughts and I also think we would like to have an award for the writers. We realize there is an english award listed on the bundle of green papers, but we think it would be just wonderful if there would be an award for aspiring author's, poets, and novelists.
At this point my brain became exhausted and refused to offer anymore of it's time and intelligence to the wonderful conversation we had been engaged in, and left me to finish this letter on my own.
It took me quite a while to come up with anything on my own—my brain being the main source of my creativity and writing abilities—but I figured it would probably be good to ask if there is any way to go about donating and possibly sponsoring an award for the two mentioned in this letter. If you can help me go about this feel free to contact me(information included at the end of the letter) I also figured it would be good to inform you of my personal plans after high school—it would probably make more sense as to why this topic is such an issue for me.
I plan on taking at least two years off: one to work and save up money for a roadtrip. The second year will be spent going on that roadtrip and filming a documentary(still going through several ideas and trying to pick a final one...or even combine them all!). After this roadtrip is finished I will edit and produce the documentary, entering it in as many film festivals as possible. If nothing happens and my video receives no awards or recognition and doesn't help me start my career in the film industry, then I will apply for the film production course at Vancouver Film School and hope that that helps me get my career started. If nothing works, then I would be perfectly content living in a one-bedroom studio apartment and having a day job while filming as a hobby/small business for the rest of my life.
These are the full and final thoughts of Isaac James Golle on the topic of Academic Awards and the like.
Sincerely,
Isaac James Golle
Phone: (705)-732-1512
Email: isaacgolle@gmail.com
******
To Whom it May Concern,
As I sit here and fill out this award application sheet, I cannot help but have thoughts and subsequently have the urge to write down said thoughts and share them with yourself; the application reviewer.
These thoughts entail many things, some to do with unicorns prancing on clouds, some with infamous heros robbing large banks, and others with soaring around in the sky wearing blue tights and red underwear cleverly placed outside of my pants to appear as some sort of, “costume”. These are, of course, trivial thoughts, but the main thought on my mind is more related to the subject of this green, leafy package of paper lying—blank--on the table before me.
My mind is in a turmoil as I stare at this package, and for a while I couldn't understand exactly why I was so unsettled by this seemingly harmless bundle of colourful papers. Then the thought struck me—which is when I started writing this letter which you—the one whom it concerns—are now reading intently—I hope.
The thought that struck me left me feeling quite out of sorts for a moment, and I fear it might have left a bruise on the spot it struck. Then I let it sink in and register—with the Isaac Golle's Brain Board of Directors of course—and I came to understand that I was upset with the awards listed within this little green package of paper. Don't get me wrong, they're all wonderful awards, and congratulations to any and every person who is fortunate enough to receive one. However the better part of my somewhat crazy and artistic conscience cannot seem to settle with the fact that the only award even closely related to video production skill/ability is a generalized visual art award. There seems to be no specific award for each of the visual arts, but rather a generalized award. One would think this to be quite an acceptable issue, but how does that one go about deciding if this amazing video creator is better than this painter? The two are quite different subjects and differently judged, and so it brings to question in even the craziest mind that something is amuck.
I was going to end on that note, but my mind had yet another sort of, “fart” if you will(keep in mind it is not the sort of commonly-known fart which may have been the first thing to come to your mind, but be assured my noggin did not pass wind in any way shape or form. Rather, it is more of a figure of speech). My mind reminded me—at a very low price—that almost all of the awards listed on this listless green paper are only available if the chosen recipient plans to take part in some form of post-secondary education related to their award.
Most would find this to be a perfectly reasonable requirement, and I did as well, when my mind again went on a joyride and proceeded to persuade me—in a most persuasive manner—to rethink my acceptance of this requirement. To think: a thinking tool telling me to think. What a thought.
Getting back to the third segment of the original thought, I couldn't help but think—because my brain was telling me to do so in a most persuasive manner as you might remember—that perhaps a student is the best candidate for the award for visual arts—or any other award for that matter—and yet they cannot receive it simply because they are not planning on being affiliated with any post-secondary organizations in any way.
On the final note of the latter thought, I finally managed to get a word of my own in, and my thoughts and I decided that we would like to have an award entitled, “The Freelancing Artist's Award”. The only requirements of the award would be that the recipient is in fact not planning on attending any form of post-secondary education for the journey of their career, but either plans on travelling and using their talent along the way(videographer making a documentary) or acting as an independent artist for the rest of their life. My thoughts and I also think we would like to have an award for the writers. We realize there is an english award listed on the bundle of green papers, but we think it would be just wonderful if there would be an award for aspiring author's, poets, and novelists.
At this point my brain became exhausted and refused to offer anymore of it's time and intelligence to the wonderful conversation we had been engaged in, and left me to finish this letter on my own.
It took me quite a while to come up with anything on my own—my brain being the main source of my creativity and writing abilities—but I figured it would probably be good to ask if there is any way to go about donating and possibly sponsoring an award for the two mentioned in this letter. If you can help me go about this feel free to contact me(information included at the end of the letter) I also figured it would be good to inform you of my personal plans after high school—it would probably make more sense as to why this topic is such an issue for me.
I plan on taking at least two years off: one to work and save up money for a roadtrip. The second year will be spent going on that roadtrip and filming a documentary(still going through several ideas and trying to pick a final one...or even combine them all!). After this roadtrip is finished I will edit and produce the documentary, entering it in as many film festivals as possible. If nothing happens and my video receives no awards or recognition and doesn't help me start my career in the film industry, then I will apply for the film production course at Vancouver Film School and hope that that helps me get my career started. If nothing works, then I would be perfectly content living in a one-bedroom studio apartment and having a day job while filming as a hobby/small business for the rest of my life.
These are the full and final thoughts of Isaac James Golle on the topic of Academic Awards and the like.
Sincerely,
Isaac James Golle
Phone: (705)-732-1512
Email: isaacgolle@gmail.com
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Charlie
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” The thought ran through my mind over and over: “You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” It was like a marching band traversing through my mind over and over as I slowly made my way down the quickly moving street.
“You're not a criminal yet.” The sound became louder and more obnoxious to match my ever-slowing footsteps. I felt as if I was crawling along a worn and beaten path, and the world around me had switched into super-speed; the people and cars going by in fractions of a second, not a one giving me a single glance.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I reached into my pocket and slowly traced the freshly-inscribed gang symbol along the sharp blade of my knife with a single finger. This was my ticket to happiness. This little piece of metal was to be my escape from the tormenting world of alcoholic fathers and relentless bullies: A sliver of steel turned into a sliver of hope, acceptance, and respect. A twitch of the lips sent my dull face into a slight hint of a smile as I focused upon this single thought.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I grimaced—only slightly—and frowned once again as the torrential thought ripped its way into my confused mind once again. I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me, but saw again only the blur of people and cars passing by while my own body seemed to move at the slowest pace possible. I turned my head back to stare straight ahead as I walked with all the determination I could muster so as not to looks suspicious. I even went so far as to remove the hood from my head.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.”
“DAMMIT!” I yelled, and clapped my hand over my mouth the moment the words left, terrified that some passer-by would suspect me.
“Everything alright?” the blur of motion slowed for a moment to reveal a concerned face several feet in front of me. I couldn't deduce a uniform, and so responded.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” The blur returned.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” it was all I could do to keep from turning and running home. I slid my finger along the freshly sharpened blade once more, reminding myself of the coming respect and acceptance.
“Just a few more steps.” I reminded myself, and looked around to confirm the whisper of a thought. I was struck with a sudden sense of panic as I came to the realization that the buildings surrounding me had joined the blur of people and cars. Nothing was deduce-able. Colors and lights blended together to form a massive, watery-like vision which flew in front of my eyes. I turned my head every which way, my eyes screaming for an escape route. Nothing. I ran, bumping into several things as I went, waiting for the reassuring thought to return to my head.
I reached for my knife, my finger sliding against the blade and screaming in pain as I did so. I felt a warm trickle run down my arm as I pulled out the weapon and swung it before me like a madman, trying to find some escape from the horrifying blur that was engulfing me.
“He's got a knife!” I heard a faint shout, and a thud as my blade connected with something solid—but not too solid—and sunk in enough to throw me off balance and knock me to the hard, blurry ground. I scrambled to get back on my feet, but was knocked over again by a heavy object. I cried out in pain, begging the reassuring thought to return and wipe my conscience clean.
I made no effort to stand up, and had lost the gang-emblazoned knife when I struck that unfortunate passer-by. A knee was pressed into my back, and cold steel tightened onto my clammy wrists.
“I'm not...a criminal...yet.” I panted slowly, but was silenced by a commanding voice.
“You have the right to remain silent....”
“You're not a criminal yet.” The sound became louder and more obnoxious to match my ever-slowing footsteps. I felt as if I was crawling along a worn and beaten path, and the world around me had switched into super-speed; the people and cars going by in fractions of a second, not a one giving me a single glance.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I reached into my pocket and slowly traced the freshly-inscribed gang symbol along the sharp blade of my knife with a single finger. This was my ticket to happiness. This little piece of metal was to be my escape from the tormenting world of alcoholic fathers and relentless bullies: A sliver of steel turned into a sliver of hope, acceptance, and respect. A twitch of the lips sent my dull face into a slight hint of a smile as I focused upon this single thought.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I grimaced—only slightly—and frowned once again as the torrential thought ripped its way into my confused mind once again. I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me, but saw again only the blur of people and cars passing by while my own body seemed to move at the slowest pace possible. I turned my head back to stare straight ahead as I walked with all the determination I could muster so as not to looks suspicious. I even went so far as to remove the hood from my head.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.”
“DAMMIT!” I yelled, and clapped my hand over my mouth the moment the words left, terrified that some passer-by would suspect me.
“Everything alright?” the blur of motion slowed for a moment to reveal a concerned face several feet in front of me. I couldn't deduce a uniform, and so responded.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” The blur returned.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” it was all I could do to keep from turning and running home. I slid my finger along the freshly sharpened blade once more, reminding myself of the coming respect and acceptance.
“Just a few more steps.” I reminded myself, and looked around to confirm the whisper of a thought. I was struck with a sudden sense of panic as I came to the realization that the buildings surrounding me had joined the blur of people and cars. Nothing was deduce-able. Colors and lights blended together to form a massive, watery-like vision which flew in front of my eyes. I turned my head every which way, my eyes screaming for an escape route. Nothing. I ran, bumping into several things as I went, waiting for the reassuring thought to return to my head.
I reached for my knife, my finger sliding against the blade and screaming in pain as I did so. I felt a warm trickle run down my arm as I pulled out the weapon and swung it before me like a madman, trying to find some escape from the horrifying blur that was engulfing me.
“He's got a knife!” I heard a faint shout, and a thud as my blade connected with something solid—but not too solid—and sunk in enough to throw me off balance and knock me to the hard, blurry ground. I scrambled to get back on my feet, but was knocked over again by a heavy object. I cried out in pain, begging the reassuring thought to return and wipe my conscience clean.
I made no effort to stand up, and had lost the gang-emblazoned knife when I struck that unfortunate passer-by. A knee was pressed into my back, and cold steel tightened onto my clammy wrists.
“I'm not...a criminal...yet.” I panted slowly, but was silenced by a commanding voice.
“You have the right to remain silent....”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Journey of Sir Lancelot
One might say that a personal journey and a personal essay are quite similar. Both have a beginning and an end, both contain opinions and experiences, and-frankly-both have the word personal in them. Of course, I would disagree entirely with anyone who made such a ridiculous claim, for I have discovered several amazing things about my personal style of writing over the course of the past semester. One could almost say I have met someone who changed my life. Then again, one could say a lot of things and less than half of them could be true...anyway, let's begin.
I started the semester thinking myself a fairly good writer. I have been writing since I was about ten years old, and have spent nearly five years creating a fantasy world and composing great lore stores around this world. In between the time of creating this world I wrote short stories, poems, and books. I also discovered an amazing love affair with the art of film and radio. So, naturally, I considered myself a fairly good writer.
But that was just the problem.
I considered myself-me, Isaac Golle-to be a fairly good writer. Now, don't get me wrong, I still consider myself to be a good writer-but about half way through the semester I discovered something which completely changed the way I wrote just about everything-including essays.
I began when I started writing, "The Elf". I have always been fascinated with the wit of Oscar Wilde, and wanted to capture that sort of personality in a character. In such a way, "Gump" was born. I became fascinated and intrigued with him right away, and very quickly found myself writing down lines for the character as though they came to me naturally. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote; completely blown away by the intelligence, wile, and wit of a character I had created. When I finished, "The Elf" it wasn't enough: I wanted more Mr. Gump.
And so I wrote, coming up with all kinds of mysterious, witty, and intriguing characters, composing their dialogue as though it was my own-as if I was the character through and through.
About a week after, "The Elf" I began work on, "Fun and Games" which was my summative assignment for this class. In this I created Justin and Terence: two more wiley and witty folk to add to the quickly growing pack. One day after I had been writing for a while, I stopped to take a break and turned to an assignment in another class. It also involved writing, and so with a sigh I gathered some paper and began writing answers to the many questions. After a moment I stopped, stared hard at my answers, then glanced over at, "Fun and Games". I looked at my answers again, then at the script once more. My eyes widened and my heart raced: I had discovered a new me.
My writing style has literally evolved into its own personality. Justin, Terence, Gump, and other others, all come out to get a word in every time I place my pen on paper. The me that writes and the me that walks and talks no longer share the same thoughts. I suppose one could say I have a sort of controlled multiple personality disorder. Of course, one could say a lot of things, and less than half of them could be true.
Now, as I look to the future and try to deduce the right path, I look to my new found friend(whom I call Sir Lancelot) and hope that this journey will be nothing short of exhilerating.
******
This was an essay I wrote for a final exam in my writer's craft class. The essay inspired this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkIdIvqDcws
I started the semester thinking myself a fairly good writer. I have been writing since I was about ten years old, and have spent nearly five years creating a fantasy world and composing great lore stores around this world. In between the time of creating this world I wrote short stories, poems, and books. I also discovered an amazing love affair with the art of film and radio. So, naturally, I considered myself a fairly good writer.
But that was just the problem.
I considered myself-me, Isaac Golle-to be a fairly good writer. Now, don't get me wrong, I still consider myself to be a good writer-but about half way through the semester I discovered something which completely changed the way I wrote just about everything-including essays.
I began when I started writing, "The Elf". I have always been fascinated with the wit of Oscar Wilde, and wanted to capture that sort of personality in a character. In such a way, "Gump" was born. I became fascinated and intrigued with him right away, and very quickly found myself writing down lines for the character as though they came to me naturally. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote; completely blown away by the intelligence, wile, and wit of a character I had created. When I finished, "The Elf" it wasn't enough: I wanted more Mr. Gump.
And so I wrote, coming up with all kinds of mysterious, witty, and intriguing characters, composing their dialogue as though it was my own-as if I was the character through and through.
About a week after, "The Elf" I began work on, "Fun and Games" which was my summative assignment for this class. In this I created Justin and Terence: two more wiley and witty folk to add to the quickly growing pack. One day after I had been writing for a while, I stopped to take a break and turned to an assignment in another class. It also involved writing, and so with a sigh I gathered some paper and began writing answers to the many questions. After a moment I stopped, stared hard at my answers, then glanced over at, "Fun and Games". I looked at my answers again, then at the script once more. My eyes widened and my heart raced: I had discovered a new me.
My writing style has literally evolved into its own personality. Justin, Terence, Gump, and other others, all come out to get a word in every time I place my pen on paper. The me that writes and the me that walks and talks no longer share the same thoughts. I suppose one could say I have a sort of controlled multiple personality disorder. Of course, one could say a lot of things, and less than half of them could be true.
Now, as I look to the future and try to deduce the right path, I look to my new found friend(whom I call Sir Lancelot) and hope that this journey will be nothing short of exhilerating.
******
This was an essay I wrote for a final exam in my writer's craft class. The essay inspired this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkIdIvqDcws
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