Isn't it bizarre how the increase of volume when listening to music brings greater enjoyment? Whenever I listen to music the volume is all over the place. For songs I don't want to hear I make it background noise, for songs I feel like listening to I turn it up loud enough to bob my head to and for songs that make me crazy I blast it so I can sing really loud with it. It's so strange! Humans are a confusing species. It isn't as if the music is different, it's just louder. But somehow, some way, our brains register a pleasure boost. Crazy.
I was looking at Eunju's book that she's reading today and it is in Korean. It's fascinating. Not so much that it's in Korean, because that is really not very exciting, particularly when it is in the hands of a Korean person. It was interesting that I couldn't read it. I have always found reading to be one of the most intriguing abilities of humans. We have made a series of symbols so powerful that when grouped properly they can make us feel and think and change and argue. Then you see another series of symbols you aren't familiar with and while those symbols have the same significane to one person that other symbols have to you, you can do nothing but perceive the lines and strokes as exactly that. Reading jsut blows my mind. I think that's why I enjoy it, and intensely. I'd have to say the most emotionally intense book I've ever read was Phantom, by whom I can't recall (and I'm too lazy to check!), which was about the life of the man who became the Phantom of the Opera. It was really unique and powerful and painful. It actually made me cry, like, sadness crying, out loud. I'm glad I didn't read that part in public.
I'm not reading anything these days, which is a stinker. I want to get another grahpic novel from the library but in order to do that I have to go to the library and for the next month I probably won't have time to read anything anyway. That is due to the musical.
I don't think I mentioned my crazy musical schedule for May on here. It consists of rehearsing almost every day for long hours. I took a leave of absence from work because of it. The only days we don't rehearse are a few days before the shows so we can rest our voices and get pumped to perform and the performances themselves. Don't expect a whole lot of blogging, by the way. Sorry. I'll do my best.
~Love is a Dirty Word. Listen to it.
30 April 2010
29 April 2010
Living Glory!
I accidentally killed a fly today. Well, I didn't really kill him, he killed himself by flying into my lips which were freshly Chapsticked, but I still feel responsible for providing him with the tools by which to end his own life.
I don't like killing bugs. I don't like killing anything, really. Even plants. It's part of the reason I became vegetarian. I feel bad for the Earth when little kids rip up the grass to throw at each other, like they're ripping out hair. It's the worst with the bark peeling they do. If I have children one day, they will not do that.
Anyway, I don't like to kill bugs. I also don't like to see other people killing bugs intentionally for no other reason than the fact that they can. Every life has a purpose and goal and to end it like that is unfair. It's rather self-righteous to think that because you are larger and more intelligent that you are also more important or valuable in this world. Those tiny lives may be short and simple, but they are lives nonetheless and deserve the respect any life deserves. Killing a bug because it is simpler than a human is like killing a baby because it is simpler than an adult. We know it is wrong to prey on the innocent, the vulnerable, the dependent ones. I don't mean to compare the complexities of the human mind to that of a bug's, but you understand. Babies are vulnerable like bugs.
Killing a bug is just the same as killing a small frog, or a bird, or a puppy or a cow. They are all simpler than us, aren't they? How is walking up to your cat and knocking him off any different than squashing a bug so vigorously you can see his blood and guts smeared all over the pavement? Is it because you own your cat and therefore your emotional attachment is what keeps you from killing him when he starts walking all over your newspaper? Bugs belong to things too. Ants to colonies. Bees to hives. They have a purpose in their world and it is just unfair to think your purpose is "better", just because you can. Humans are at the top of the food chain, but the thing about being at the top is that we are dependent on everything beneath to function properly in order for ourselves to survive. It may seem drastic of me, but it really does start out small. Kill too many bugs and the bats won't have food. Not enough bats and the bugs will overpopulate. Too many bugs means not enough plants. You know how it works. Thoughtless killing of bugs turns into excessive slaughtering of chickens, of pigs, even of civilians in war.
It all comes down to thought. For that is why humans are at the top to begin with. We aren't particularly menacing physically; we have no natural defences, no natural armour and nothing really to attack with. We aren't even very fast in comparison to great animals like gazelles and cheetahs and ostriches. We depend on our advanced minds to survive. We should use those advanced minds for the best and understand the value of other creatures cohabiting with us, no matter how disposable those lives may seem. Don't kill bugs, leave them alone. Let the spider out. Besides, if you were really bent on killing all the bugs around because you just don't like them, you'd never stop. You're always within three feet of a spider.
Oh, and your skin? Yeah. Look at the mites crawling all over you.
"A person's a person, no matter how small."
-From Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss
I don't like killing bugs. I don't like killing anything, really. Even plants. It's part of the reason I became vegetarian. I feel bad for the Earth when little kids rip up the grass to throw at each other, like they're ripping out hair. It's the worst with the bark peeling they do. If I have children one day, they will not do that.
Anyway, I don't like to kill bugs. I also don't like to see other people killing bugs intentionally for no other reason than the fact that they can. Every life has a purpose and goal and to end it like that is unfair. It's rather self-righteous to think that because you are larger and more intelligent that you are also more important or valuable in this world. Those tiny lives may be short and simple, but they are lives nonetheless and deserve the respect any life deserves. Killing a bug because it is simpler than a human is like killing a baby because it is simpler than an adult. We know it is wrong to prey on the innocent, the vulnerable, the dependent ones. I don't mean to compare the complexities of the human mind to that of a bug's, but you understand. Babies are vulnerable like bugs.
Killing a bug is just the same as killing a small frog, or a bird, or a puppy or a cow. They are all simpler than us, aren't they? How is walking up to your cat and knocking him off any different than squashing a bug so vigorously you can see his blood and guts smeared all over the pavement? Is it because you own your cat and therefore your emotional attachment is what keeps you from killing him when he starts walking all over your newspaper? Bugs belong to things too. Ants to colonies. Bees to hives. They have a purpose in their world and it is just unfair to think your purpose is "better", just because you can. Humans are at the top of the food chain, but the thing about being at the top is that we are dependent on everything beneath to function properly in order for ourselves to survive. It may seem drastic of me, but it really does start out small. Kill too many bugs and the bats won't have food. Not enough bats and the bugs will overpopulate. Too many bugs means not enough plants. You know how it works. Thoughtless killing of bugs turns into excessive slaughtering of chickens, of pigs, even of civilians in war.
It all comes down to thought. For that is why humans are at the top to begin with. We aren't particularly menacing physically; we have no natural defences, no natural armour and nothing really to attack with. We aren't even very fast in comparison to great animals like gazelles and cheetahs and ostriches. We depend on our advanced minds to survive. We should use those advanced minds for the best and understand the value of other creatures cohabiting with us, no matter how disposable those lives may seem. Don't kill bugs, leave them alone. Let the spider out. Besides, if you were really bent on killing all the bugs around because you just don't like them, you'd never stop. You're always within three feet of a spider.
Oh, and your skin? Yeah. Look at the mites crawling all over you.
"A person's a person, no matter how small."
-From Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss
28 April 2010
Wholly Circumstantial.
I'm so sorry ghosts. I have a really great blog inside me still but due to circumstances I am unable to provide for you at this time. I didn't forget about you, or the blog; in fact I was extremely motivated to write it earlier because I had a deadline. I just can't do it right now. Again, my apologies. Perhaps tomorrow.
From this experience, though, I have learned that setting a date for a blog almost entirely ensures I will write one on that day. Because although I am not writing the intended blog I am still writing one to explain the absence, which must surely be a step in the right direction. I am now setting the new tentative blog date for tomorrow night around 10:00-10:30pm ET.
From this experience, though, I have learned that setting a date for a blog almost entirely ensures I will write one on that day. Because although I am not writing the intended blog I am still writing one to explain the absence, which must surely be a step in the right direction. I am now setting the new tentative blog date for tomorrow night around 10:00-10:30pm ET.
26 April 2010
Make it a Mission
Sorry I haven't been posting. Again.
Ughhhh. I have been having extreme writer's block. And artist's block. And choreographic block. Creative block in general. I come to start a new post day after day and I just stare at the blank screen with nothing but furious balls of nothing raging amongst my disconnected neuropathways. It's because I'm stressed out. I've had a lot going through my rattled white matter these days, and nights, too. I didn't fall asleep until almost two last night because my thoughts were so wild and disconnected and powerful and frenzied. I'm positively bursting.
Plus the musical is coming up in a month. This is madness. It's not allowed to happen so soon! Actually yes it is. I'm stoked, but that doesn't make it any less stressful.
So, this is me letting you know that I haven't forgotten about this blog or my followers (one of which I lost, but I was sort of expecting that from her anyway), but I haven't blogged because I haven't had a mind clear enough to commit to some reasonable thoughts. I wish I did, but I don't. Maybe soon I'll get my insides laid out flat so I can look at them objectively and share with you my obscure observations in that glorious manner which is blogging.
Speaking of glorious, I actually did manage to create something today other than this sorrowful blog post. I drew Mr C a picture that was supposed to be of him but at first it looked like an Asian woman, and then when I tried to fix it it looked like someone else that doesn't exist with Mr C-ish features, so that didn't go quite like I wanted it to. I gave it to him anyway, and he liked it. He has a collection of my art in his office which inspires me sometimes.
I think I need to take a few days to myself and just listen to some really awesome music, both of my own discovery and the many unbeatable artists Sherman has introduced me to. Music is what keeps me in my zone. Art feeds art.
Being in art is challenging. If your heart isn't in it, there is just no hope of it ever becoming what you want it to be, and you can never be what you want to be within it. Your voice can be seen or listened to or read, but not felt or heard or embodied. Empty art. The worst art. Is it even art at all? Art is in the heart, as they say. I guess heartlessness, by deductive reasoning, is artlessness.
I think I might be going crazy, you know. It's confusing to be such a reasonable person with such a passion for art, which defies logic and safety and wisdom. That isn't what art is about. Art is about taking risks and trying new things and becoming a creature of beauty and originality and wholeness, but being torn between that and my perception of a world with reason, purpose, cause, effect, concreteness...sigh. That is why I am having a block. It's as if my halves are having a standoff within my soul and my consciousness can do nothing but stand by and suffer through it helplessly, like a victimised little scared rabbit until the insanity draws to a close, or a least a compromise.
I heard Chuck Norris once punched a man in the soul. Maybe he should punch mine so it shuts up and lets my body be its own again.
Ughhhh. I have been having extreme writer's block. And artist's block. And choreographic block. Creative block in general. I come to start a new post day after day and I just stare at the blank screen with nothing but furious balls of nothing raging amongst my disconnected neuropathways. It's because I'm stressed out. I've had a lot going through my rattled white matter these days, and nights, too. I didn't fall asleep until almost two last night because my thoughts were so wild and disconnected and powerful and frenzied. I'm positively bursting.
Plus the musical is coming up in a month. This is madness. It's not allowed to happen so soon! Actually yes it is. I'm stoked, but that doesn't make it any less stressful.
So, this is me letting you know that I haven't forgotten about this blog or my followers (one of which I lost, but I was sort of expecting that from her anyway), but I haven't blogged because I haven't had a mind clear enough to commit to some reasonable thoughts. I wish I did, but I don't. Maybe soon I'll get my insides laid out flat so I can look at them objectively and share with you my obscure observations in that glorious manner which is blogging.
Speaking of glorious, I actually did manage to create something today other than this sorrowful blog post. I drew Mr C a picture that was supposed to be of him but at first it looked like an Asian woman, and then when I tried to fix it it looked like someone else that doesn't exist with Mr C-ish features, so that didn't go quite like I wanted it to. I gave it to him anyway, and he liked it. He has a collection of my art in his office which inspires me sometimes.
I think I need to take a few days to myself and just listen to some really awesome music, both of my own discovery and the many unbeatable artists Sherman has introduced me to. Music is what keeps me in my zone. Art feeds art.
Being in art is challenging. If your heart isn't in it, there is just no hope of it ever becoming what you want it to be, and you can never be what you want to be within it. Your voice can be seen or listened to or read, but not felt or heard or embodied. Empty art. The worst art. Is it even art at all? Art is in the heart, as they say. I guess heartlessness, by deductive reasoning, is artlessness.
I think I might be going crazy, you know. It's confusing to be such a reasonable person with such a passion for art, which defies logic and safety and wisdom. That isn't what art is about. Art is about taking risks and trying new things and becoming a creature of beauty and originality and wholeness, but being torn between that and my perception of a world with reason, purpose, cause, effect, concreteness...sigh. That is why I am having a block. It's as if my halves are having a standoff within my soul and my consciousness can do nothing but stand by and suffer through it helplessly, like a victimised little scared rabbit until the insanity draws to a close, or a least a compromise.
I heard Chuck Norris once punched a man in the soul. Maybe he should punch mine so it shuts up and lets my body be its own again.
14 April 2010
Hello, Brain
I wonder who decided that thoughts are like trains, as in trains of thought. I suppose the idea is that thoughts come, linger for a while for people to either catch on or disregard it, and then it goes away again to make room for a new one. Perhaps the idea is that thoughts come rattling into your mind at an alarming pace and decibel, and unless you are paying attention it will zoom off again before you can even attempt to consider it, or get on and go off with it until you find another station with a different train that suits your needs more.
If that's the case, perhaps thoughts can also be like a breeze on a warm day--sometimes refreshing and usually fleeting.
Thoughts are also like a blot of ink on paper. When pressed, the ink blot grows and deepens and darkens and sometimes seeps into other pieces of paper beneath it, but if you lift your utensil, the blot remains a finite speckle on the page, with no need to develop or change.
They are like an elastic band. They can stretch and bend and grow and shrink and change shape, but when pushed too far they will snap and be discarded.
Thoughts are like a tree. They start small, a minute seed, but they grow to great heights over time, filled with power and strength and awe-inspiring, stunning beauty. Sometimes the tree will carry its legacy on from generation to generation as new trees plant themselves and grow as their predecessors. Other times, the tree will simply die when its time has come. Still others the tree in all its might is cut down too soon, long before it is due, and its benefits are never reaped. Sometimes even baby trees are simply mowed away like grass. They aren't missed by anyone except themselves, and the select few who saw them destroyed.
Maybe this is why I forget my blogs all the time. I don't pay enough attention to my own thoughts. They come into my head and leave with as much vigour, and I am left with a feeling of, "I wanted to blog today, about something or other...". It's a sort of emptiness, even an ineptitude. Aren't these thoughts my own? Why can't I even grip what I contain within myself? To speak one must have thoughts, and as humans we are often defined by our words. Maybe that's why I don't talk much. Maybe I just can't be defined. I'm a blur, a flash of colour, transitional.
But then, what if my thoughts aren't my own? They say there is no such thing as an original idea. What if that were true in the most literal and fantastical sense? What if thoughts, like memories in the world of Harry Potter, were physical entities that could be passed on in order to be sustained in some regard? These thoughts wouldn't be my own. They would be everyone's and I would just happen to be the recipient. Maybe I just get particularly busy thoughts that have a lot of minds to occupy. That would mean our words would also be those of others. That would mean we were defined by others, not ourselves. This begs the question of whether self even exists. What is self? A body? A mind? A consciousness? How can I be defined by my body when cosmetic surgeries can make it into something else? How can I be defined by my mind when it can be moulded by a compelling argument, or an overpowering emotion? How can I be defined by my consciousness when a simple lack of oxygen to my physical brain can take it away from me, or I go to sleep?
This very blog is an outlet of my thoughts. Then again, it could be someone else's thoughts. Maybe this isn't Callie writing. How would you know? How would I?
If that's the case, perhaps thoughts can also be like a breeze on a warm day--sometimes refreshing and usually fleeting.
Thoughts are also like a blot of ink on paper. When pressed, the ink blot grows and deepens and darkens and sometimes seeps into other pieces of paper beneath it, but if you lift your utensil, the blot remains a finite speckle on the page, with no need to develop or change.
They are like an elastic band. They can stretch and bend and grow and shrink and change shape, but when pushed too far they will snap and be discarded.
Thoughts are like a tree. They start small, a minute seed, but they grow to great heights over time, filled with power and strength and awe-inspiring, stunning beauty. Sometimes the tree will carry its legacy on from generation to generation as new trees plant themselves and grow as their predecessors. Other times, the tree will simply die when its time has come. Still others the tree in all its might is cut down too soon, long before it is due, and its benefits are never reaped. Sometimes even baby trees are simply mowed away like grass. They aren't missed by anyone except themselves, and the select few who saw them destroyed.
Maybe this is why I forget my blogs all the time. I don't pay enough attention to my own thoughts. They come into my head and leave with as much vigour, and I am left with a feeling of, "I wanted to blog today, about something or other...". It's a sort of emptiness, even an ineptitude. Aren't these thoughts my own? Why can't I even grip what I contain within myself? To speak one must have thoughts, and as humans we are often defined by our words. Maybe that's why I don't talk much. Maybe I just can't be defined. I'm a blur, a flash of colour, transitional.
But then, what if my thoughts aren't my own? They say there is no such thing as an original idea. What if that were true in the most literal and fantastical sense? What if thoughts, like memories in the world of Harry Potter, were physical entities that could be passed on in order to be sustained in some regard? These thoughts wouldn't be my own. They would be everyone's and I would just happen to be the recipient. Maybe I just get particularly busy thoughts that have a lot of minds to occupy. That would mean our words would also be those of others. That would mean we were defined by others, not ourselves. This begs the question of whether self even exists. What is self? A body? A mind? A consciousness? How can I be defined by my body when cosmetic surgeries can make it into something else? How can I be defined by my mind when it can be moulded by a compelling argument, or an overpowering emotion? How can I be defined by my consciousness when a simple lack of oxygen to my physical brain can take it away from me, or I go to sleep?
This very blog is an outlet of my thoughts. Then again, it could be someone else's thoughts. Maybe this isn't Callie writing. How would you know? How would I?
Hey
So today I was dancing with CJ and a chick asked if we were dating. Ha! We both burst out laughing and said no, obviously. It was hilarious. I don't know about you, but I think CJ's gayness is pretty extremely apparent. In fact I know it is. The idea! What a laugh that gave me. CJ even drew me a picture about it later on because it is just SO RIDICULOUS. Ha ha! Wow. I can't even get it through my head.
In other news, no rehearsal this week which really stinks. It means I am not going to be with my cast buddies which is fun and I am going to be doing homework instead which is boring. Oh, woe is me.
I bought new eyeliner, liquid this time, in black and brown because I have been digging the heavy-lined upper lid 60's look these days and pencil liner just doesn't dish out the same drama. Fear not, ghosties, I still opt for the barely-there makeup look most of the time. I'm not getting all girly on you.
I would like to apologise to you ghosts about my incredible absence. It was very unkind of me to do so and I will try not to do it again. I am going to make it up to you by writing another post of very good writing quality and thoughtfulness after I finish this catching-up one, because that is the kind the readers I know in person always want from me. I thought of one today and I said, "It is time." Or something like that.
In case you may have forgotten, or were unaware entirely, I am currently taking the Vow of a Shopping Woman which I started on March 24. I can't buy clothes for three months, unless it is a bathing suit (which I've bought), shorts or (this one is new) shoes, because I only have Crocs and Crocs are ugly things I didn't buy. I need flats and some good shoes for Fall. Anyway, my point is that I'm going to make a thing for it on the sidebar so you can watch me suffer.
In other news, no rehearsal this week which really stinks. It means I am not going to be with my cast buddies which is fun and I am going to be doing homework instead which is boring. Oh, woe is me.
I bought new eyeliner, liquid this time, in black and brown because I have been digging the heavy-lined upper lid 60's look these days and pencil liner just doesn't dish out the same drama. Fear not, ghosties, I still opt for the barely-there makeup look most of the time. I'm not getting all girly on you.
I would like to apologise to you ghosts about my incredible absence. It was very unkind of me to do so and I will try not to do it again. I am going to make it up to you by writing another post of very good writing quality and thoughtfulness after I finish this catching-up one, because that is the kind the readers I know in person always want from me. I thought of one today and I said, "It is time." Or something like that.
In case you may have forgotten, or were unaware entirely, I am currently taking the Vow of a Shopping Woman which I started on March 24. I can't buy clothes for three months, unless it is a bathing suit (which I've bought), shorts or (this one is new) shoes, because I only have Crocs and Crocs are ugly things I didn't buy. I need flats and some good shoes for Fall. Anyway, my point is that I'm going to make a thing for it on the sidebar so you can watch me suffer.
07 April 2010
Aghast
Alright ghosts. It has been days and days and days and days since I've posted. I am genuinely sorry about this. There are so many things I want to blog about, I simply have to write them down and organise my thoughts elsewhere. At this point I am simply going to post a very select few of my many pictures taken over the last little while. While they may seem like a lot, believe me, these are just previews.
It was my birthday on the fifth! Yay! Birthday girl hat! It was a lot of fun. Mugs had his birthday on the third, so it was birthday cake and Easter feast mania. I really have to work out to burn that stuff off. Here I am making popcorn.
Birthday picture . From left: Dave (Chloé's boyfriend), Chloé (sister), Katelyn (best friend/soul mate) and Court (brother). Of course my bra is sticking out.
Chloé, for some reason, took pictures of me washing Clara at the Pet Wash.
Colour co-ordination not planned. Chloé and Dave, Mugs and I on the Bruce Trail on my birthday. The shirts Chloé and I are wearing kind of define us (mine has Mario character names, hers is the batman symbol and it says Arkham Asylum underneath).
Trees.
More tree.
Three out of four siblings. Lots of fun, but still, we miss Clint.
Sultry. Doesn't she have rad glasses?
Childhood art. This is the "C" of my name; it's my signature.
This was randomly on one of the woodworking shops' windows at OCAD.
The building beside OCAD. So cool.
Our group for visiting OCAD and the AGO. It was awesome. We saw original Group of Seven paintings! I was SO STOKED. I was just blown away! I could have stared at them all day. I once had to paint imitating a member of the Group of Seven's style, and I chose Lauren Harris. His art is my most favourite, and there were two of his works there, including this one, which I had to be torn away from. Amazing, amazing, amazing. I also took an illegal picture of a sculpture I really enjoyed, but I got Katelyn's arm in there because stealth photos are difficult. Also, it didn't capture the use of negative space particularly well, so that was a bummer. As a plus side, we were with our Australian exchange teacher, and he is really, really awesome.
It was my birthday on the fifth! Yay! Birthday girl hat! It was a lot of fun. Mugs had his birthday on the third, so it was birthday cake and Easter feast mania. I really have to work out to burn that stuff off. Here I am making popcorn.
Birthday picture . From left: Dave (Chloé's boyfriend), Chloé (sister), Katelyn (best friend/soul mate) and Court (brother). Of course my bra is sticking out.Chloé, for some reason, took pictures of me washing Clara at the Pet Wash.
Colour co-ordination not planned. Chloé and Dave, Mugs and I on the Bruce Trail on my birthday. The shirts Chloé and I are wearing kind of define us (mine has Mario character names, hers is the batman symbol and it says Arkham Asylum underneath).
Trees.
More tree.
Three out of four siblings. Lots of fun, but still, we miss Clint.
Sultry. Doesn't she have rad glasses?
Childhood art. This is the "C" of my name; it's my signature.
This was randomly on one of the woodworking shops' windows at OCAD.
The building beside OCAD. So cool.
Our group for visiting OCAD and the AGO. It was awesome. We saw original Group of Seven paintings! I was SO STOKED. I was just blown away! I could have stared at them all day. I once had to paint imitating a member of the Group of Seven's style, and I chose Lauren Harris. His art is my most favourite, and there were two of his works there, including this one, which I had to be torn away from. Amazing, amazing, amazing. I also took an illegal picture of a sculpture I really enjoyed, but I got Katelyn's arm in there because stealth photos are difficult. Also, it didn't capture the use of negative space particularly well, so that was a bummer. As a plus side, we were with our Australian exchange teacher, and he is really, really awesome.Katelyn and I went out for lunch at this nice place but we didn't find out until after our meal that they didn't take debit so I had to venture three blocks down the road to the Scotiabank (which isn't even my bank!) and take out the money plus 1.50$ charge. Annoying.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
