:: parables ::
Dear Readers,
This is a story Josh Apte told me our freshman year of college:
“In the 1980s, the second greatest cyclist in the world was a Czech named Jánosh. Every single day in the off-season he would eat pie. And they'd say, 'Jánosh, if you only stopped eating pie, you could be the greatest cyclist in the world!' But he never stopped.”
I have since lazily searched for confirmation of this story. The only "facts" of it that I'm confident of are "pie" and "never became the greatest cyclist in the world." All other details (Czech, Jánosh, 1980s) may be apocryphal in either Josh Apte's original telling, or in eleven years of my subsequent retelling and embellishment.
But this is one of those stories that doesn't have to he be factually true in order to be true. It's a parable.
At the end of Malcolm Gladwell's Blink there's a powerful anecdote about the dangers of bias. [I paraphrase] In the 1980s classical musicians unionized. At the time, orchestras and symphonies were nearly all-male. The unions decided to alleviate this gender disparity by instituting blind auditions. Conductors scoffed, certain that bias never infected their decisions. "Men must be evolutionarily designed to play classical music better than women. Especially horns."
Yet as soon as they held blind auditions the number of women they hired skyrocketed.
At one of these blind auditions for the Munich Philharmonic Opera, the judges were stunned that the mind-blowing trombonist behind the audition screen was 100% all-woman Abbie Conant. Ka-boom. Evolve that.
In 2009 during a period of unemployment I went on a craven search for as much free Malcolm Gladwell audio I could find. (sidenote: What balm did Malcolm Gladwell's voice apply to the rash of unemployment? That exercise is left to the reader.)
As a result of this audio search, I have heard Malcolm Gladwell tell the trombonist story to interviewers and audiences, always with a shifting slate of details. Sometimes he imitates the conductor's reaction with a whispered "mein. Gott." Other times he describes a cinematic chase down the steps of the orchestra hall: "Frau Conant, Frau Conant! You haff been zelected!" None of those details are reflected in the version he tells in Blink, nor in Abbie Conant's husband's retelling, which you can read here.
This is but one small example of how Malcolm Gladwell plays with facts. But to say that the stories he tells about humans are thus false is to miss the point. He's telling us parables.
In research for this blog post I realized that I usually confound Abbie Conant's story with a different anecdote in Blink about Julie Landsman's blind audition for principle French horn at the New York Metropolitan Opera: she hit a high note so clear, so pure, and so long that the judges laughed with joy, because the expertise of this player was so exquisite as to be ridiculous.
That note sealed the audition. There could be no other possible candidates. When Julie came out from behind the audition screen they gasped, not because she was a woman, but because they recognized her as one of the Met's substitutes. Their substitute. They'd put a genius on the short bus. They'd put Baby in the corner. Nobody puts Baby in the corner.
Parables. Treasure her, for she was lost, but now she has been found.
One more example: in A Brief History of Time Stephen Hawking tells a story of an astronomy lecture. [I paraphrase] During the lecture an old woman interrupts to say, "you're wrong, the Earth is held up on a turtle's back." The scientist asks what the turtle is standing on, and the old woman replies, "young man, it's turtles all the way down!"
Stephen Hawking tells this story with obvious embellishments: "superior smile" and "little old lady" "'you're very clever young man, very clever.'" He adds these flourishes without citing any relevant corroborating facts, such as year and place this lecture supposedly occurred, or even the certain identity of the scientist (he insinuates that it's Bertrand Russell). Stephen Hawking doesn't care. Stephen Hawking doesn't give a hoot. The truth of the story is the story, not its historical accuracy.
The good side of this habit of storytelling is that it yields resonant parables: useful stories you have in your pocket to explain or instruct. But there is a dark side. How many of our personal notions of "truth" do we refuse to fact-check? What do we tell ourselves over and over again about "truth" that makes us feel bad? What stories have we polished into a new form that still rings true to us, but bears little relation to reality?
Always and ever, back to this. If it's true that I can hold myself back with stories, is it true that I could also actualize with the right story?
As for Jánosh, I've thought a lot about why he is the hero of his story without ever becoming a champion cyclist. It's because he chose to be happy, and hoot all the rest.
by 'hoot' i mean a different word actualization destiny popular science control control is an illusion anyway
Posted October 22nd, 2011
Abbie Conant
"Young Stephen Hawking, pimpin' it up at his wedding."
Dear Readers,
What follows are massive spoilers to Transformers 3, Avatar, and more than one Tarantino film. If you like spoilers (I raise my hand) or if you've already seen these films, read on. If not, wait this post out.
For a couple years I worked on a screenplay about a gay son, his mother, and his grandmother. I had dialogue in my head and essentially transcribed 150 pages of it. I thought that was all you need to write a great movie. But then I found an excellent screenwriting teacher who taught me that in order to write a satisfying movie, you need more than snappy lines. You need 
- a character we care about
- who wants something very badly
- that he or she can't get
- badass stoic Marine
- who wants to walk
- but he's paralyzed
Other films and filmmakers also break the rules (looking at you, Coen Brothers) and you can break the rules and still make a great film, but it's not a satisfying film. Study Question: How many times have you watched Fargo? How many times have you watched Pulp Fiction?
Quentin Tarantino makes movies that are full of highly-stylized, cool dialogue that make you wonder at first if he thinks that cool dialogue is all you need to make a great movie. His movies break so many of the rules of movies. But one thing that always happens, without fail: they satisfy. Recently I've been obsessed with one of Tarantino's movies that flirts hard with failing us in this regard: Death Proof.
In the first half of Death Proof we meet: four ladies off for a joyful weekend, barfly Rose McGowan, and grizzly teetotaller Stuntman Mike played by Kurt Russell. Stuntman Mike's been stalking the four and manipulates one of them into giving him a striptease. Then he loads up Rose McGowan for a ride home in his death-proof roll-cage protected stunt car, and kills her and the four ladies in a violent head-on collision.
On first watch, this entire hour comes off as not only violent, but indulgent and obnoxious. Characters from other Tarantino movies make cameos, other Tarantino movies make cameos ("Big Kahuna Burger"; the score from Kill Bill), Tarantino himself makes a cameo, everyone talks fast and cool and smart like they're in a Tarantino movie. "Geeze, Tarantino! Am I just here to watch you [blank] your own [blank] for two hours?"
Then the second half of Death Proof begins, and we're introduced to another set of four women who are in Tennessee to work on a movie. They refer to their super-cool director "Cecil" on whom super-cute Abernathy (Rosario Dawson) has a huge crush, and who is probably a proxy for Quentin Tarantino, and you sigh, "oh CRIMINY, Tarantino! Will the [blank-blanking] ever end!"
But don't hit STOP on that DVD, don't shut your laptop in disgust. Stay with us, baby. Trust.
Our new set of four includes stunt driver Kim and New Zealand stuntie Zoe, who want to play "ship's mast": a dangerous game where one person drives real fast, and the other rides on the hood of the car while gripping two belts attached to the car doors.
Kiwi Zoe gets out onto the hood of a fast-speeding 1970 Dodge Challenger with Kim driving and a terrified (initially*) Abernathy in the back. That's when Stuntman Mike comes back into frame in his death-proof car, smashing and taunting our gals. And you're thinking, "oh no ... am I going to just watch this murderer do the same thing again?"
After a long sequence of smashing and chasing, Stuntman Mike runs our ladies off the road and Zoe flies off into the brush. Mike hops out to gloat. "Ladies! Now that was fun! Well, adios-" and before he can finish the word, a bullet flies into his shoulder. Kim has shot him. Ka-boom! She fires again and he squeals and drives away. Kim and Abernathy get back in the car, and hope, and stare into the brush.
Then Zoe leaps up. "I'm ok!" She's so cheerful. No fear. She walks up fine as can be to the driver's side window. "Well! That was a close one! Where's the maniac?" and, "wanna go get him?"
"Oh hayle yes!" says Kim.
"Let's kill that bastard," says Abernathy. No hesitation. No anxiety. Our ladies find Stuntman Mike nursing his wound, then run him down and gleefully beat him to death. That's the end of the movie.
Using our earlier heuristic, Abernathy is clearly the main character of Death Proof: she wants to be one of the cool kids with a wild streak like her friends Kim and Zoe. *And during ship's mast we watch Abernathy's uptight motherly concern melt into a huge grin. It is Abernathy who delivers the killing blow to Stuntman Mike.
But I also think that the audience gets to experience the tension and ultimate satisfaction of a main character. How many times have we watched films with psychotic killers and, when our heroes figure out who and what's going on, they inevitably express anxiety and fear at taking the psycho out. They hesitate. We usually waste two hours of our time watching a hero come to terms with what we've wanted from the very beginning: take him out. And here, Tarantino delivers! At last, we get what we desire.
another note
I believe that Tarantino has the classic nerd's discomfort with women. His female characters are more fantasy-of-woman than actual-woman. But unlike many nerds uncomfortable with women, he makes his female characters extremely cool, extremely attractive, extremely excellent. Jackie Brown. The Bride. Mia Wallace. Abernathy, Kim, and Zoe. Even Elois in Reservoir Dogs, who's never seen, and only referred to in story: she takes revenge against a bad boyfriend by glueing his [blank] to his abdomen. Nice Guy Eddie tells us this story with total respect, total admiration for her. He's particular about pronouncing her name correctly.
I believe that Tarantino has the classic nerd's discomfort with women. His female characters are more fantasy-of-woman than actual-woman. But unlike many nerds uncomfortable with women, he makes his female characters extremely cool, extremely attractive, extremely excellent. Jackie Brown. The Bride. Mia Wallace. Abernathy, Kim, and Zoe. Even Elois in Reservoir Dogs, who's never seen, and only referred to in story: she takes revenge against a bad boyfriend by glueing his [blank] to his abdomen. Nice Guy Eddie tells us this story with total respect, total admiration for her. He's particular about pronouncing her name correctly.
Where are your cardboard castrating bitches, Tarantino? Where are the soft, pliant females? Where are the sexless crones and lesbians? These are staple female characters in the nerd tradition! Not here.
The only exception I can think of is rabid Honey Bunny in Pulp Fiction. "What's Fonzie?" " ... cool." "That's right. Cool." But I forgive this exception, because it's so funny, and such an outlier.
Excuse me now while I put Inglorious Basterds in the Netflix queue.
thank you and goodnight
Posted September 1st, 2011
Dear Readers,
Two days ago I saw a big bug moving in the dark shadows of Jason's office. Turned on the lamp, and the big bug was revealed to be a silverfish, now holding still and attempting to blend in with the lint in the corner. I got the broom and smooshed the silverfish, which then scuttled out into the center of the office. I smooshed it again and the silverfish quit this world.
Yesterday on the way to Coffee Chicago I saw a worm struggling in the sun on the sidewalk. It was clearly uncomfortable, clearly lost or misplaced. I picked up the worm and gently set it in a nearby garden.
I don't know why one creature met with my violence, the other with compassion. I could give you a lot of words about the silverfish's incursion on my territory, its speed of movement, its threat to my sleeping form, and about the worm's plight and vulnerability, its benefit to gardens and greenery, and its readiness for easy rescue. But the truth is that I don't know why I saved one and not the other, the same way that I don't know why I give money to some who ask for it and not to others. The same way that some win genetic lotteries, and others do not.
When I'm able to imagine a god in the popular reckoning of gods, I imagine divine influence like the parable of the worm and the silverfish. You could ask, "why did you save this one, and not the other?" and the god would say, " ... facked if /I/ know!"
happy birthday to you you know who you are mr. president
Posted August 4th, 2011
Dear Readers,
ericaricardo.com turns five years old this September! Here are some things that have changed since I started here in 2006:
- So many good things! No more anxiety about making art or calling myself an artist. No more anxiety about diving into tech and calling myself a techie. These are the greatest gifts of time.
- If I feel happy and comfortable and something makes me laugh, then the laughter usually kicks off with a big horsey snort. But this kind of thing no longer makes me feel self-conscious, just aware that I must be feeling happy and comfortable.
- I interrupt people a lot. My "stop talking" filter, already quite flimsy, has worn through in most places.
- My language has grown quite crude. Sometimes I'll apologize for my crudeness and explain that I write for television, but really it's those flimsy, dodgy "stop talking" filters.
- I talk weird, already noticeable five years ago and getting worse since. People comment on my accent and ask where I'm from. I'm from Vermont and my parents are white Americans from Michigan. I don't talk like people from any of those places. In the same way that Madonna (also from Michigan, also of white American parents) took on that Brit-ish affect, I have an unintentional Eastern European-ish affect. It's more pronounced around new people and makes a strange first impression, especially when we have to duke it out about where I'm from and if I'm American then why don't I talk like an American.
- I wear all black and couldn't be happier. A year ago I found my favorite black shirt of all time. Six months ago I decided to just buy seven more of them so that I could wear my favorite shirt every day. My mom heard about this plan and assumed I was joking, so as a lark she bought me a ninth shirt, except the one she bought has a crew neck instead of a v-neck. Every time I wear it I look in the mirror and think, "ugh! Why do I look so bad!" and then I realize, "that's because it's CREW NECK day! Argh!"
- My neutral face has become a frown instead of an actual neutral face. I know this because I use a MacBook now and occasionally the screen switches to its natural reflective glossy black, showing me the frowny face I'd been unintentionally wearing for who knows how long. For a time I flagged this as a major warning sign of the general decay of my soul, but it's totally not that. My jowls just get tired.
aging adulthood
this post heavily edited from an over-sharing first draft
this post heavily edited from an over-sharing first draft
Posted July 21st, 2011
Photo by Aida Daneshvar
Dear Readers,
The other night Jason and I watched Into the Wild. It's based on the book of the same name by Jon Krakauer and tells the true life story of Christopher McCandless. In 1990 he burned his money and identity cards, gave away his savings, and wandered for two years before walking unprepared into the Alaskan wilderness where he died of starvation.
Wikipedia and Jon K. tell us that Chistopher McCandless's death could have been prevented if he had packed a compass and adequate supplies. Or if he hadn't deliberately forgone a map, which would have shown him the town within a day's walk of camp. Or if he knew how to turn a moose into jerky, or forage for adequate food. It was a conditional death; the eulogies are filled with "ifs."
His story provokes schismatic reactions: you either hate him for being a stupid R/romantic kid who got himself killed, or you worship him as an E/enlightened prophet. To the former camp, he inspires far more ire than, say, a serial drunk driver who smashes into a telephone pole, or a longtime smoker with terminal lung cancer. In those cases you could also say that those people did it to themselves, stupidly. But they rarely get editorial-length takedowns the way that Christopher McCandless has. No, there is special rancor reserved for dreamers.
Naturally, I'm more on the latter side of the schism (Go Dreamers!), but I see Chris McCandless in the context of my larger pet problem of modern maturity. My culture, the middle-class American (white) culture, has no rites of passage that put life and body on the line. It's easy to sustain adolescence over an entire lifetime. (Study Question: How many mature, functioning adults are there in the workplace? In your workplace?)
And so back to Christopher McCandless. Twenty-two years old and a path before him of easy adolescence stretched out in long cash-lined decades. Eff that. So he improvised a transformative rite of passage, one that truly put his life and body on the line. And he messed it up.
But if he had come out of it? I think he would be one of the more premium, mature human beings you or I would ever meet, dreamer or not1.
as a side note
The other week I nearly threw a for-real tantrum, like an out-of-control tantrum, because I needed clean underwear and I was about to miss my train and the laundry key was just in my hand I swear and now where is it? WhErrE IsIT?! And Jason found it in a muddy puddle in the alley where I had dropped it five minutes prior. And thank you thank you I love you how did you find it thank you! And I did not go as far into tantrum as I was prepared to go that day, but I was prepared to go all the way. I'm almost 30 years old. Really, self?
The other week I nearly threw a for-real tantrum, like an out-of-control tantrum, because I needed clean underwear and I was about to miss my train and the laundry key was just in my hand I swear and now where is it? WhErrE IsIT?! And Jason found it in a muddy puddle in the alley where I had dropped it five minutes prior. And thank you thank you I love you how did you find it thank you! And I did not go as far into tantrum as I was prepared to go that day, but I was prepared to go all the way. I'm almost 30 years old. Really, self?
Sometimes I frame "the maturity problem" as how to achieve self-actualization or secular enlightenment. But on a much more basic, and urgent level, I mean maturity as an even keel in all emotional weather. Spilled milk might cause a child to cry, but the adult just gets a paper towel, and wipes it up. Just think: all problems could be met with just as little anxiety, fear, and hesitation.
and in this case i wish comments worked
time to knuckle down and install wordpress
i know i say that every year dear readers
i know
time to knuckle down and install wordpress
i know i say that every year dear readers
i know
Posted June 15th, 2011
Christopher McCandless, self-portrait at camp. This image comes from an undeveloped roll of film found in his camera after he died. Lotta joy in that smile, to my eye.
Dear Readers,
I am the worst kind of grammar nerd: uptight and nerdy about grammar and yet I've never properly learned grammar myself. This blog, Dear Readers, must certainly be filled with dangling participles, passive verbs, tense mishigas, "who" instead of "oh whatEVER you know what I meant," and other grammerrors I do not comprehend. I am the worst. I know this.
"very unique"
"unique" means "singular." It means it's the only one. A thing can't be "very unique." That's like saying that twins are "very double." "Those are the doubliest twins I've ever seen!"
"unique" means "singular." It means it's the only one. A thing can't be "very unique." That's like saying that twins are "very double." "Those are the doubliest twins I've ever seen!"
I usually let this one slide because I know what the speaker means, and I don't have an elegant construction to replace it. Either the speaker means, "several standard deviations outside the norm, an outlier in the field" or the person means, "a euphemism for 'makes me uncomfortable.'"
"you think too much" "you're crazy"
Not grammar points per se, but I'm throwing these two in right now because they similarly mean, "a euphemism for 'you make me uncomfortable.'"
Not grammar points per se, but I'm throwing these two in right now because they similarly mean, "a euphemism for 'you make me uncomfortable.'"
The next time someone says, "you think too much," try, "you mean I think too much for you." The next time someone says, "you're crazy," and you believe that the person is due for some razzing, try a deadpan, "really? I've never gotten that before." And if the person takes the bait and says, "really?" then deliver a super-intense, "no! I get it all the FACKING time! [big smile]" This doesn't alter the person's perception of you as crazy, but it does get the person to stop talking. So, mission accomplished.
"verbally" instead of "orally"
Ok this one drives me batty! "Do you have a contract?" "Only a verbal one." Argh!
Ok this one drives me batty! "Do you have a contract?" "Only a verbal one." Argh!
"verbal" means "made of words." Written and spoken contracts are BOTH verbal. Written and spoken contracts are both verbal. Here's what Wikipedia has to say about unspoken contracts and implied-in-fact contracts. Those are non-verbal contracts. The contracts made of paper, signed in ink? Unless they're written in Wingdings by a monkey, those are verbal contracts.
Ok and so what is the elegant construction to replace this usage error? There's "spoken contract" or "spoken agreement." My favorite is "oral agreement."
grammar love baby you say 'crazy' like it's a bad thing
as of today this blug is table-free divs only boom
as of today this blug is table-free divs only boom
Posted June 2nd, 2011
Dear Readers,
EXT. WINNEMAC ST. - DAY
Sunny and cold Chicago. A WOMAN sits on her stoop with a laptop. Jason and Erica wheel their bikes past.
ERICA
Winnemac. How do you win a Mac? She won a Mac. Maybe I can win a Mac. Hey, do you want to hear the joke I made up today?
JASON
If I laugh, will it stop?
ERICA
What sound does Papa Bell make on city streets? Pa tolls!
Erica LAUGHS uproariously.
JASON
(beat)
Ha ha ha ha ha.
As he wheels his bike away,
JASON (CONT'D)
I'm glad we had this talk!
in completely unrelated news
Today is Diana Ross's birthday. Happy birthday, D!
Today is Diana Ross's birthday. Happy birthday, D!
Let us all now remember the 1999 Video Music Awards, in which Diana called Lil' Kim's sartorial bluff and jostled her boob right there at the podium. And one wonders, is this the kind of pure faith in acting on the impulses of one's crazy heart that leads to eighteen #1 records? How many boobs are you willing to jostle to get to the tippy top?
PUNishment success baby you say 'crazy' like it's a bad thing
Posted March 26th, 2011
Video Music Awards 1999. 1min 24s. Never forget.
Presented without comment.
Dear Readers,
Last night for dinner I had cashews and a strong beer. In bed. Which is also where I performed all consulting work done that day. This is my adult dinner. This is my adult career.
adults
Posted March 17th, 2011
All you need.
Dear Readers,
Most days I work from home, but twelve hours a week I go to my part-time job. The office is two blocks from my apartment so the commute's easy even when Chicago brings Chicago-style&trade gale-force winter. The hours are short so just at that time of the day when it's, "ugh office ugh," hey look, 4:45. And it also guarantees that I get out of the house fully dressed and showered, each of those things otherwise not certain daily events for the work-at-home freelancer. Not certain at all.
Biggest downside: I've developed a bad Nutrigrain bar habit. NutriGrain: the cake that pretends it's a fruit snack. Similarly,
Cheddar Chex Mix: the Cheetos that pretend they're flavored cereal.
Odwalla Bar: the cookie that pretends it's health food.
Smoothie: the milk shake that pretends it's a health drink.
Wheat Thins: the chips that pretend they're crackers. The chips that associate themselves with thinness.
There are plenty of others. Looking at you pumpkin pie and zucchini bread. Looking at you "trail" mix. Looking at you Raisin Bran and Cracklin' Oat Bran (the Bran Brothers). Not you, Cookie Crisp. You look us in the eye, you tell us to our faces, "I am cookies. I may be eaten like cereal, but I know exactly who I am, and so do you."
health healthfulness
Posted January 31st, 2011
"'Your hot and I feel great': The Erica Dreisbach Story"
Dear Readers,
The New York Times posted a piece last November about Landmark Forum's personal development seminars.
These kinds of Unleash Your Power programs are fascinating. Two years ago I
did a lot of research on similar programs as well as cognitive
techniques for happiness. The
research didn't make me any happier or more powerful at the time, but it did change my perspective.
Feelings aren't something that just come in to wreck you, like a tornado. A good mood is something
you can provably and scientifically cultivate, like making your own sunshine. Like lucid dreaming
where you can fly everywhere, but in real waking life. Power unleashed!
The author of the NYT piece reports that the majority of the Landmark seminar consists of
theraputically confessing your worst sins and darkest shames to 150 of your new closest confidants,
then calling and apologizing to the very people who've inflicted hurts on you that were so painful, you still nurse them. Yes, you apologize.
I know, right? Hard. This is not a seminar for wusses.
The piece reeks with a particular brand of self-deprecation that always comes
off as condescencion to me. Jokes like: "I kept a low profile, anxious that my flop sweat might
contact the microphone wiring and electrocute me." Dude, it's ok to just admit that you didn't want
to get on the mic!
At the end of the seminar, many participants have had major breakthroughs. One participant comes out
to her mother. Another commits to being a father to the illegitimate son he'd previously ignored.
Then the author says: "I had told my boyfriend, Greg — for the fifth time in seven years —
that I love him."
Ka-boom, baby. What is it like: "do I tell him this year? ... No. Not this year. Maybe next year."
The author says he is at the seminar to get over "the people
in [his] life who dumped on [his] writing without front-loading any praise first." Like: "I get it,
I'm petty. My problems are little. Other people might be in the shit, but I am not in the shit."
But five times in seven years? Oh, you are most certainly in the
shit, brother! Welcome to the jungle.
related
Every once in a while I encounter a philosopher who says that you dilute the potency of your "I love you" if you say it too many times.
Every once in a while I encounter a philosopher who says that you dilute the potency of your "I love you" if you say it too many times.
We are lucky to have the extant works of prolific geniuses like Mozart and Shakespeare. We do not
devalue these works because they are abundant; we are only grateful that we have so many of them. Robert Johnson recorded only 29 songs before his death; their scarcity adds to their romance, but they are precious because they're amazing, not because they are scarce.
If Leonardo da Vinci had taken to drawing caricatures on napkins at dinner parties, and he did this
every day for 30 years, and there were 10,000 of them, and you happened to have one: you would hold
it sacred. You would show it to your friends and say, "and this. This is one of Leonardo's
Ten Thousand."
"One of the Ten Thousand!" your friends would say. "How glorious! It's exquisite!"
Love, like genius and happiness, is valued by its quality, not its availability. Thus, it breaks
the laws of commerce. This is why you cannot buy it on the commercial market.
to be fair i prefer to say 'i love you' five times an hour
did you catch that starcraft quote proof of love
Posted January 14th, 2011
Young Tony Robbins unleashes his power. Tony Unleashed!
Dear Readers,
For a brief time last year I sat in on conference calls with a small video game company that wanted new bitmap art.
On one of these calls someone proposed using a zero-gravity engine to create a new game, but can anyone think of some zero-gravity situations besides outer space? Space is fine it's just been done, you know?
I suggested underwater and this got some positive murmurs. I also suggested the center of the Earth, or possibly the Sun. This met with some BIG guffaws. "Oh yeah, like that could happen!" "Oh yeah, like you wouldn't just burn up!"
Ahem. It's a video game, you guys! In video games sometimes you touch a feather and become a flying raccoon. Sometimes you turn into an ancient dragon to FINISH HIM! Sometimes you beat the level on the hardest setting so that eleven tiny Russians come play you the Russian Dance Trepak from The Nutcracker and then a rocket takes off. We're not at NASA discussing new live training environments for actual human astronauts. "Guys guys listen to me, center of the earth! It's so simple it's genius! Guys?"
But consider all the arbitrary constraints you put on yourself every day: bad jobs you feel like you can't leave, things you want to do but don't for ten different reasons. (And always be aware when you have ten reasons for not doing something. Why so much resistence?)
Last year I didn't even attempt to sell drawings for about ten different reasons, starting with: I didn't have the right paper. So. Can't start. Sorry.
full self-awareness is a rough way to live
sometimes ya just want to have tv and bonbons ya know?
sometimes ya just want to have tv and bonbons ya know?
Posted January 6th, 2011
From the Space Chicken series! Unfinished. But drawn on the correct paper!
