This Winding Road

So no new posts in these past few weeks. What's new to tell? Work is work; relationships wax and wane; life rolls on.

And the semicolons will be there in all their illegitimate uses. Ah.

Lately I've taken vast enjoyment from noontime. It's my happy ritual: wake up, get coffee, see who's on instant messenger, and peruse the web for anything new. By the time the coffee is finished, I'm ready to start my day. Glorious ritual-- possibly one of the only perks to teaching a night class-- is sleeping in.

Take me to the beach. I need it. Badly. I need to smell the ocean, to get pulverized by those big waves, and walk away feeling triumphant. Lord, why did you put me in a landlocked city in a (mostly) landlocked state? Lake Erie doesn't really count. It's cold up there... and it's all freshwater. Ew.

Sidewalk of Dreams

Sidewalk, I can walk on you for miles. You start at my doorstep and stretch out to every corner of this little town. Every house that I pass has the porch-light turned on, and the telltale blue flicker of a television playing out its stories behind each set of curtains.

I wonder why I don't watch more television, then I realize it's because I spend my free time sitting in front of a computer screen. It's all the same then; everywhere I look, we're watching screens. When I've got a moment to spare, I'll check my cellphone for messages: another little screen, but this one fits in my pocket.

Consequently I use my cellphone as a type of 'soft' flashlight when I go stumbling through the house at night, not wanting to turn on any lights since there's always a person sleeping on the couch. Don't want to wake them. And always a different person each night, which strikes me as another novelty of this place.

Another novelty is the communal coffee pot. I've timed myself to wake up fifteen minutes after my wife's father, so I can descend on the fruits of the coffee pot with none of the involved work (little that there may be: pour in water, coffee grounds, push button-- but whatever). "Gentle Opportunist" is the name I used to give myself, proudly beaming. That is, until I stumble in to find that the coffee has, in fact, been made but none is left for me. And then I feel insulted, snuffed, as it were, by fate, and/or my housemates. How dare they.... ?

What does it mean that we look into screens all day for work, recreation, and utility? What would be the response if I traveled a hundred years into the past to visit an ancestor; and he asked what we did all day in the future, and I answered, "We look at screens! It's awesome!"?

These sidewalks, they remain largely unused from what I've seen. But at least they're handicap accessible.


it is what it is

Ghetto Marquee

Came into school early today to get some work done, namely hiding behind a computer screen and devising cruel technical demonstrations for my students. *diabolic laughter*

Also going to a town hall meeting in an hour to hear about what Ohio law-makers are planning to do about human trafficking and sex slavery both locally and internationally. Should be an informative and productive event. Our pastor is one of the speakers tonight. I'm curious to hear him talk. I'm guessing a public forum would be a bit of a jump from standing in front of his congregation.

Anyway.... gonna go find something to eat. Chalk this class planning session as a moderate success and try again tomorrow.

Letters to the Void

I find myself less inclined to write about my feelings these days. Funny how that works: the things for which I've been pining get shuffled back into my life and my response is to shut down the transmitter and retreat to the most furtive and dark basements to mull over events there.

Anyway, I couldn't grasp these feelings even if I wanted to; they're slippery little fishies, a flash of glittering silver scales in the sun. Running with that metaphor, here's one that leaped clean out of the water and into the boat. It flopped around for a moment then just lay there, mouth gasping for air, bug-eyed and alien. What the hell am I looking at here?

This one walked right off the paper. Couldn't stop it if I wanted to; a creeping construct of literary refuse. Thankfully I have friends who are more than willing to dispatch these idle notions before they can do damage. I watched in maddened glee as they were struck down, one after another, burned by fire, hacked apart by a variety of cutting implements, and refuted by clever puns.


here comes the three-hole-punch!

Sitting on Stone Steps

Word to the wise: skipping meals and sleep combined with downing coffee all night long makes everything look edible. Why does the very act of typing this give me a weird deja vu fit? Odd.

Also, in unrelated news, my computer is working again. Came home to find it functioning good and proper. Amazing. I was on the cusp of reloading the OS.

Apparently I won some small victory in the ongoing psychological war against the machines... for now. Stop texting while you drive, dummies. I can't fight them on my own.

So get this; today for class we critiqued my students' projects. And about an hour into class the network fails. All but one computer, off in the corner: this girl's account magically stayed active. She was my lifeline. I rerouted some resources (i.e. fancy way of saying unplugged; replugged stuff) to her Mac, and behold! ... it worked for about fifteen minutes. Then that stopped working. More rerouting ensued.

To stall for time, I announced some greater force was at work here, undermining our every effort to have class. My students suggested it was God, and leered, hungry to see which direction I would goad the conversation. My reply was stern, haunted: "This isn't the work of God. There's a real malice behind these IT failures. Some dark force is responsible... EVIL!" (cue laughter from students)

I played this game with them throughout the evening, every time something went wrong, (yes, even mouse failure) I masked my total lack of control over the situation with some joking. 'Look at this hand; not that hand. Ooooooh shiny quarter.'

So a pretty rough night, but good. On the brighter side, I'd imagine teaching a drawing class would be boring as hell compared to this circus.


love this job

Hey, Neat!

I am happy to report I am now saddled with cutting edge digital art-making technology. :D

The digital drawing tablets in my lab actually register the amount of pressure you apply with the stylus. Squeeee!

To put that in perspective, I spent most of last year drawing with a mouse.

So this is the big time.

Shimsham Peanut

I had to take down my show this weekend. Michael stepped in and saved some of the pieces from destruction, which is cool. I took some pictures of the work finally. Here is a closeup of something that got saved.

It was happy news that some of these were allowed to remain intact. Never got around to writing that artist statement for you. Not sure what could be said that hasn't been alluded to either in this blog or vocalized in person. And never personally liked reading artist statements in past exhibitions: usually an 8"x 11.5" sheet of printer paper slapped on the gallery wall; blocks of text that you have to crane your neck to read, and even then there's too much going on around you to concentrate.

No, wait. I take it back. That piece of paper taped to the wall has its uses. There's some point at many openings where you dip into the awkward moment, where you've finished up one conversation and the next waits to find you. So, drink in hand, you saunter over to the wall with the artist statement. Squint your eyes to read. Ah, Times New Roman, so we meet again. Good, good. What's this, a sentence ending in a preposition? Bah.

After a moment of reading-but not really reading-I remove myself from this wall and go back and look at the artwork, as if new vistas of revelation are about to open up. "Ah, it all makes so much sense now! Of course!" Thank you, little piece of paper. Thank you for showing me the way.