If this is the YOLO generation, why is it that everyone insists on capturing the moment via whatever technology they can get their hands on? At the Mumford concert the other night (which, by the way, was amazing but that sort of goes without saying) I had to find viewing windows above and around outstretched arms wielding low quality recording devices. Everyone had to not only capture the moment, but capture the moment from their own perspective. At one point, they mentioned the beautiful moon behind us, and people began turning to take pictures...of the moon...the same moon that's always been there...as if it were only made significant by the moment they found themselves in. If we're living once, why do we need data to relive? In our efforts to perfect deja vu, we've discarded the art of reminiscence.
There is subtle beauty in the passing moment, and a joy in knowing that we'll never get it back. Our experiences make up our identity; all of who we are is lived out in the moments that pass. As we fade away, we hope that we've left an impression in the memories we share. If my eulogy is composed not of anecdotes but rather Youtube highlights and slideshows, I should think I've not been remembered at all.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
On and On and On
We are the unexperienced cliche,
humanity's trope viewing the world through the eyes of naivety
while we bring nothing new to existence.
We are no more than a self-absorbed cycle.
It's depressingly dark how, when I sit down to write, it's thoughts like these that plague my mind. Whenever I write, insecurities abound and I think about the worst possible circumstances in which I may one day find myself. I think forward to an existence of nothingness, or a life lived in constant forgetfulness and I write to capture life as I live now. What an odd thing to wish to document.
I feel as though writing is the process by which I share my self. I am given the freedom to say whatever I wish and as I write I think of nothing beyond my own thoughts. So often we tailor who we are or what we say to our audience as a means of coexisting, this can be such a tiring process when all we are looking for is someone to hear everything we need to say. Like I said above, this is all such a self-centered cycle but I suppose there are moments within one's life where they transcend the trivial reflections and leave something that lasts. This is something worth striving for. I feel as though one day I'll have something so valuable to say that I must prepare my voice, without losing it altogether droning on about pessimistic observations.
I want to write a song. I want to create something that I can be proud of, something that I can perform, something that requires focus and attention. I've been lacking these traits lately, finding myself pulled all sorts of directions while freely confined to the computer chair at my desk. Motivation is a paradoxical beast; how is it that I can spend so much time wanting to want to do something while paralyzed from any actual action or pursuit? I want to be a musician, I want to be more physically active, I want to be more assertive and I want to be more adventurous. I wake up with these sort of goals on my mind, and go to sleep aware of the fact I've fallen short. Somewhere between the sun's rise and fall, I've been pulled away from ambition until I'm reminiscing of the missed opportunity. I pray life doesn't follow this same trajectory for me. I suppose I only ever worry in reflection.
On another note, I recently met someone whose abilities I greatly admire at his poetry reading/show thing. It's funny how someone else's words can express the pain of your heart better than anything you've ever uttered. As I sat in my seat listening to him speak about life, love, heartbreak, loss, and a variety of other subjects, I was fully focused on his every word as though he'd speak secrets of the universe I'd never again have the chance to hear. He read my favorite poem, Move Pen Move, as his encore, and I was brought to tears at the possibilities life may yet have in store for me. After the show, I met him, posed for a picture, and then went on my way. Even those words, the ones which reach deep into my chest and grasping my heart, squeezing it and forcing it to beat faster while grabbing hold of my breath in an effort to fully capture my attention, even they become lost in the night, washed away by the downpour of a Vancouver rain. I drove off without saying anything more to the man whose inspired me, perhaps some day down the line I'll inspire someone and realize that nothing's changed.
humanity's trope viewing the world through the eyes of naivety
while we bring nothing new to existence.
We are no more than a self-absorbed cycle.
It's depressingly dark how, when I sit down to write, it's thoughts like these that plague my mind. Whenever I write, insecurities abound and I think about the worst possible circumstances in which I may one day find myself. I think forward to an existence of nothingness, or a life lived in constant forgetfulness and I write to capture life as I live now. What an odd thing to wish to document.
I feel as though writing is the process by which I share my self. I am given the freedom to say whatever I wish and as I write I think of nothing beyond my own thoughts. So often we tailor who we are or what we say to our audience as a means of coexisting, this can be such a tiring process when all we are looking for is someone to hear everything we need to say. Like I said above, this is all such a self-centered cycle but I suppose there are moments within one's life where they transcend the trivial reflections and leave something that lasts. This is something worth striving for. I feel as though one day I'll have something so valuable to say that I must prepare my voice, without losing it altogether droning on about pessimistic observations.
I want to write a song. I want to create something that I can be proud of, something that I can perform, something that requires focus and attention. I've been lacking these traits lately, finding myself pulled all sorts of directions while freely confined to the computer chair at my desk. Motivation is a paradoxical beast; how is it that I can spend so much time wanting to want to do something while paralyzed from any actual action or pursuit? I want to be a musician, I want to be more physically active, I want to be more assertive and I want to be more adventurous. I wake up with these sort of goals on my mind, and go to sleep aware of the fact I've fallen short. Somewhere between the sun's rise and fall, I've been pulled away from ambition until I'm reminiscing of the missed opportunity. I pray life doesn't follow this same trajectory for me. I suppose I only ever worry in reflection.
On another note, I recently met someone whose abilities I greatly admire at his poetry reading/show thing. It's funny how someone else's words can express the pain of your heart better than anything you've ever uttered. As I sat in my seat listening to him speak about life, love, heartbreak, loss, and a variety of other subjects, I was fully focused on his every word as though he'd speak secrets of the universe I'd never again have the chance to hear. He read my favorite poem, Move Pen Move, as his encore, and I was brought to tears at the possibilities life may yet have in store for me. After the show, I met him, posed for a picture, and then went on my way. Even those words, the ones which reach deep into my chest and grasping my heart, squeezing it and forcing it to beat faster while grabbing hold of my breath in an effort to fully capture my attention, even they become lost in the night, washed away by the downpour of a Vancouver rain. I drove off without saying anything more to the man whose inspired me, perhaps some day down the line I'll inspire someone and realize that nothing's changed.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
The most populated places wreak of loneliness;
collective consciousness coordinates ignorance
as we, bound tightly, look outward
and suffer inward.
We coexist in mutual misunderstanding,
sworn to silence by our desire to fit in
to ever shrinking spaces.
Stepping backward, we search ourselves for dividing lines,
thrusting forward those who we force to stand out;
we sling slurs of sympathy for those we victimize.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
The final tomorrow
Lately it feels like coffee, late nights and writing are all bound together to keep this blog alive, though seldom do these elements come together. However, tonight (morning?) is such a time, so let's chat.
I'm particularly interested in the hypothetical situation posed to me by Leah earlier in the evening: if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day? She said she'd spend it with me, she said she'd spend it visiting family, I could see that. As for me, I didn't think at all of the people I'd spend my time with. In fact, my thoughts were quite the opposite. Upon wrestling with the situation, I realized solitude was the predominant state in which I'd seek refuge.
I find it odd, and I'm not quite sure why, but I'm very convinced that I'd want to spend a majority of the day preparing goodbyes to be read rather than delivered in person. I think goodbyes are difficult, painful things that I do very poorly and so if I were to make one final shot at them I suppose I'd like the opportunity to edit myself very carefully. The funny bit about this is, of course, that in life we very seldom have the opportunity to perfect our words. We rarely say what we think, and when we do we often criticize the way we deliver our sentiments. I fully acknowledge that I am a flawed individual full of imperfections and yet I wish to be remembered through wise, deep thoughts that inspire those who encounter them. Perhaps I aim too high, and I'll spend my hypothetical last day realigning letters on a page to everyone, eventually being defeated by my own impossible aspirations.
I don't want to spend my last day lamenting the life I've lived, begging for more time, or desperately reaching out for outlandish experiences uncharacteristic of the man I am. I suppose I am better able to tell you of the many things I don't wish to do rather than what I would do. Ultimately, as a result of the many restrictions, I feel as though my day would be spent wasting away as I sit critically binding myself to inaction.
How would your last day be spent? How does this answer differ from one in response to the question "how would you want to spend your last day?" The harsh imposition of reality in context has a harsh way of reminding me of my consciousness, reminding me of the gap between who I'd like to be and who I am. I would love to spend my last day filled with courage, filled with wisdom, filled with bravery as I work tirelessly to share this strength with those who need it around me. In reality, it will be I who requires strength. I am glad this scenario is merely hypothetical, and hope that the life I live in some way demonstrates the characteristics of the man I wish to be.
I'm particularly interested in the hypothetical situation posed to me by Leah earlier in the evening: if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, how would you spend your last day? She said she'd spend it with me, she said she'd spend it visiting family, I could see that. As for me, I didn't think at all of the people I'd spend my time with. In fact, my thoughts were quite the opposite. Upon wrestling with the situation, I realized solitude was the predominant state in which I'd seek refuge.
I find it odd, and I'm not quite sure why, but I'm very convinced that I'd want to spend a majority of the day preparing goodbyes to be read rather than delivered in person. I think goodbyes are difficult, painful things that I do very poorly and so if I were to make one final shot at them I suppose I'd like the opportunity to edit myself very carefully. The funny bit about this is, of course, that in life we very seldom have the opportunity to perfect our words. We rarely say what we think, and when we do we often criticize the way we deliver our sentiments. I fully acknowledge that I am a flawed individual full of imperfections and yet I wish to be remembered through wise, deep thoughts that inspire those who encounter them. Perhaps I aim too high, and I'll spend my hypothetical last day realigning letters on a page to everyone, eventually being defeated by my own impossible aspirations.
I don't want to spend my last day lamenting the life I've lived, begging for more time, or desperately reaching out for outlandish experiences uncharacteristic of the man I am. I suppose I am better able to tell you of the many things I don't wish to do rather than what I would do. Ultimately, as a result of the many restrictions, I feel as though my day would be spent wasting away as I sit critically binding myself to inaction.
How would your last day be spent? How does this answer differ from one in response to the question "how would you want to spend your last day?" The harsh imposition of reality in context has a harsh way of reminding me of my consciousness, reminding me of the gap between who I'd like to be and who I am. I would love to spend my last day filled with courage, filled with wisdom, filled with bravery as I work tirelessly to share this strength with those who need it around me. In reality, it will be I who requires strength. I am glad this scenario is merely hypothetical, and hope that the life I live in some way demonstrates the characteristics of the man I wish to be.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Questions and Curiosity.
If I speak any wisdom, let it be coupled with curiosity that reaches beyond what is known. Let it be nestled between that which is experienced, relatable and predictable and that which requires further investigation. Let it not be finite but rather in progress. If I should speak wisdom at all, it is only to proclaim the limits of my own understanding and a desire to go beyond my present threshold.
Yet, far better than to speak with wisdom is to speak with curiosity. Curiosity drives introspection, the acquisition of knowledge, the very genesis of wisdom. The critical mind struggles with the known in ways that render it unfamiliar, constantly shifting perspectives with each gaze like the eager child manipulating the lens of a kaleidoscope. Who's to say which glance carries truth?
As I reflect on my journey as a student teacher, I am filled with questions. I look back upon the semester, and many of my quandaries remain unanswered. We were told to become comfortable with the uncomfortable, challenged to embrace the uncertainty that accompanies reality. Within my practice, without comfort, I find myself seeking answers but accepting questions as a possible end. So I'll continue to ask, storing up questions like treasures with the hopes of finding answers that illuminate the darkest areas of the unknown. However, should they remain beyond my grasp, I shall grow ever more comfortable continuing to ask questions that force me to reach beyond the limits of my own perspective.
Yet, far better than to speak with wisdom is to speak with curiosity. Curiosity drives introspection, the acquisition of knowledge, the very genesis of wisdom. The critical mind struggles with the known in ways that render it unfamiliar, constantly shifting perspectives with each gaze like the eager child manipulating the lens of a kaleidoscope. Who's to say which glance carries truth?
As I reflect on my journey as a student teacher, I am filled with questions. I look back upon the semester, and many of my quandaries remain unanswered. We were told to become comfortable with the uncomfortable, challenged to embrace the uncertainty that accompanies reality. Within my practice, without comfort, I find myself seeking answers but accepting questions as a possible end. So I'll continue to ask, storing up questions like treasures with the hopes of finding answers that illuminate the darkest areas of the unknown. However, should they remain beyond my grasp, I shall grow ever more comfortable continuing to ask questions that force me to reach beyond the limits of my own perspective.
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