If The Dictionary Is An Ocean, What Is Silence?

There’s a well of words inside my throat

A vast untroubled ocean in which I just can’t stay afloat

They are there, and they are waiting for a ripple to cause a wave

And that wave to grow and grow til a tsunami flushes out

From between my teeth to behind your eyes

I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise but

I’ve always fancied you a bit, but, well, your beauty and your age

Well, it had me in a cage, and no matter how I raged I couldn’t break the bars

That held me from the idea of us

But you responded and they melted, and in becoming the waters inside the top of my chest, I was left with far less being said then what went on inside my head

Oh ma’am please let me start again

You see I’ve seen how these things go and a girl like you simply must know

That it won’t always be easy, but by pretending to be a man in love, I can become a man in love, again

But should it be this way from the start?

How long must the seed grow alone?

Must it always be a false start?

May I cough up some vowels to feed the force

But if the dam breaks I apologize for what will come out

I’ll never learn that there isn’t a word for everything

No, words are only guesses at what’s going on in our heads

So

I’m not sure where that leaves me.

A Correlation

I had a talk with a friend this week. Maybe acquaintance. Still (re)working that part out.

Anyways, he had a very long, extremely passionate and perfectly worded rant about something. I got so caught up in the power and poeticism that I completely forgot to form an opinion of my own. So, I went on with the week, re-thinking things through that perspective.

But then yesterday, while enjoying some delectable vegan noms with a definite friend, he said something in passing that made me realize how incredibly subjective the aforementioned rant had been. It had contained traces of truth and it was mixed deeply with good intention, but in the end it was still an opinion, and as such inherently amoral.

This switcheroo got me thinking. So often we hear and accept things based solely on the fact that it was presented well. In a world where beauty is equated with all good things, our intrinsic desire for truth is satiated (albeit momentarily) by something gorgeous, be it person or poetry.

The idea of beauty as truth is so paramount in our society that the concept of finding truth in a poorly worded phrase seems contradictory. Yet it is often for the very reason that it isn't true that something gets a pretty package. Straight up lies are usually too abrasive to be swallowed, so they get coated in half truths and commonly held ideals so they slide down more softly.

Not to say that the rant was all lies, but his basic thesis (or at least the thesis I picked up) was neither right nor wrong. It was his opinion.

Of course, by my own admission, the fact that I can properly explain, re-explain, give examples and use large words in my effort to introduce this idea to you doesnt mean it is valid. No, the truth of a matter is fully independent of its expression.

In summary:

There is no direct correlation between the articulation and validity of an idea or statement.

So:

Question things.

Friends

I freaking love my friends.

I also love my acquaintances, mostly because of their potential to be friends.

Seriously though, how many things on this planet are on par with friends that you can get transparent with?

The Stories That Clothing Can Tell.

(Since I am still in my pajamas, which consists of considerably less clothing than I could write about, let's just assume I'm wearing yesterdays clothes).

Sometime yesterday when I was very, very busy doing nothing, I realized that each article of clothing I was wearing had a memory associated with it, a throwback to a previous moment of my life.

The white, short sleeve button up semi-dress shirt I had gotten on an unplanned excursion to the Eaton centre with one of my closest friends after the two of us had helped another close friend move into her new apartment downtown. After I got the shirt I went and got my nipple pierced, and all of this reminds me of mac and cheese because the colour we painted my friends apartment was the exact same colour as mac and cheese.

So much nostalgia from a few pieces of sewn cloth.

The pants and undershirt were both from Georgia, and the sheer weight of the good times I've had there could fill up several dozen blogposts. I even started this blog while there. It's a magical place.

I'm not advocating materialism or anything, but merely a call to introspection: think about objects that you are constantly in contact with, be it clothing or cars or cats or crayons. Anything that is so ubiquitous it has lost meaning; Now, find a memory associated with that thing, find that time it was there when you laughed so hard you peed yourself, that instance when you realized why it was not blue, but it was in all actuality, green.

Find it, think about it, treasure it, move on.

Paint Varnish

So, I started a new blog. I can't at present recall the URL, something like posimovi or posimovie. I'll post a link when there's something of substance up.

In the meantime, today I (re)watched Persepolis today with a (new-ish) friend, and it's possibly one of my favorite cartoons of all time. It's a grown up cartoon, but not in that it's choked with all manner of violently sexual language, linguistically violent sex or sexually linguistic violence (or any combination thereof), but rather it's an adult movie in that it deals with more mature subject matter.

Also, I love it's take on god.

Yes, it presents him as the old man in the sky, but he says a lot of things that I found quite moving.

At one point, when the young protagonist is upset, she is talking to god and explaining why she was trying to beat up another kid (it was for war crimes his father had committed). god's response is (along the lines of) 'it is not your job to judge him, only to forgive."

This made me think of the way people treat smokers. They're an abused and marginalized segment of society, and the more I think about it, the less I like it.

Yes, I understand that it is their decision to smoke and that it will poison their bodies and blah blah blah. But really, does making a reference to cancer everytime you pass a smoker really do anything to help? All it does is force them into a dehumanizing box that robs them of their God-given identity as human beings and puts a stereotypical mask on them.

From now on, I shall show more respect to smokers.

Not to smoking, to the people who smoke.

Also, my room reeks of paint varnish so I have the worst headache so far this week.

Broken Noses, The Devil Wears Prada and the Surrealism of the ER Room at 4:30 in the Morning

So, last night I had the privilege of seeing one of my favorite bands, The Devil Wears Prada, for free.

Sorta.

Not 'sorta-for-free', just 'sorta-see.' I got punched (or something similar to punched) in the face 3 songs into TDWP's set, and it was way too confusing for me to try and process the lights and sounds of the bands intensity, so I just went and hung out with their merch dude. He's pretty awesome. Has a random tattoo of a tooth.

I'm not annoyed about last night, I'm actually really glad I got in for free, because paying 30 bucks for a shiner and a crook would not be worth it at all.

Anyways, we didn't stay for the headliner, mostly because they weren't as good as either of the opening bands (the other was For Today. So. Good.) but also because they weren't playing any songs we knew.

So, home we went. Well, home everyone else in my group went. I went home briefly to grab my healthcard (I was so out of it I grabbed my SIN instead) then off to the hospital for me for three and a half hours. It was all to find out that I didn't have a ruptured sinus, which is a good thing to know, but I really would have rather been sleeping.

So yeah, I think the whack messed up my head a bit because I definitely feel like I had an insight into this situation, but my mind currently won't connect the dots between what happened and whatever else is relate-able.

Ah well.

What A Day I'm Having

Well, today was the day of the aforementioned artshow.

Rather than wing my speech, I was struck with a sudden moment of inspiration whilst doing laundry, and I penned this than read it later:

Today, I had the experience of ironing these pants. While that wasn’t really all that special, it gave me the inspiration for this speech. When I first read T.S. Elliot’s poem “The Hollow Men,” where we got the exhibit title 'Not A Whisper,' I had the experience of being moved in an indescribable way. Over the last few months, the students in the grade 12 art class have had the experience of putting together this show, and it has been indescribable. We have had the experience of having our vision expanded and our artistic capabilities exercised and tested. I am currently having the pleasure of thanking Mrs Onalee Creasor for all the time she has put into this group of students over the last few years.

As you wander around the room and wonder about the work, I want you to contemplate this as the culmination of 4 years of experiences. Much like the ending of The Hollow Men, this is us reiterating that this is the way our world of high school ends.

It is not with a whisper that we enter the world, but with a bang, fresh faced and ready for whatever life will throw our way.

Thank you, and enjoy the show.

And that was it. They handed out awards (of which I won one) and we all ate cheese and crackers and nanaimo bars.

Also today, I made this guy on MS paint:

I love MS paint.

Writing On The Blog (See What I Did There?)

I'm not sure when it was. I think back in May perhaps? Possibly June?

Either way, Underoath announced that they were writing new material, and I got ridiculously stoked.

They had a member departure which I won't dwell on now because I didn't dwell on it then, but this combined with their frequent tweets and video updates talking about how amazing this record was going to be had me sitting on the edge of my patience.

Then, the day arrived.

It was out.

I went, and not only did I buy it, but I thought I'd offer even more support than normal and buy the Deluxe edition, since I was so sure this record could potentiall

y change the way I view music.

I'd say November 9th was one of the most disappointing days of this year.

K, total lie. There's been much, much worse this year.

But it probably wins for November.

The album is good, I can't deny that. Spencer's vocals are, well, almost beyond description. The shear range is rather staggering. The electronica elements are much more prevalent and welcome.

I don't really follow guitars, bass or drumming too much, but they also sound nice.

I don't want to go into some bogged down song by song of how this albums doesn't appease; I'd rather just say that it doesn't. In listening to the band, critiques and fans talk about this album, I feel as though I'm missing something. I have yet to see a single negative review of this album, be it amateur or professorial. Maybe it's because I'm not musically trained that I can't appreciate the genius of this album. Maybe it's because lately I've been enjoying my heavy heavier (The Chariot) and my electronica glitchier (Crystal Castles), but this album simply cannot cut it for me.

I never really considered Aaron to be my favorite part of UO, but apparently his influence made this band for me. Their last album, Lost in the Sound of Separation is mindblowingly amazing. It oozes intensity and honesty within a kaleidescope of rawness and visceral power.

Maybe I'll gain an appreciation for it in a few months or years, but for now I will quietly pretend it doesn't exist and wait for their next release.

...

This lovely little picture depicts commonly used words on Underoath's new album (not including common words, such as 'and,' 'to,' and 'I' (which was used 108 times).

...

And as endnotes (because I'm too lazy to re-edit and find where to put these tidbits), I'm also confused by how everyone keeps saying the lyrics on this album are so good. They're, well, bland. Not that they don't get their point across in differing ways, because they do; however, the lyricist seems to be on perpetual downward spiral into the darkness of the human pysche. This can get rather dull very fast.

Also, if Spencer lacked the ability to repeat himself, this album would lose half of it's lyrics.

Also, if I zone out while listening to 'Driftwood,' I start to think my iPod has skipped to Muse.

Just a little fun fact.

People

are lazy.

Comments feed my soul.

Well, not really, but they're greatly appreciated =) So c'mon, dont be shy!

Let It

I spent most of today setting up for the grade 12 art exhibition at the Latcham Gallery in Stouffville. I'm a bit excited for it. On a scale of 1 to Mike Hrinca, Aaron Weiss and Alice Glass doing guest vox in a The Chariot songt, this is maybe a 5 (the collaboration being a 10).

I'm supposed to do the opening speech, and I'm seriously considering winging it. Every time I get asked as to the meaning of the title of the show (Not A Whisper, bastardization of the final stanza of T.S. Elliot's The Hollow Men) I invent a new meaning. It's a bit fun to see how far I can push it. Today in an interviewer with some member of the media I said it had to do with birth, since there are no whispers during childbirth, and we, as aspiring artists, are being birthed into the art world.

Believable. Ish.

The real meaning is simply I enjoy the prose of the poem. But, people like hidden meaning, so that was that.

I have 4 pieces in the exhibit, a drawing, a self portrait, a sculpture and my sketchbook, but I really don't like the idea of just leaving them there for public viewing.

Not that I have attachment issues, but my work really doesn't speak for itself. I try to imbibe my work with as much meaning and parallelism as possible, but it's not the type of meaning that an undiscerning viewer is going to pick up on.

I don't think this makes me a bad artist, more of an artist that can't be commercially successful. Which I'm cool with, because I'm starting to see more and more that my future doesn't lie in visual art.

But yeah, this Thursday, 7-9 is the gallery opening.

You should come.

There will be free food.

The Lack Of Adventure That Winter Brings

I hate winter.

It kills things.

Mostly my will to live, but aside from that and all things green and happy, it also slaughters the opportunity for adventure.

In the summer, it's as easy as saying "Lets go for a walk and break into that house yonder."

In the winter, you need to be wearing the right coat, the right shoes so as not freeze off your darling toes, et al... Even the pickings for dumpster diving are worse in the winter.

In the winter, there is so much less inspiration floating around. This is really going nowhere, and I blame the temperature decline outside for that.

I think I shall spend today curled up in a ball, drinking tea, watching movies and reading Observatory Mansions by Edward Carrey. So far, it seems amazing.

Oh, also, my first art exhibit is opening next week on Thursday. You should come.