distracted

Why is it so easy to get into a space where I forget to glory in the joy of being? Is ingratitude so ingrained in my nature and character that I'm destined to ride the turbulent ocean of life perpetually steering my little dingy towards the troughs? Foamy, irridescent waves are cresting all around, but I doggedly decide to dwell in the doldrum's dingy shadows. Why is that?

In the words of philospher-stooge "Moe", "I'm tryin' to think, but nothin' happens!" There's no reason I should be like this. Ergo, in this moment I shall eschew groveling in the gravel. Carpe Everything!

epistemolo-gee

I'm having a tough time these days "knowing" anything. For one, the older I get the more I get confused between my dreams, reality, and imagination. Many's the time I've had to stop myself and say, "no. no. that never happened. and dancing, juggling hyenas don't even exist."

Furthermore, the more I try to focus my mind on understanding some point or another, the more I realize that the point is only part of a line, which is part of a plane, which is part of every other plane. Each question leads to every other question, and each time a question begins to send out investigatory tendrils I can be assured that they'll keep on going forever until I come to a point where I'm face to face with God, which forces me to think about faith. I find it difficult to paint a duck and decide simultaneously to believe in the revealed character of God (or not, since every sin is a decision of unbelief), so I'm forced to shut myself up and just "BE".

To make just one point, the artist in me has to perform an act of willful blindness - to ignore the rabbit trails and say, "this question, here and now, is the only question that's ever mattered". I have to rigorously exercize my mind to construct an iron-clad wall of will over and against the enticing doors to exploration. This amounts to an "arrogance of idea", in which I stop in a specific state of being and convince myself that all the other states hounding around looking for a chink in the armor are inferior. Often I don't care to do so, and my mind expands and expands out into infinity until there's nowhere else to go and I have to kick a wall or pet a dog and hopefully I don't get the two confused.

getcher paintin

When you make a big decision, you often have to occassion it with some sort of celebratory bang. The decision I've made is to be a painter. All-out, hard-core. This decision is made in part because it's inevitable (based, as it is, on who I am), and also because of a number of books I've read.

If you wish to understand the variegated meanderings of my melon, you must read them in the following order: Chaim Potok's "My Name is Asher Lev", Madeleine L'Engle's "Walking on Water", Studs Terkel's "Working", and "The Life you Save May be Your Own", by somebody named Elie. Of course, you won't get the FULL effect, since you're not me - and there have been a number of other books, movies and people that've figured into the equation. If you're looking for a roughing-out of some like-mindedness between us, however, that'll have to do.

The celebratory bang I mentioned is that I'm going to sell my existing paintings (with one, maybe two exceptions), for whatever I can get. Unfortunately for my millions of fans, there aren't enough to go around and I have to buy a laptop, so the minimum bid will be two hundred dollars. As I improve, prices are liable to go up. All funds will go towards the furtherance of my art career and all related flim-flam, and the eventual establishment of a foster home for children on Saltspring Island, which I plan to buy in it's entirety.

The end.

canadeh

Last night we celerbated once again the wedding of myself and Anya, my other self. This would not have been possible without the help of the Moerman's, a bunch of other people, and an invisible polka-dot elephant brought in by none other than the beatiful and insane Emily Bostram.

It was a raging success. The food was exceptional, the speakers (allow myself to introduce... myself) were punctilious, and the music was musical. Guests were treated to the mad lyrical stylings of the Patchwork B'Sharps, Chris and Jesse, and Samuel "Handlebars" Masterton, who scraped his way to joshanyaparty history with a blues guitar evocative of the sounds of the great northern seas.

The mood was levitous and jovial, and by night's end the citizenry danced with wild abandon, provoking incredulous jeers on the part of Jordan Moerman, who couldn't believe there was no alcohol involved.

A final highlight came when Josh (that's me) sang a soaring renditino of "Can't Help Falling in Love" to a cowering Jon Meisner, who giggled like the feind he is. Everybody left at this point pranced over to the porch and pounded a peculiarily peanut-shaped pinata to a pulp, ate the innards, and drove off rejoicing.

No animals were seriously hurt, but Anya did stub her toe.