The Question I Asked You a Year Ago. Public Transport Failure.

I meet a man years back who had lived all across the United States. He was a very approachable man, in that he never held anything over your head except your own words. I can remember on occasions using expressions in conversation with him to which he would than say, “ What do you mean?” I would than try to explain my intent in using the expression, he would repeat back to me the direct line I had said, “ What do you mean when you say this.” It bothered me a lot when I first met him, because I thought that he was mocking my verbal ramblings. In time I learned that he just simply wanted to know what I was saying. He was a factual man, and didn't play games in social graces. I would say its a fine way to be, because social graces are like I owe You's. Publically you pardon your friends blunders in the attempt that they too will cover your own debts in stupidity. This is what I am calling the “I owe You system”. My question to this man years ago was, “ How long does it take to know a city?” He had lived in so many places, that I wondered what he considered home, what cities he despised and what places he regretted moving from. It was a year later after I moved and was visiting my old home that he saw me on the street. He called out and asked me “ Have you figured out the City yet?” He didn't have a direct answer for my question, but it meant a lot to me that he still remembered the question.

My car had broken down and I was commuting to work by way of the public transportation system. I was thrilled to become accustom to it, and to daily see other people's lives as I go to and from work. The commute which I was taking required me to get on three different buses. I didn't know how much a bus ticket cost, or that there is zoning for buses and that traveling from one zone to another zone meant a purchase of a different ticket. I gave the bus driver five dollars he didn't give me change. I told him where I wanted to go and in turn he gave me a ticket for the rest of the day. I hung out very close to the front of the bus, because before in my conversation with the bus driver he told me that I would need to connect with bus line 82. How? When? Where? On my first morning I got to my destination, but on my trip home I was taken much farther out of my way. Every new bus driver that I talked to was even more complicated than the last. I would look at charts and routes on the bus wall's interior, but I often caught myself pretending like I understood them. In one moment I would have the security of a veteran bus rider along side of me talking to me, and in the next moment they were wishing me luck as they got off at their stop. Luck and daily commuting are not cool together. I can remember seeing a couple sitting together in the bus slumped against one another. A man leaned across the row to me. “ Its sad isn't it?” I nodded my head in a social agreement, but I was terribly unclear as to what he was saying. “ Its just sad.” He was talking loud, loud enough for this couple to hear him without fail. Than I understood that this couple in the bus were not even present with us but were on some fix from a drug. I looked closer at their behavior. The man from across the way began telling me of his experiences else where with public displays of drug use. The bus stopped being so magical, I got off downtown and made it in time to be a band practice. I was excited for the introduction, but I was ashamed that I failed my public transportation class 101.

Mirror&rorriM. Girl's Called Him Benji. leather bound conditions.

Among many things that I dislike, is the act of seeing myself in photo's and hearing my own voice in recordings. I argue that the reason why most hate their own photo is because we have grown accustom to our view from a mirror. But the mirror is not a real representation of us, it it the reverse image. Writing your own name on a piece of paper and than flipping the image backwards does not describe to you your name. Yet daily we live with the image of ourselves in reverse. I try to spot the images of a famous movie stars in the reverse image of mirrors in their featured movies. Most every movie will have a mirror scene in it. I like looking at the movie star in that moment, because I feel as though I am really looking at them, or the way they see themselves. You can see the reverse side of their expression and maybe even caught a glimpse at the insecurity of who they really are. 

I stood watching a lightening storm roll in and over head last night. I am not here to try and describe to you how it came or what the it felt like, because I believe each of us has our own personal version of a lightening storm that we would want to write and share as well. I would much rather appeal to the great gathering of us all in that we have all been wonderfully impressed by lightening. But in that moment of watching it, I thought of the childhood story of Benjamin Franklin who decided that taking a kite out into the storm with a metal key was the best idea for him at that moment in life. We all applaud that advancement of Benjamin Franklin for doing this, but do we ever think that it could have been us? I was always taught that Benjamin Franklin was so wise and infinite that he knew what he was doing. As I stood exposed to that lightening storm last night aware of electricity and its power, and well taught about Benji's kite and key I was afraid of anything metal around and on me. Who was this American Inventor who was not afraid to face the storm?

I buy a specific journal each time. I have had this as a habit for at least three years of my life. The cost of the journal is twice as much as any of the other journals on the market. Still I find the journal itself to be highly effective and agreeable. The balance of the hard leather covers make itself easy to write in if you are not near a table. The thickness of the paper ensures that you will not rip through it with the tip of your pen, or that rain drops will curl the whole book if they are to hit the open page. The journal secures a pen along side of it, but is not so large and bulky as to give you the feeling of carrying a brick. It the worst of situations I have shoved it into my back pocket to carry. This is why I have chosen this journal to carry my life thoughts. But still each time I fill the journal to its full, I question whether or not I deserve another one to start all over again.

Greet Empathy. 18years after. "50cents Sir"

I watch silent films. I use to own The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, til I moved and forgot to have it come with me. ( maybe it will travel the 300 plus miles like The Brave Little Toaster and find me someday?) I've watched Metropolis and read the book and as of current I am watching Pandora's Box. I am also a big fan of Akira Kurosawa, though not silent, just foreign. In watching Pandora's Box I am reminded again of the power of movement. The actors move so rapidly and near violently in silent films. I feel the same about Kurosawa film's as well. I am almost to wish that real life was that powerful in movement, and I wonder what wonderful expressions would come out of physically pronounced emotions. If a pebble in a pond can grow its effects outwards, how much more a over lavished hug and kiss of greeting and empathy. 

I sat across from my childhood friend after we had not seen each other for 18 years. By our first greeting at the door I was in question as to whether my memory served me better of our up bringing and how much either of us would recall that had similar expression. It wasn't until after dinner, that we finally opened up, his spouse and my friend were soon listening to all the wonderful stories of our upbringing. A common expression that night was my friends spouse declaring, “ you never told me that!” We talked in memories up until the time we said goodbye in our youth. He mentioned after I left that he attended a school that was tough, that his friend got beaten up the first day of school by a gang of boys. It was in that moment that I felt sad that I left him, I felt sad that I was not there with my childhood friend on that first day of school. It was such a odd feeling to hear him talk about that rift in time and for me to be envious that I could not have been there. Sure I got in fights as soon as I moved away and into my school as well, but there was something about not being in a fight along side my best friend.

A flat tire in the middle of my ride today made me walk the remainder of my trip home. By the last half a mile stretch I was using my shirt on my head like Laurence of Arabia. I came across children selling lemonade. Up until this point in life I have not truly valued children selling lemonade. I mostly see them as greedy little kids who are trying to make money to buy a new toy. I think they still might be greedy little kids, but that cup of lemonade that I purchased from them was a life-aider.

Trapeze Artist. Blue Light and You. With All Good Prudence.

I went for a hour long walk today. I saw fish, squirrels, a variety of birds, a small goat, a baby cow, and neighborhood dogs. It was nice to walk and think. Its always funny the motivation and clear vision you receive on walks, but than it is your task after to make the dream reality. I have such high hopes of being able to tell you about the fish moving in and out of the long grown algae vines. The highest branches of the surrounding trees that the squirrels climbed out on as though trapeze artist. But, I do not have the verbal description to even paint the shades of colors that make each viewing all the more wonderful and magical.

I watched a cinematography documentary. I found it at the library, another testament to the public library and their epic system of “free and free”. In a interview with one of the cinematographers in the documentary he said he shot his entire movie based upon the light in Paris. I have never been to Paris, but he described a blue soft light that fills the exterior atmosphere married to the glowing yellow of the man made artificial lights leaking out of stores, bars, and houses. Among other sources of inspiration was lists of famous painters who carved out mystery long before the camera could do so.

I am being trapped by Jules Verne. He is such a wonderful author, but I feel like I am reading his thoughts at the speed of poured molasses. I love every thought that he has, but I also want to comprehend every thought that he has. I feel as though I need to better understand the principles of basic mineral so I too can kill a animal in the wild and make nitroglycerin from its bodies fat. I just know I am gonna be selected to be on some sort of Apocalypse survival show and I will be given a dead animal as my first challenge in order to save my team who is trapped inside a concrete vault. The last thing I want to do is to be kicked off the show because I didn't read chapter 13 of "Mysterious Island" with all good prudence.

Fool. Lock your Microwave. Tubal-Cain.

I have made a foolish act in my friendship, I have made a brave dash, I have felt the criticism coming to my actions. Are the brave men so note worthy by their first initial step of course? Is there such a surety to first action that the sprinters in a race can stop short of their 100 yards after they have preformed one good step. My error hurts me, but to stop now is to teach myself that starting is foolish. We practice continuation. However it does hurt all the more when human lives are in our rehearsal of life lessons.

There is a button on my parents microwave that shows the symbol of a lock. I am a little confused why a microwave would need a lock? Maybe it was added as a feature so that the microwave user can safely walk away from their defrosting burrito and find it still intact against his or her room mates? With a locked door option, I can pop aromatic popcorn and have a room of subjects at bay to the smell till they agree to do my will and watch the movie I want! In truth I have not tried the lock button, I have a slight fear that it will be like the defrost button that requires me to scroll through meat types and enter in pounds without the help of a directional pad on the microwave itself. I usually defrost everything for about a minute at a time, and if its not done, I defrost it for another minute. 

Self-Reliance, we deny ourselves a good and notable voice because we judge ourselves as lacking in true worth. 

I would be interested in learning about how to make steel, and cast iron. I don't want to learn my facts from a factory or a school. I want the process to be taught to me from instruments I myself can find and make. Tom Waits sings the line, “ written in the book of Tubal-Cain” Tubal-Cain is a man mentioned in the book of Genesis as being one of the first workers in metal. I just wonder if I would become so much more if life demanded so much more of me and if I could be noted as a man such as Tubal-Cain to be the first worker of metal.

Circus Thoughts. Artist Thoughts. Fire and Rivalry

Encounter Circus, I was needing to make myself a painting. I wanted to assure myself that I still make artwork for myself. In the busy schedule of life it seems that I only inspire myself to work for other peoples projects. When we come to demanding a creation of ourselves we leave work unfinished and we reject personal wonderment because it is filtered through our own well known minds. I painted this picture from a idea of the ill-tempered romance in circus life. I can't say that I want to describe it more than that. My goal, to paint, to write, to think, to give life to idea. 

I keep thinking about a conversation I had years ago with a local Bend Artist named David Kinker. We had run into each other at the tea shop and were talking about a art event that we had both worked on and with each other in. David told me that it takes a Artist five years to become recognized by his or hers community. Recognized in the sense, that the community or the city claim the person as their own and uses their image and name to further identify themselves. I can imagine that this standard can be applied to several different areas of immersion into community. The small business owner, the future Olympic athlete, the small town musician. Five years is a large amount of time, but true exposure and word of mouth appraisal takes time. I am not convinced that Five years is the true period of time to see results, but I view the standard as a measuring tool in the hand of the Artist. Today at work I told a coworker that the only good artist is the Active Artist.

How much of the fire of progress demands the starter wood of rivalry and challenge? One can go as far he likes, but two feed off each others strength and the mystery of ones own potentials end. Two can travel together in life and each others personal pride can keep the other at bay from turning around in fear of a sign of weakness. “I won't say I want to go back, I am not the coward.”