Posts Tagged ‘family’

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Woke up sad.

August 3, 2013

Dreamed that I was at Artswells. Deliriously running about, trying to outsource a ladder to hang lights because the one I had been given to use was dodgy and collapsed. Fortunately I had one strapped to my car, though it’s only 2 steps high. But it didn’t matter, because I was doing what I like doing best in a place I would like to do it most.

Why Artswells? First, why not artswells?

Because I couldn’t make it work this year. I did a festival last weekend, Resonance. It was very much fantastic. A little more house music than I’ d like, but I wasn’t in charge of booking. Good thing too, I wouldn’t know where to start with that sort of thing. I’d likely be able to figure it out, but there are people much more qualified for such things. It was up in the cowichan valley, a beauty of a spot, reminiscent of a certain beach, albeit with a river alongside, rather than ocean. I think there is a good possibility those boys have started something lovely. I had a great time, getting to run about and light things up and generally making it look like this. Image

I think for the most part, people could see and enjoyed themselves and thought it was pretty so, total success, right? Got home Tuesday night, spent most of Wednesday sleeping and by Thursday morning realized I didn’t have time to make it to Artswells. Not there. There was no issue, except for the money challenge (the challenge being I have none) which always seems to work itself out. Failing that, borrowing money for the ferry and hitchhiking will always be the best of back up plans, as far as I go.
No, the issue comes from the fact that I signed on to help at shambhala with the friends I would do just about anything for. Do I wish they had the call to do Artswells? Yes. Do they? No.
If I left Artswells Sunday night, missing what looks to be an amazing Sunday night and drove through the night to arrive in Victoria on Monday morningish, I’d likely be okay to drive by Tuesday morning..probably. As in, I’d probably make it in time to get enough rest to drive a one-ton filled with gear up and down twisty mountain roads safely and happily to arrive at the show and then go to work like a crazy person.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful time at Resonance, I will have a wonderful time at Shambhala. It’s what I do. Awesome is my default setting. But there is something about Artswells that calls me. It vibrates at a frequency that makes sense. Those things don’t come along all too often. And it kills me that I’ve missed it two years in a row now. So much so that I’ve spent part of the morning since I woke up surfing housing, jobs, etc. up in wells, Quesnel and the Cariboo just to entertain the notion that there’s no way I can miss it next year if I live there!

One reality is, I’ve come to a place where I prefer live music. Is it because I’m getting older? Because I’m less able to differentiate between the seemingly endless categories of house music and various other genres? Because I’m less inclined to dance to something unless I really really really like it and I find myself dancing less and less? Because I’m sick to death of neon fun fur?
Yeah, probably because I’m old. Let’s just go with that one.

As we get older, is it ideal that our tastes refine themselves? Should we be broader in our acceptance of things people like? It’s not that I’m not accepting that there are people out there, younger and older than me, who want to dress in vinyl and fuzz and rock out to a driving beat that they would never consider boring or unimaginative thrown down by a guy who is so involved in what he is doing there is relatively little space for interpersonal interaction. Actually that last sentence makes it sound as though I’m extremely intolerant of such things.
I’m totally not.
If I so desired, I could make an extensive list of friends I have who are electronic musicians who play music I love so much, it would be all anyone could do to get me off that dance floor. And it’s also not fair to compare one music festival to another because there will be great and not so great aspects to every single one, depending on what you’re hoping to get out of the experience.

Here is what I can see is the difference between Artswells and the rest (excepting Tiny Lights because it’s exactly in the same category for reasons I’ll make obvious later) at least for me.
(Did you catch that last part? FOR ME. Not for anyone else does this opinion apply, because it is mine. And I would never presume to tell you that your love of fun fur is wrong for you, just because it’s wrong for me. I’ll address why I have this belief another time. )
I would like to live there. Every other festival I’ve ever been to was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Artswells takes place in a location that speaks to me. It wants me to come back at a time when the festival isn’t happening because I would find just as much joy on any other day as I would while the festival is happening. I don’t know how I know this to be true, it just is. Ymir, obviously, the same. Mostly because I already have and do and will live there and I know that it’s home. It’s not my only home, but it’s at the top right this second because I have yet to find a place, a community, a creek, a mountain, a house, etc that compares.

But I’m not there right now. And I’m not in Wells. And so I woke up sad. It doesn’t happen everyday, but it happened today. Some days are like that.
So to my Ymir family, I miss you and I would like to come back soon and I will and please reassure Gala that it’s not forever and I’m sorry I’m not there to take her for walks and be alpha.
To the Wells family that I’m still getting to know and love, it wasn’t to be this year, but two years of sad is about all I can take and so there is nothing in the ‘verse that could stop me from coming next year.  But I know, thanks to those luscious friends of ours, Mr Shawn and Miss Carla, there will be interactions aplenty and musicians who travel back and forth, connecting us through highways made of stuff more tenuous and tangible than asphalt.

And we’ll light it up. Image

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Babies and cake

March 9, 2009

When I was younger, I always marveled at how my mother could so easily give up the bigger piece, or in some instances, that last piece of cake to her children. To me that was the epitome of what defines a mother. That extreme act of selflessness, of sacrifice, to ensure that her child never wants for cake.  I think this was likely my first inkling that children might not be at the top of the list when considering how my future might play out. And not because I want all the cake. I just don’t like the idea of feeling obligated to share.

And perhaps it would be different if I did have a baby. Perhaps my love for this larval progeny I’ve created would overwhelm any feelings I have of eing unfairly manipulated into giving over my dessert. But it stands to reason that the mere fact I tend to refer to babies as progeny, larvae, brood, etc would suggest that my maternal tendencies are somewhat lacking. And truly, I have no concious desire to procreate. Friends tease, they tell me that I’m 32, my biological clock blah blah blah. As though I’ll suddenly be overwhelmed by the need to have some parasitic entity squirming around inside of me for 9 months until it pops out and pretty much ends any chance I have of seducing a 27 year old flamenco dancer on my 42nd birthday while vacationing in the south of spain.

Of course, I am not immune to the genetically imprinted biological yearnings the species has to propagate.  Like all women of childbearing years, I ovulate, so for approximately 12 hours every month I have an incredibly strong urge to copulate with the best the species has to offer. Fortunately, I’m not unaware of it, or a slave to this idea that women must have babies. That’s what we do. Because we can.

I call bullshit.

Don’t misunderstand. The very fact that something which starts off as a single cell, and grows to be an incredibly efficient computing machine (even if it only fulfills a small portion of it’s hard and software potential) is amazing to me. Couple that with the fact that every single one of these entities is unique. The set of cells that compose me will disappate once I die and they will never recombine to form anything quite like me, ever again. It’s quite fantastic.  It was fantastic all 6, 752, 099, 100 times it’s happened to get us to the population we’re at right now.  It’s likely much more than that even since I’ve typed this sentence. Whether it’s bang on accurate or not is beside the point, reasonable estimate will sometimes do in a pinch.  I get my information from worldometers, of course. It’s good to have perspective and interesting to see the categories they’ve added as a result of what’s become culturally embedded as an everyday occurrence. For instance, blogs written, google searches and money spent on obesity related issues in the u.s weren’t there a year ago.

What does all of this have to do with a decision on my part to not have children? Why would I? There are millions already who have no one. And still, every minute there are more being born.  Single moms of octuplets aside, what about 14 year old girls dropping out of high school to have a baby because the school advocated abstinence, rather than sex education that actually applies to kids in a practical fashion with all their raging hormones, need to experiment and insistence that pregnancy won’t happen to them.  If I’m susceptible to forgetfulness in the heat of passion at age 30, how likely is it that a 14 year old girl will be responsible if she’s never been told it’s an option.  And giving it up for the first one who’s remotely nice to her. Yes, I was once a 14 year old girl, desperate to fit in, to be liked, to be thought pretty. It never occurred to me to want to be respected, to be admired for something beyond the flesh. Fortunately for me, it didn’t take long to realize that mating rituals between men and women as dictated by society’s standards are a farce, and I escaped relatively unscathed.

A farce? But that’s a crazy huge number of years evolving and refining techniques in order to best find a suitable mate! How can I call it a farce?

Take peacocks. Female peacocks are grey or brown. Not especially impressive. Male peacocks are blue and green and gold and flashy with tails and fluffy head things and loud cries and dance moves like wow! They are desperate to impress upon a girly that they be the best chance of the species going in a healthy and sane direction. She doesn’t need to dress to impresss, her genes are being carried on no matter what. There’s never any need for a maternity test.

And the human mating rituals? Women spend countless hours on getting all gussied and prettied and shaven and painted and fitted and tucked and enhanced and for what? To go out and all too often ingest copious amounts of alcohol and hope the person she wakes up next to isn’t completely repulsive. Because it’s better to be with someone you don’t find completely repulsive than to be alone. Although, to be fair, these days there’s certainly an increasing trend towards men spending a good portion of their time prettifying themselves to some extent. It seems just as silly and wasteful when they do it.

Cynical with regards to human tendency towards excessive and unnecessary procreation? Yes. By all means yes.

This selfish idea we have of needing to see what a mini version of us and someone else would be like so that we can selflessly give it the last piece of cake? There doesn’t seem to be any balance there. Especially when there are an insane proportion of children who don’t have water, food and safety from being blown up by mines in their backyard, much less cake.  If I had any maternal tendencies whatsoever, I would certainly do my best to emulate Josephine Baker and her decision to adopt 12 kids from  different countries. Her ‘rainbow tribe.’

All that said, would I consider myself cynical towards companionship and love? Not even a little bit. I understand the need for social animals to act socially. It’s the socially irresponsible behavior that makes me rant so. It seems so reasonable to me to take care, to ensure that the decisions I make have as sane an impact on those around me as possible. And strangely enough, when I express to people  ‘no, I’m not feeling pressured to meet someone and settle down because I don’t want to get married and I don’t want children’  it’s me who is considered odd.

Whatever. It takes all kinds. That’s likely why there are so many different flavors of cake.

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