You know the one.
It lies there in your contact list waiting. You scroll through and it jumps out at you making your heart skip a beat. You haven’t used the number in a while because they haven’t used your number. Is it because they truly hate you or because they’re punishing you for a slight committed? Who knows? More than likely you’ve already been deleted from theirs. They chose to move on.
It’s a weird modern notion. I feel like back in the day (not so far back ‘shop’ was still spelt ‘shoppe’) people just naturally forgot. Their brain dictated when it was time to lose that particular piece of information. It just moved on when it was time.
Nowadays, we don’t have to remember their numbers.
So it’s a choice. A weird, scary choice. Tinged by “what ifs” and the associated bullshit. Or it’s an impulsive one made hastily in the throes of aforementioned anger and punishment-
My cat has started yelling at me. The prophetic or superstitious might be convinced he’s trying to purposely stop me writing. Sometimes word filters back, you never know.
I think it’s supposed to be tough. Letting go of people you care about runs counter intuitive. Well, for most. Even if it’s long over. There’s a line from ‘..Like Clockwork’ by Queens of the Stone Age: holding on too long is just a fear of letting go because not everything that goes around come back around you know.
Ok, ‘line’ might be a stretch.
It’s true though. If letting go was easy those car shows where everyone dresses like it’s the 50’s would be ghost towns. I guess it’s a comfort thing? But hey, if they want to run around as a Dapper Dan Man, who am I to stop them.
Both hands on the wheel, Tim.
Why am I talking about this? I deleted it. The number. The right time was probably long ago, if I’m honest. I guess it just hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know. It felt like the right thing to do today.
This (points upwards)? That’s not second thoughts or justification, it’s just being neurotic and overthinking.
Hey, nobody quits smoking and drinking coffee on the same day.
One of the pieces of advice I wish I’d understood when I was younger is that it’s ok to rely on other people. From time to time, it’s ok to lean on people. You can ask for and receive help and the world as you know it will not crumble around you. The ground will not shake and split violently beneath your feet, chasms opening to swallow you whole. Your life will not instantly burst into flames or be torn to pieces by a whirling vortex of weakness.
Don’t get me wrong I think independence and self reliance (..the same thing?) are excellent traits and necessary survival skills but back to the people: it’s also ok to seek help.
In fact it’s good. There’s not 8,000,000,000 plus people assembled on this blue orb hurtling through space because we’re naturally isolationists. We’re supposed to be sociable and interact, supposed to form into groups, supposed to do things together. We’re supposed to be a society, we’re supposed to strive together and build great, big things. And while I can’t say for certain, I’m kinda sure it’s in our DNA.
Maybe it’s a facet of youth or bravado, I’m not sure, but I feel like my life would have been a lot easier if I’d just accepted these facts the many times they were relayed to me. I feel perhaps life wouldn’t have been such a struggle. At times it’s still something I struggle with and notice other people struggling with. Those moments when you or someone you know clearly needs help but instead of reaching out they plow forwards, head down until things completely fall apart.
And they pick themselves up and they do it all over again.
Maybe that’s the lesson: you do it over and over until you realise it’s ok to ask for help. Or until you have to ask for help. Until you realise the burden of life doesn’t have to be shouldered alone. That while you can go through things by yourself and you might come through the other side some kind of infallible hero, it’s also ok to go through them with someone and come out the other side both stronger.
Also, if you go through all by yourself, who are you going to joke around with? People laughing alone look kind of insane. No, it’s much better to have somebody to riff with, sharing the laughter.
I started this post with a sentence I’d like to finish…
So, there are these things called “people”… And they can be kind of awesome.
Nope, still haven’t got the hang of those endings.
(If you don’t know what I’m talking about in this post, seek help)
There’s a distinct chink in the armour of every human being which I love. At least I hope it’s instilled in every human being. With some people I think it’s readily apparent, I know for a fact that’s the case with me. Some others I think it’s a rare occurrence like spotting a shooting star, you have to be in the right place at the right time. Either way, to me it’s a sign that you’re truly a self aware human being.
That you’re fallible.
I’ll drop the suspense and use a long, marginally dumb term to describe it: I’m talking about the self loathing realisation groan.
OR the random sound you make when you instantly and fully comprehend the magnitude of a past mistake you’ve made. I say random sound because not everyone groans. Some cringe. With some people it’s a sharp intake of air. Some people shake their heads. Some people quickly, quietly curse themselves.
Some people do all of the above. Whatever it is, it’s the physical manifestation of the full, unerring comprehension of a human being realising at one point, usually many points in their life, they were an utter shit head.
And it’s fucking great.
I fully understand the logic of living a life with no regrets. I understand both meanings, the actual one and the one assholes use to justify horrendous mistakes and behaviour. But there’s something endearing about seeing a person experience that moment, seeing them realise their mistake and regretting it. Something so comforting in the knowledge other people fuck up and they regret it. And it means so much to them, carries such weight, that their body reacts to the feeling.
So fucking wonderful.
(It’s also poignant and sad but let’s focus on the mildly positive thing that unites and binds us as a species.)
We all screw up. We’re all fallible. We all have regrets. It’s the people who don’t have these regrets, who’ve never experienced self loathing that truly scare me.
…And the Princess and the merry Accountants lived happily, and financially secure, ever after.
Nope, still haven’t quite gotten the hang of endings.
The “Candelier” I make for Jellio has just over 3000 hand cast acrylic GummiBears. At 18” diameter, it creates quite a focal point in any room it is installed in.
These are sold at Jellio.com
There are 2 sizes:
18” diameter: $2400.00 open edition
31” diameter: $6500.00 open edition
I built the one for i-Carly and installed it on the set
I am the production manager for Jellio.
These are all hand made by me.
I am also the creator and producer of the “Gummilight” for Jellio, also seen on the i-Carly set.
…and I’m pretty sure Bourne 5 will have to be called “Bourne to Cross Paths” starring Matt Damon as Jason Bourne and Jeremy “Grumpy Cat” Renner as Aaron Cross!
*Cue the scream from the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again”*
This was all meant satirically.
Except the bit about Jeremy Renner looking like Grumpy Cat because he kinda does resemble everyone’s favourite dwarven, feline curmudgeon. Right?
I’ve been recently looking through my garage for some shelves of which I will say nothing further. For mystery and intrigue are in short supply in this modern world. So, I’m looking through the garage, which like most garages is just a place to store crap you don’t want in the house, and I start to realise almost everything in sight has cat vomit on it. Not like confetti at a wedding, more like…
Imagine the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. But on the bottom left hand corner of each box..
And it’s not like we have a big cat. He’s not a puma, he’s a silver tabby with a speckled tum. How he produced so much vomit while still retaining any sort of body mass is beyond me.
Another example: I found some shoes of mine recently under my bed. When I pulled them out into the light of day what did I notice adorning the ankle?
You get no points for guessing that one.
So just remember the next time you see a cat lazing about or sleeping the day away: he’s probably sleeping off his latest regurgitation.
If only he was a Gordon Wood fan trying to impress co-eds and not a minimally domesticated feline.
That’s a Good Will Hunting joke.
I have an ongoing discussion with my brother, well, perhaps discussion is too strong a word, an ongoing exchange (it occurs every few months) where we’ll be talking about books and reading, and he’ll say: I haven’t read an actual book in years.
I should point out he does read. A lot, I believe: I don’t keep tabs of his reading habits with a homemade LoJack or the help of a trench coat wearing Private I.
He just does all of it through digital mediums. For books he uses Kindle, comics he uses Comixology. And that’s cool, I’m utterly fine with that. There’s actually a lot of advantages to using a digital medium for reading. From price to ease and accessibility, it really can’t be matched. It’s a medium I’ve also embraced but not as completely as my brother.
Maybe it’s because I still go to libraries or maybe I’m just holding on for dear life to an older paradigm but I still love actual books. Hold it in your hands, turn the pages, books. I love ‘em. The smell of books is something wonderful. The weight. Turning the pages. The print being misaligned. I love it. Second hand books, ugh, they’re incredible. It’s like being told a story by an old, craggily, man. White beard, wrinkled face, deep rasping voice, maybe he’s missing an eye. Incredible.
I put a book on lay by yesterday. I didn’t even know you could do that.
They’re tangible. They’re undeniable. They take up space.
I feel art should be tangible. I really do. I feel that it should be something you hold in your hands and marvel at. When you buy a book, or an album, or a film, or a paintng, you should be able to hold it in your hands, look down at it and feel excited and warm. Turn it over in your hands. There should be anticipation, you should be trying to rush home to enjoy it, watch it, mount it. Not purchased so quickly, so absently, you can forget you bought it almost instantly.
Don’t do that to art.
It should be something you stand in front of and marvel at. It should decorate walls, homes, galleries, streets, and in rare special cases you can reach out and touch it. There should be a feeling of achievement almost in seeing it in the flesh.
It should be something experienced with other people, standing in a crowded room, or hall, or arena. The lights should dim, the audience should hush before erupting when actual human beings walk on stage, pick up instruments, and play with finesse, skill, power and joy.
It should be something experienced in a crowded theatre, people file in taking their seats, talking in hushed tones. The lights dim, the audience quiets before being captivated for however long their attention has been asked.
I feel like these are all good things and we’re slowly phasing them out of our lives.
One thing the digital medium will never be is tangible. Whether it’s music, books, film, the further we move into the digital medium, the further we move away from the tangibility. Whether this is good or bad, I have no idea. If you’re moving house, it’s great. If you’re unpacking at you’re new house it’s kind of depressing.
I’m truly worried homes of the future will just look like mobile phone stores do nowadays. Sparse, barren. Clutter isn’t a bad thing. Carrying things you love around with you isn’t a bad thing. Storing and displaying them in your home is kind of rad. I love, when invited to someone’s house, looking at their books, their movies, their cd’s. I feel connected to them evermore for it.
That’s not to say experiencing these forms digitally is a bad thing. Listening to music alone, watching a film, being able to carry around countless hours of books and films and music in your pocket is incredible and kind of wonderful. But when that’s the only way we experience these things, when we grow complacent and fickle about this luxury, when we don’t experience these things for ourselves, I feel that’s a dangerous line we’re flirting with.
Or maybe it’s not.
I guess we’ll see.
If you feel that ending was abrupt, so do I.
But there it is.
I’d just like to say for the record that I am a cat person, and if dogs didn’t keep rolling over so I could pet their tummies, this would be unabashedly so.
I really do love cats. There’s something about a cat walking up to you and lobbying for your affections, slinking up against your legs, that very much appeals to me. They have personalities, moods swings and they don’t beg for food. Though they do welcome it. When they snuggle up on cold nights, purring away like an idling motor, it renders them irresistible and charming.
But when they start yelling…
I know I’m not the only adult male who takes a cat’s yelling or actions personally. Their cries for attention or affection as shrieking personal insults. Or their following me from room to room seeking company as some kind of incessant naggery. That their moodiness is somehow directed squarely and purposely as a result of some perceived slight I’ve committed.
And though I know these to be false in every way I will stand and argue with my cat at length eventually throwing a tantrum that results in me simply storming from the room to unbridled nuclear holocaust.
I should make it clear, it’s not something I wish to do, it’s just something I do. Something that some men do. Don’t worry, I’ll refrain from painting the whole gender with this bleak, misanthropic brush. Maybe it’s just that cats don’t care sometimes. As often as they’ll snooze with you, keeping you company while you’re sick, they’ll also just as often skitter about under your feet while you’re trying to carry something heavy through the house.
That’s part of the moodiness I alluded to earlier: from snugly monkey to annoying pesterance.
It probably doesn’t help that they’re apathetic about it all. They really don’t give a shit sometimes, and while this punk rock mentality can be charming when not aimed squarely at you, it can also be supremely obnoxious on every other occasion. I mean, you look at a punk rock musician and while you may admire them, you probably don’t want to invite them into your home. Let alone have one living with you.
The similarities between cats and punk rock musicians are actually quite frightening.
- they vomit on the floor freely and at their disgression.
- they crash wherever they want. Couch, bed, floor, seat.
- they come and go as they please.
- they rail against authority.
- they scream and yell obnoxiously at volume.
- they both answer to obtuse names like Pogo, Mr Snuggles or Shitbeard.
Maybe that’s the real issue: Men crave respect and authority.
Two things which cats don’t do well.
Or maybe we just need to realise it’s a quadrupedal mammal that cleans itself with it’s own mouth and will gladly spend an afternoon rubbing it’s face against carrots?