. This unfortunate hiatus from my 365 day challenge is hopefully nearing it's end. How hectic life has been as of late. I'm just barely getting my assignments in on time in school and I feel a great deal of fatigue. I think it is just this dreadful anticipation of winters deathly isolation that's slowing me down. I kind of realized that I probably shouldn't need to be sleeping 12+ hours a day...
. I did learn a few interesting things from my 'hiatus' though. The first of which was that there are people out there who really do pay attention to my photos on a regular basis- that was inspiring. I don't know how many times I've said it or seen it but artists in their early years have zero confidence in their work. Now I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with this and in fact, I would go as far as to say that it is crucial to the development of an artist in regard to not only the meticulousness of their work, but to their overall attitude as that of which we (artists) aspire to be. There is nothing that grinds my gears more than these pompous kids that attend the same college as I, boasting their "talent" as "photographers". I'll admit, some hypocrisy may be apparent in that last statement as I think that I am often referred to as pompous based on my eagerness or even naivety sometimes. But I know that my obsession with detail translates into the way I think and the way I speak as well. I simply cannot let an incorrect statistic or figure linger in class. I suppose everyone makes mistakes though and the people educating me at this point know their stuff so perhaps I should relax. I probably will not, but maybe I should. Anyway, I definitely don't want to generalize and lump my classmates into this label of "pompous" in fact, I would say that there are probably only a few people that truly deserve that label. I heard a story from a peer regarding an issue within the photo loans department which depicted a person (idiot) waltzing (barging) into the loans room and stepped (budded) to the front of the line attempting (demanding) to return (hurl) her gear at the staff. This bothers me. First of all, photo loans must be a pain in the ass to run. You've got a bunch of inexperienced teenaged kids attempting to borrow professional grade equipment to do with what they will. You hear the same problems every day, you've got kids returning things late and insisting that they should be exempt from the late fee, you've got kids losing/breaking/damaging gear which could be furthering another's career. I can't stand that people take this for granted. And furthermore, I can't stand when people produce shit with this wonderful equipment and market their shit as gold. To end this rant on a positive note, I am so thankful that the majority of my colleagues are genuinely trying to improve as photographers and learn from everything and everyone around them. Thank you to the idiots who show the rest of us what not to do and how NOT to treat another person. Thanks to everyone who can take criticism and who are also willing to give some kindly.
. Very sporadic delving into a minor subject there ^ but back to what I learned from my brief hiatus. Most importantly what I learned (again, and had reaffirmed) was that I absolutely love photography. It's hard to believe that around a year ago I decided that I should mess around with my dads cheap DSLR with a kit lens and take silly pictures of nick knacks around my house. That day I basically decided that I wanted to do that- on a slightly larger scale perhaps- for the rest of my life. Not taking photos for a few days is like not eating for a few days. I'm grumpy, I'm sad and I need to have that thirst quenched. I'm just so thankful that I'm at the cusp of my career and that there is such an absurd amount of information and technique to still absorb and gain inspiration from. I'm even more thankful for the people who look at my photos even if they hate them. If you do, let me know tell me what inside of you is disgusted by my photos, what emotions they provoke or what perceptions they may alter. Hell, tell me if they do absolutely nothing for you. Why not right? Being a critic makes being criticized that much easier- usually.
The Man Behind the Hand
Friend took this picture of me with my camera. Wanting to float free, I then chopped, blended and stirred it into what you see. And what you see is not what you get. And so that you don't forget. Me. I'll save you a click on Flick, for the mile high profile behind the man. And the hand . . .
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TYPE O-riginal hybrID:
[ this is NOT a typo, this is NOT A TEST, do NOT turn off your broadcast reception system ]
- Ocean bred > Hawaii roots, San Diego branches.
- English is my 2nd language. I do not have a 1st.
- Though monolingual (UN counting Pacific Islander Pidgin English), I do understand 'Somewhere In the Middle', 'Black & White', 'Gray', and of course, the much maligned and classically misunderstood 'Nonsensical', appreciating its DNA duality of simple / deep destruction of the allusive illusory. Translation: Skilled in Confusion Milked Past illUsion.
- Thanks to an attention spent deficiting the Unknown for decades, my vocabulary is limited to 300 words. Endlessly interchanged in intergalactic ways skooled and tooled illegal in an Alieny kinda way.
- I am NOT selfish because I have not made babies (yet) that I know of [note: unoriginal, obligatory 10 macho points just made]. I am selfish because I sell fish. That smells like B.S. (B.eyond S.imple). And I spend too much time on it. And I believe it. My own. And I own it. All thanks to 1 year. In kindergarten (mahalo Ms. Nishimura; even if you never married me). And thanks to Being 66 at Age 6. Disclaimer: DON'T try this at home. This is done by PROFESSionals in controlled settings.
- I am not NOT a professional.
- If ever I reach for a Ph.D, the cover page of my thesis will read: 'WHATEVER' by Keo 101.
- I once asked a woman if she had any children. She said, "No." To which I replied, "That you know of." She did NOT laugh.
DABBLING IN: Spoken Word poetry, abstract painting, corniness, photography, word creation, and dream manipulation. 2Infinity. Being my zip-code. Being. Zipped by this load.
Sip on this Bonus Bio Code:
Creatures great and small. Smiles churched upside down. Homeless on the town. Stereotypes gowned clown. Grown ups playing house on co-op'd playground. Grounded caffeinated spirituality Gone Wild. A lifetime pledge to NEVER utter the word beseech; cause I hate Shakespeare. Though I love pears. Though I hate spears; though I have fave'd at least 4 songs by one Britney Spears. Just when we were going Somewhere, politics neutered by The Decaf Party. Discussions drowned in skin toned striations versed red, Right and blues. EQUALs All things obsessing me via 24/7 hues. Smellin' of 7-Eleven booze; Colt 45 coated like (un) Reality T-V scripted in oxyMoron, slavin' like oxyCotton repurposed to cut off Peter's tale. Till you turn it off. Then you till it, then you kill it - - the machinated, media fertilized seeds dug Machine Jonesin' deep, The Dream we collectively keep. Layin' an ILLusion lyin' lion that makes me oh so WEep. Don't even get me started; less you have the minutes of 100 Monopoly games. Less you're ready to give up Boardwalk 100x without even tryin.' Less you're ready for fryin' of your mindin' by my free flowin' stream of consciousness rhymin.' I'm just sayin.'
And what I'm sayin' is: that I'm dangerous. to myself and Otherz. Because Cuz, let me break it down and boldly yell: BORED I DO NOT GET. Including staring at a blanco wall. Both a blessin' & Double D downfall (believe me, you don't want it). Thoughts kite flyin' border f-r-e-e, limited only by this vessel called Me. Results of which I'll only truly see in divinity; a mysterY where I can finally just . . . Be. Hopefully.
Until that fate, eye create.
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The Beatles exist apart from my Self. I am not really Beatle George. Beatle George is like a suit or shirt that I once wore on occasion and until the end of my life people may see that shirt and mistake it for me.
The minute you or anybody else knows what you are you are not it, you are what you or anybody else knows you are and as everything in living is made up of finding out what you are it is extraordinarily difficult really not to know what you are and yet to be that thing.
Identity is a bag and a gag. Yet it exists for me with all the force of a fatal disease. Obviously I am here, a mind and a body. To say there's no proof my body exists would be arty and specious and if my mind is more ephemeral, less provable, the solution of being a writer with solid (touchable, tearable, burnable) books is as close as anyone has come to a perfect answer.
The real meditation is... the meditation on one's identity. Ah, voil? une chose!! You try it. You try finding out why you're you and not somebody else. And who in the blazes are you anyhow? Ah, voil? une chose!
An identity is questioned only when it is menaced, as when the mighty begin to fall, or when the wretched begin to rise, or when the stranger enters the gates, never, thereafter, to be a stranger. Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self: in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes.