that time, outside

I think the nightly ritual of going for a walk, a slow and aimless walk, has sadly lost its significance to the jaded, fast-moving city folk. My mom's family always invested a great deal of energy on the evening walk. It seemed like a waste of time to me at the time, but looking at it now I see that it was anything but. To get various generations of a family to spend time together, outside, without any form of meddling, artifical influence is a feat that I now believe may be somewhat impossible. These walks took place on farms and in mountain communities and involved grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, cats and dogs. Mostly I remember how the air smelled and how the grass felt, either dry or cool on the evening of a hot summer day, depending on the province this took place in. I remember pounding the dirt, ground with my feet - by this I mean to emphasize the lack of concrete - and not worrying about dirt or bugs or dog slobber or school or anything. It's amazing how those elements - air, earth, sun, sky, stars, the smell and colour of the moment when you can't tell if it is still light or almost dark - are the only things I can understand as timeless. This experience only exists in an urban setting in an extremely muted and astoundingly less awe-inspiring way. I heartbreakingly realize every day that even if I wanted to try to re-create those moments, the people and places that hold them together are long gone.

art school retard

I really hope that pottery class isn't as freaky as this picture makes it seem. This makes me think of the macrame hangings and crochet owls that my grandma used to make. It also evokes the smell of cigarette smoke, orange shag carpet, red meat, shot glasses, the chicken dance and white tube socks. What's with the coloured hands? Are they supposed to encourage you? That yellow hand looks like it has a thumb growing out of its wrist.

I am going to be optimistic. I am going to try really hard to not try too hard at pottery class. I have a habit of thinking that I am not artistic and/or creative and then overcompensating by trying really hard to evoke those qualities and unintentionally creating absolute drivel. I guess it is still creation...? I get the feeling that creativity should just come to you naturally, flow out of your masterful fingertips with careless ease. You shouldn't have to psych yourself up and force yourself to 'think outside of the box'. If it doesn't come, it doesn't come. However, my art school friend likes to inform me that creativity isn't innate, but is a set of carefully laid out rules or steps, if you will, that, if followed correctly, lead you to the garden of creative energy. I actually find that way more depressing than the idea that I might just not have a creative bone in my body. I like to think that creativity is an energy that some people possess or at least are able to easily tap into, rather than a formula from a manual. Alas, what shall I believe? I dost not knoweth.

Cubbedge, my dear

I know you can do it.

I think I would have really liked this when I was about...seven. Or eight. But I can't quite figure out what it could possibly mean. Are the shoes just ready to prance right into the ocean, eager for a wild fling? Maybe they are shy, testing out the waters with the tips of their toes. I think the way the ribbons are limply lying on the rocks indicate that the shoes are definitely shy. The way the right shoe is kind of supporting itself up against the cliff also shows an aloofness very uncharacteristic of a ballet slipper...I think if there was a unicorn on top of the cliff and a rainbow subtly grazing a darker sky I would have this poster in my room.