One week from today, I'll be arriving back home, jet-lagged and bleary-eyed, from an amazing weekend spent with some of my favourite people on the planet. I try not to focus on this fact, because as excited as I am, I know that LeakyCon will be over far too soon. Instead, I'm doing my best to savour this lead-up, the countdown which has gone from weeks to days. But, there will be plenty of time to talk about this next week. And the week after.
This week, I'm lucky enough to be exploring Northern California; San Francisco, in both sunshine and fog, was beautiful and quirky and full of life. The bay and the sea lions, the birds and the wind, fit together like pieces of a perfect puzzle. The redwoods are humbling, sheltering an entirely separate world underneath their dense green canopies. The rolling hills and farmers fields breathe health and vitality into the communities they surround. The cacti and bright flowers are the texture of the landscape.
It's all so different - the land and the people who live it. There is so much contrast: ocean and hills, rain and sun, small spiny bushes and towering soft redwoods, rich and poor, down to earth and head-in-the-clouds. The reality is far from the movie magic, but there is something about this place. It seems to attract people from all over, from all walks of life. It has something. I just can't seem to put my finger on it.
Unfortunately I have only one more day here, before boarding a tiny plane and flying up the coast. It has really been a brief breath of fresh air - air thick with moisture and the scents of so many trees, thick with life.
Goodnight, bloglings
Tuesday 25 June 2013
Monday 17 June 2013
Week 24: Listen Up Tour, Toronto
As I approach the halfway point of this year-long blogging project, I've been drawing comparisons with the project I completed last year. In 2012 I took a photo every day, and it kick-started a passion for photography that had been lurking under the surface since I was very young. Freezing and capturing a moment is about as close to magic as I think I can get. Nowadays I almost never leave the house without some sort of camera.
This desire to capture moments is nearly universal, and it's become so easy to do that it is virtually second-nature to most of us. We record things, people, places and sounds that we love. To share, to remember, or just to document our lives. And seeing one of your favourite artists, to whose songs you have a strong emotional connection, in a concert you have waited for for months, certainly merits being documented. Nobody wants to forget that moment - and most of us want to be able to relive it.
I get this. I totally do.
I understand that a good show, a good song, can carry people, holding them up well after the band stops playing and they file out into the night. Giving them something to reach for, to hang on to when the rest of the world is spinning.
I understand the need to document these moments, to grab them out of the air, paste them into your scrapbook and close the cover before they escape. To have something to return to, a portal back into that feeling, that day, that song.
(warning - I'm about to sound like your dad)
But it's a sad day for music when the recording, the capturing of the moment, takes precedence over the moment itself. When a person who is fortunate enough to stand three feet in front of their hero, chooses to experience the moment via a three-inch screen instead.
I suppose, as I was jostled and squashed and pushed into any vaguely person-sized gap that happened to open, that being behind a taller-than-me person who decided to film every single song was pure bad luck. If I had lucked into an uninterrupted view, or at least one not obscured by a video camera at least 70% of the time, I would not be complaining.
Despite my struggles, I can't bring myself to condemn those who want to film and photograph a show like this. Although their choice might impact my experience, isn't that the point of participating in the ritual of live music? A sea of individual people, breathing and moving and singing and heart-beating together - no longer individuals, but one being. Each slight movement triggering the next, each exhale the next inhale, each camera flash the blinking eye of this giant creature of passion and sweat and love.
Because I didn't take any pictures or record any pictures, I'll have to capture the memory of this fantastic show with my words.
Here they are:
Heat and people and closeness and energy and hearts beating and Harry Potter and new friends and less-new friends and giggles and tears and harmonies and Disney and passion and dancing and jumping and new songs and less-new songs and jokes and pictures and feelings and teenage dreams and having a home and not being alone. Oh, and so much love.
And sweat. A lot of sweat.
Goodnight, bloglings
This desire to capture moments is nearly universal, and it's become so easy to do that it is virtually second-nature to most of us. We record things, people, places and sounds that we love. To share, to remember, or just to document our lives. And seeing one of your favourite artists, to whose songs you have a strong emotional connection, in a concert you have waited for for months, certainly merits being documented. Nobody wants to forget that moment - and most of us want to be able to relive it.
I get this. I totally do.
I understand that a good show, a good song, can carry people, holding them up well after the band stops playing and they file out into the night. Giving them something to reach for, to hang on to when the rest of the world is spinning.
I understand the need to document these moments, to grab them out of the air, paste them into your scrapbook and close the cover before they escape. To have something to return to, a portal back into that feeling, that day, that song.
(warning - I'm about to sound like your dad)
But it's a sad day for music when the recording, the capturing of the moment, takes precedence over the moment itself. When a person who is fortunate enough to stand three feet in front of their hero, chooses to experience the moment via a three-inch screen instead.
I suppose, as I was jostled and squashed and pushed into any vaguely person-sized gap that happened to open, that being behind a taller-than-me person who decided to film every single song was pure bad luck. If I had lucked into an uninterrupted view, or at least one not obscured by a video camera at least 70% of the time, I would not be complaining.
Despite my struggles, I can't bring myself to condemn those who want to film and photograph a show like this. Although their choice might impact my experience, isn't that the point of participating in the ritual of live music? A sea of individual people, breathing and moving and singing and heart-beating together - no longer individuals, but one being. Each slight movement triggering the next, each exhale the next inhale, each camera flash the blinking eye of this giant creature of passion and sweat and love.
Because I didn't take any pictures or record any pictures, I'll have to capture the memory of this fantastic show with my words.
Here they are:
Heat and people and closeness and energy and hearts beating and Harry Potter and new friends and less-new friends and giggles and tears and harmonies and Disney and passion and dancing and jumping and new songs and less-new songs and jokes and pictures and feelings and teenage dreams and having a home and not being alone. Oh, and so much love.
And sweat. A lot of sweat.
Goodnight, bloglings
Thursday 13 June 2013
Week 23: Song of the Summer
Skipping the formalities of explaining why this post is so late, I think it's time for an Angry Feminist Rant. Is that cool with you guys?
As someone who gets fiercely attached to songs that are popular at certain moments in my life, I always enjoy the guessing game for what chart-topper will be remembered as the Song of the Summer. An unofficial designation, but one that I usually put quite some thought into. I guess it's part of constructing the mental scrapbook of a certain period of time - the images and feelings that make up something as magical as a summer definitely need a soundtrack.
This past weekend I spent a lot of time driving around, listening to (mostly) catchy summer tunes on various radio stations. And although it's been out for a few months, it was the first time I'd heard the song "Blurred Lines" by Robin Thicke. It's currently a major contender for song of the summer. At first blush, it's a funky, upbeat song that is perfect for car sing alongs. Except for, oh yeah: the lyrics.
For the sake of this post, we'll put aside the "normal" (although the fact that this shit is normalized makes me want to barf) sexism that pervades practically all pop songs. The objectification of women is basically all men know how to sing about.
But what particularly irks me here is the blatant disregard for the concept of consent. If you've ever heard someone talk about rape culture, this is what they mean. The idea that a woman's (enthusiastic, verbal) consent is not required in order to touch/kiss/have sex with her. The idea that even if she does exercise her right to deny consent, she is leading him on/playing hard to get/toying with him and he should keep trying/harass/rape her because he deserves it/she actually does want it, despite saying NO.
A sampling of the vile lyrics, for those of you blessed to never have heard them:
.......
I know you want it
You're a good girl
Can't let it get past me
......... I hate these blurred lines
I know you want it
...........
But you're a good girl
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Let's start with "I know you want it". This is the central message of the song - the singer is convinced that this girl wants "it", despite her giving not a single verbal signal that she does, in fact, want it. He is convinced that he knows what this woman wants, better than she does. Or, more likely, he is so pumped full of male culture that he actually cannot conceive that a woman might not want him to touch her.
He sings "can't let it get past me" implying that although this woman has not given any sort of consent, he is not going to stop pursuing her.
The "good girl" image is really a topic for another rant. (Pssst: the good girl/bad girl dichotomy is misogynistic because it gives men the power to judge women based on their conformity to archaic standards of behaviour)
The whole idea of "blurred lines" really makes my blood boil. The entire song is based on the idea that a woman's consent is not fixed or definite - that what she says or doesn't say, with regards to consent for sexual advances, is not the last word.
Let that sink in.
What people are calling the song of the summer is about how A WOMAN DOES NOT ACTUALLY HAVE THE FINAL SAY IN WHAT A MAN DOES TO HER BODY.
This is the culture we are living in. Preschoolers are taught the difference between yes and no. Most people make it past that year of education. So where did that knowledge go? That ability to differentiate between a person who wants you to touch/kiss/have sex with them, and a person who doesn't?
"The way you grab me, must wanna get nasty" - this line is perpetuating one of the biggest challenges faced by people who struggle against rape culture. Male culture somehow teaches that if a woman says yes to one thing (dancing, touching, kissing, etc.) then men have some sort of fast-pass that automatically entitles them to sex.
In case any of you are still struggling, let me break it down.
Sex without consent is rape.
If you say yes to one thing, but don't want to do something else: you have the right to say no.
If you say yes to something, then change your mind: you have the right to say no.
If you feel you have led this person on, but don't want to do something: you have the right to say no.
As a rule: you always have the right to say no.
If you do not explicitly say yes, it is rape.
The ideas in these lyrics are the exact same ideas that cause rape.
The objectification of women (though a broader issue) leads men to believe that if boxes a, b and c are checked off, they deserve sex.
Regardless of the woman saying yes or no.
And even if she does say no, her (perceived) body language, reputation or behaviour all override that denial of consent.
Great job picking the song of the summer there, general population.
/rant over.
Goodnight, bloglings
As someone who gets fiercely attached to songs that are popular at certain moments in my life, I always enjoy the guessing game for what chart-topper will be remembered as the Song of the Summer. An unofficial designation, but one that I usually put quite some thought into. I guess it's part of constructing the mental scrapbook of a certain period of time - the images and feelings that make up something as magical as a summer definitely need a soundtrack.
This past weekend I spent a lot of time driving around, listening to (mostly) catchy summer tunes on various radio stations. And although it's been out for a few months, it was the first time I'd heard the song "Blurred Lines" by Robin Thicke. It's currently a major contender for song of the summer. At first blush, it's a funky, upbeat song that is perfect for car sing alongs. Except for, oh yeah: the lyrics.
For the sake of this post, we'll put aside the "normal" (although the fact that this shit is normalized makes me want to barf) sexism that pervades practically all pop songs. The objectification of women is basically all men know how to sing about.
But what particularly irks me here is the blatant disregard for the concept of consent. If you've ever heard someone talk about rape culture, this is what they mean. The idea that a woman's (enthusiastic, verbal) consent is not required in order to touch/kiss/have sex with her. The idea that even if she does exercise her right to deny consent, she is leading him on/playing hard to get/toying with him and he should keep trying/harass/rape her because he deserves it/she actually does want it, despite saying NO.
A sampling of the vile lyrics, for those of you blessed to never have heard them:
.......
I know you want it
You're a good girl
Can't let it get past me
......... I hate these blurred lines
I know you want it
...........
But you're a good girl
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Let's start with "I know you want it". This is the central message of the song - the singer is convinced that this girl wants "it", despite her giving not a single verbal signal that she does, in fact, want it. He is convinced that he knows what this woman wants, better than she does. Or, more likely, he is so pumped full of male culture that he actually cannot conceive that a woman might not want him to touch her.
He sings "can't let it get past me" implying that although this woman has not given any sort of consent, he is not going to stop pursuing her.
The "good girl" image is really a topic for another rant. (Pssst: the good girl/bad girl dichotomy is misogynistic because it gives men the power to judge women based on their conformity to archaic standards of behaviour)
The whole idea of "blurred lines" really makes my blood boil. The entire song is based on the idea that a woman's consent is not fixed or definite - that what she says or doesn't say, with regards to consent for sexual advances, is not the last word.
Let that sink in.
What people are calling the song of the summer is about how A WOMAN DOES NOT ACTUALLY HAVE THE FINAL SAY IN WHAT A MAN DOES TO HER BODY.
This is the culture we are living in. Preschoolers are taught the difference between yes and no. Most people make it past that year of education. So where did that knowledge go? That ability to differentiate between a person who wants you to touch/kiss/have sex with them, and a person who doesn't?
"The way you grab me, must wanna get nasty" - this line is perpetuating one of the biggest challenges faced by people who struggle against rape culture. Male culture somehow teaches that if a woman says yes to one thing (dancing, touching, kissing, etc.) then men have some sort of fast-pass that automatically entitles them to sex.
In case any of you are still struggling, let me break it down.
Sex without consent is rape.
If you say yes to one thing, but don't want to do something else: you have the right to say no.
If you say yes to something, then change your mind: you have the right to say no.
If you feel you have led this person on, but don't want to do something: you have the right to say no.
As a rule: you always have the right to say no.
If you do not explicitly say yes, it is rape.
The ideas in these lyrics are the exact same ideas that cause rape.
The objectification of women (though a broader issue) leads men to believe that if boxes a, b and c are checked off, they deserve sex.
Regardless of the woman saying yes or no.
And even if she does say no, her (perceived) body language, reputation or behaviour all override that denial of consent.
Great job picking the song of the summer there, general population.
/rant over.
Goodnight, bloglings
Monday 3 June 2013
Week 22: Saving Moments
Yesterday my grandmother showed me a stack of photos that she was getting rid of. Apparently she has far too many, and these we the ones being cut. As I began to flip through them, I wondered how she could stand to throw away all these perfectly preserved moments from so long ago, from her life. Granted, she still had boxes and boxes of them - but none of those were these. No two pictures were the same - what made certain moments more valuable than others?
I guess it's a matter of perspective. Although I likely have more photos on this very laptop than my grandparents took - or had taken of them - in their lives, their collection spans over eighty years, while mine covers less than twenty. Does having lived eighty+ years of "moments" mean that some become expendable, even forgettable? I wouldn't willingly part with any of my photos, although I know many of them document meaningless things. Will this ever change? In sixty years, if .jpg and .png become obsolete, if I lose all or most of my huge collection, how will I feel?
Of course, there are certain moments that rise above the rest. But I don't think they are the moments we expect. If it ever came down to it, if ever I had to chose only a few photos to save, it wouldn't be my graduation picture. It would be the long shadows on the wooden dock, splattered with water droplets and wet footprints, that day after final exams when we took a picnic to the river.
It wouldn't be me winning my first ribbon at the fall fair. It would be me looking off into the distance, leaning on my pony's shoulder while he eats grass.
It wouldn't be my grandparents' wedding photo, smiling stiffly outside of a church.
It would be this.
After the ceremony. Being mauled by well-wishing family and friends. Catching each others eye, and sharing a moment that was just for them.
I saved this picture from the perilous "throw-away" pile. I guess everyone has a different idea of what moments are worth saving.
And I guess that's the point of taking photos at all.
Here are a few more gems I saved:
Goodnight, bloglings
I guess it's a matter of perspective. Although I likely have more photos on this very laptop than my grandparents took - or had taken of them - in their lives, their collection spans over eighty years, while mine covers less than twenty. Does having lived eighty+ years of "moments" mean that some become expendable, even forgettable? I wouldn't willingly part with any of my photos, although I know many of them document meaningless things. Will this ever change? In sixty years, if .jpg and .png become obsolete, if I lose all or most of my huge collection, how will I feel?
Of course, there are certain moments that rise above the rest. But I don't think they are the moments we expect. If it ever came down to it, if ever I had to chose only a few photos to save, it wouldn't be my graduation picture. It would be the long shadows on the wooden dock, splattered with water droplets and wet footprints, that day after final exams when we took a picnic to the river.
It wouldn't be me winning my first ribbon at the fall fair. It would be me looking off into the distance, leaning on my pony's shoulder while he eats grass.
It wouldn't be my grandparents' wedding photo, smiling stiffly outside of a church.
It would be this.
I saved this picture from the perilous "throw-away" pile. I guess everyone has a different idea of what moments are worth saving.
And I guess that's the point of taking photos at all.
Here are a few more gems I saved:
 |
| (a young grandpa) |
 | |||
| (a young grandma playing tennis and harvesting maple sap - she is on the left) |
 |
| (grandma, grandpa and the whole gang up at the lake) |
Goodnight, bloglings
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