January 28, 2008
Points of Entry
I guess my mind can't get over the fact that I don't believe in doors at all. We talk about doors and windows, but I only see windows. The term door is so restricting. We require access to a door. In airport security check lines, we have to wait until we are given permission to pass through a door. I don't see the door containing any realistic longevity inside of a creative endeavor.
Let me back up. I always have questioned my intelligence, creativity and originality. There are reasons for this other that the one I will focus on now (such as self-esteem issues), but the main source of my doubts typically was the way in which I created. I constantly felt unoriginal.
Example - I loved Goosebumps as an adolescent (who didn't). My teachers loved to praise my written work. The reason why I juxtapose these two seemingly insignificant issues is because I would adopt my writing style from the way R.L. Stine constructed his. Case in point, my adolescent mind was unable to discern whether I really was a good writer, or whether I was a cheating bastard.
Obviously, that isn't the case. I lived in fear for so long - until I discovered how creation is obsessed with influence. They are like clown fish and anemone: unable to exist without each other. No, really... apart from the ridiculous attempts at metaphor, people can't create based off of doorways. Everything we experience and create - they are all windows. Creation is a series of windows that see into each other and continue on - like when you hold two mirrors against one another - it creates an endless strain of new creations.
This post is a work in progress, but if you can continue reading to view Lawrence Weschler and his theory of convergences that ties in with the whole idea of creation and art as a series of influences and connections. Prof. Weschler's ideology is more concrete and basic (I resist saying 'small scale' since he possesses more knowledge than I ever will), but the argument that it sheds light on is intriguing to say the least.
Posted by pantaleo at 07:08 PM | Comments (2)
January 22, 2008
PAIN
While I continue to avoid responding to boundaries (MLK knew none), I decided I should at least update. In an effort to articulate my POAM idea, yet refrain from putting my audience through something ghastly, I will forgo the addition of media to my blog for right now.
I do, however, feel an allure to pain, particularly that which is felt by me every day at many different levels. On a more condensed level, I have my everyday physical pain which triggers memories of the other types of pain I deal/dealt with. This is a piece about that daily physical pain I wrote a while back:
The Way It Has To Be
I walk with a limp.
I strengthfully stride triumphantly towards my destination
Atmosphere resounding nouns to verbs to adjectives
To words to sentences to life in a sensical experience undaunted by society.
Humanity bows before my bellowing as I exult in the exuberant ecstasy of today.
Society sees me walk with a limp
A horrendous hobble too horrific to haze a gaze across
Purpose lost he purposelessly walks, wanders, a sight too sore for earnest eyes
If only they realized I wear this shamble like first prize
Blue ribbon won from activities fun to little kids cleaning cotton candy
Off of their lips at the fall fair.
I declare this limp mine, a divine defining factor
Like fine wine it progresses in quality with age
A sage, the limp tells untold secrets about my life, strife, plights and tragedies
For it has to be said I almost was pronounced dead,
Back in time of levity when ignorance lit levies on my spirit.
A careless adolescent, sixteen the years that held the days in which I “grew up.”
Couldn’t complain, comfortable explained my childhood.
No hood, just suburbs no dirt just the greenest of grass,
Crisp to the touch and entrancing to the smell
No broken glass, only the brightest of windows
Always clean, that supreme gleam shined on every dream that escaped my
Well-nurtured and protected head.
By this instant I was pushing a pearl white grand prix with tints
Paid for by my hard earned nights at a frivolous little diner
(Combined with my parents income of course)
But the source of my wealth came from the one thing I took for granted most:
Love of life.
I remember nights filled with pains, disdain, constant strain, left wondering “why me?”
I didn’t agree with God after I discovered what was
Then confirmed by doctors unleashing an
Avalanche of broken dreams, chemotherapy, vomit spewing sessions,
Repression of my ability to think clearly.
It hurt like the surgery, but mentally not physically.
And I, afraid to keep pity selfishly, for my journey allowed me to meet more
Who endured a lifetime of what could be called plain horror.
It didn’t seem right, all night I lay awake thinking of what I had become.
Hobbled by fate, left barely awake, stomach tortured, it took just one wrong meal.
But that was long ago.
I continue to stand tall, since overcoming uncertainty and depression
Ego on hold, but still bold, with God as my guide
I can finally see my path and purpose unfurls from that.
So as I earnestly offer evidence of my limp with a walk,
I sit back in my mind and ponder the emotions etched on every passerby’s face.
Call it cocky but I can concoct what their eyes say
Some try to lower me to pity; others see me as a freak
Few ignore it completely; a smaller handful let a smile leak
But while or whether is not the question or point I aspire to convey.
The real ingestion of this substantial banter should be whether or not I am really free
From the life I feared so.
I expect to find new secrets hidden within the faces of strangers I see
I don’t curse society, because this is the way it has to be.
Posted by pantaleo at 10:41 PM | Comments (3)
January 08, 2008
Please, excuse me
As victims of experience, humans rely desperately on surfaces. A surface represents an interaction, a beginning, an initial point of contact. The surface always comes first, yet can be fluid depending upon the first experience. The initial impression which "surfaces" may be the most prevalent truth available. It also may be furthest from the truth. Therein lies the quandary of only mapping surfaces.
The more enchanting question, however, may regard the surface's relationship with the volume - whether the volume actually exists. If it is possible for the surface to maintain a fluidity where it can encompass the different aspects of an individual, then the volume may purely be a conglomeration of the many possible surfaces. In this case, mapping a surface will only reveal whatever portion the maker wishes to reveal. The surface can make the first impression, but can never fully become the volume of the maker.
In which case, it is extremely important not to confine written commentary to the surface. Like the explanation of surface-based rendering stated, the images can help pinpoint problems on the surface, but are useless when searching for problems in the volume (mass of hidden surfaces). If written commentary is confined to the surface, any emotion or opinion carried underneath will not become exposed. In other words, written commentary restricted to the surface will be empty and incomplete.
In physical terms, surface-based rendering is definitely appropriate as a function of print poams, however. While the creation should not be limited strictly to the surface, the importance of the surface is such that a surface-based rendering can function as that first impression. Regardless of whether its a poam, an initial interaction, or something completely unrelated, the surface acts as the starting point. The starting point is reached by finding the surface, which in this case, is the surface-based rendering.
The idea of mapping only surfaces resonates deeply in me because of the conduct of humanity that I examine and actively partake in. With every interaction, every day, humanity (along with myself) is constantly changing surfaces - individually and as a whole - so that something is intentionally shown and/or hidden.
I conduct my life by allowing certain things to my surface and restricting everything else. So you probably may want to think about how much what I am saying is actually showing you and disregard some of it, all of it, or none of it at all.
Posted by pantaleo at 08:16 PM | Comments (3)
January 07, 2008
Pleasant Nonsense
I was dragged to Juno yesterday... and I couldn't get over the fact that Juno's baby had my same exact birthday. Well... in all honesty, the audience is never told if the baby is in fact delivered on that day, but my birthday is mentioned just the same.
Posted by pantaleo at 08:43 PM | Comments (0)