larvae and mothers

I like the Northern Flicker. My parents have always had bird feeders and they often attract a good flock of Flickers. From my early teens to now, I have probably had a hundred conversations with my mother about what the Flickers are up to. (Not to mention all the other birds.)

"Those Flickers! They make such a mess of the seeds."

"The Flickers just hog the whole feeder. See them lording over it, keeping the other birds away? Look, Jason, see?"

Northern Flicker. Not my photo.

Anyways, I just watched a Northern Flicker picking at an ant nest between the cracks of a concrete patio. Deftly flicking aside the dry soil and never missing the exact spots where huge chambers of ant-larvae were stored. Munching up the rich white rice-like larvae like turkey dinner.

I kinda miss my mom this morning.

I see her often, but I wish I could be with her right now, standing in their kitchen, looking out the window with her while she washes dishes, talking about birds and the weather and the bears and where she's been walking these days.

the weekend

The Weekend

people talking
more people talking
wishing
missing dreamtime
wanting to fade back into nothing
to drown in salt water
also
a damned fine hockey game


watching the hockey game,

watching people yelling,
getting drunk enough that they struggle to care,
look at him - he's forgotten about the game,
until everyone starts shouting,
he joins in with a whoop,
not knowing what happened.

don't pretend, friend.

...

I have been in the city for five days and I am turning into a grumpy, sour, unpleasant turd. Stay tuned.

two threads crossing

DOWNTOWN VANCOUVER: A few days ago as I was walking across the street, a man in his late forties staggered towards me on the crosswalk, asking for help. He was moving too slowly to get off the road before the traffic light changed, so I held his arm and coaxed him to the sidewalk.

Jeans, no shirt, well-tanned, thick belly and chest, strong arms, old tattoos. He said he thought he was having a stroke.

"I've had two strokes before. My blood pressure is through the roof."

I tried to help him breathe slowly and calm down, called another guy over to call 911, helped him sit on the ground when he felt faint. He had a vacant look in his eyes, and when I held his arms I could tell something was really wrong. His pulse was going crazy.

"Just relax, brother, you'll be okay."

I don't know how many people walked past this guy before I got there - ignored him because he was shirtless and dazed and looking unwell. I saw three people pretend not to see him before I got to him.

The ambulance eventually arrived.

"So you feel like you're having a stroke? Have you had a stroke before?"
The man said he had two strokes before.
"What have you been doing today?"
"I've been drinking rubbing alcohol for the past week."

At this point, the emergency people said I could go.
I squeezed the guy's shoulder before I left.

"Take care, brother."
He looked up at my face and said, "This guy... this guy helped me."

I treasure those chance connections, those moments when the backdrop of the big lonely city disappears and the focus closes in on two people closely interacting for a short period of time. Two humans reaching an understanding, communicating about the most basic, important things with no falsehoods layered on top.

Then the moment ends, we disappear separately into the masses of people and our individual stories continue on from there.

at least I can hear birds now.

Out the bedroom door. Once I'm back in late June, I'm home for a while. This door will be wide open, and my feet will be shoeless, for 2.5 months straight.

I have two sleeps at home, then I spend the next two weeks in Vancouver without a break. I'm completely drained, and just hope I can recharge my soul somewhat in the next fourty hours before I head back into the big city. I have the place to myself, and I'm not going to do anything but sleep and swim and read. And rotoscope 4,000 frames of dance.

The novelty of working in Vancouver has long worn off. The noises and buildings and masses of people are a nonstop assault on my senses. I'm finding it hard to get my head away from all the stimulation, to get some perspective. Even now that I'm home on this quiet island, my nerves are still frayed, I still feel like punching people in the face. My back is sore from stress, I'm eating shitty food, not drinking enough water, and I haven't slept enough. My life isn't balanced, I'm not taking care of myself, and pimply rosacea has broken out on my face.

Fuck yeah. How's that for the romantic life of the artist?

Good night.

the root of it all

At my first job as an animator, I did a lot of overtime and really wanted to please people (and myself) with good work. A lot of people worked long hours, but you were never forced to do it. One evening, at quitting time, I told one of my co-workers I was staying late, as usual. She packed up to go and as she walked out the door, she said to me something like,

"When you're lying on your deathbed, are you going to look back and think 'I'm really happy I stayed and worked extra hours that night?' Or do you think you would look back more fondly on the couple hours you spent outside in the sun instead?"

I think that one comment pretty much closed the door on my long-hours-studio-animation career.

Since then, I've used the "lying on the deathbed looking back on my life" image many times to make all manner of decisions. Thanks, animator-lady-with-the-red-hair-whose-name-I-can't-even-remember-any-more.

Here's another deathbed tidbit that really gets to the root of it: A dear friend of mine is a nurse in Whitehorse, Yukon. She's seen a lot of births and a lot of deaths. She observed that one of two things happen in the last moments before someone departs their body: Either they become completely content and at peace, or they die stricken with terror, fighting and wrestling, literally clawing and grabbing with their hands to try to hold on to their physical body.

. . .

That pretty much lays it all on the line for me. Everything I do in my life is just a lead-up to that final second in my body. It's about finding a way to exist, even for one moment, without fear, without attachment, with complete acceptance, and surrounded by love.

. . .

I saw a great article yesterday, written by another nurse who has spent years nursing the dying. In her experience, the most common regret anyone has on their deathbed is:

I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

Every male patient she nursed (and many women as well) said

I wish I didn't work so hard.

Rounding off the Top Five Lifetime Regrets were:

I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

I wish that I had let myself be happier.

fuck you, neil young

shitmix combination of the last day's work with a map I made for a tourist

Sitting in a starfucks listening to their goddamned soundtrack -

"old man, take look at my life
I'm a lot like you"

Besides my parents, I've never had many (any?) mentors in my life, and I've never really had any ideas of a life-model that would fit me - unless you count the thoroughly unmodern life-stories of painters I admire from the past fifty to three-hundred years.

But I recently had an idea that seems to work - my mentor is the Vision of Myself as an Old Man.

I imagine being a happy, relaxed, probably eccentric old man, hopefully still physically active, probably more scars on my body than I already have. Wearing shorts and barefeet and philosophizing and painting in a quiet, natural place with trees and sun and birds chirping.

This is the dude I want to talk to when I'm trying to figure out my life.

Since my discovery, I've made little comic-dialogues with him/me. His wisdom is not exactly mindblowing, but I guess it helps give me perspective. Mostly it comes down to "Don't worry about it," and "Stop thinking and relax and just be present."

The comics usually end with Old Man Jay giving me a hand-drawn knowing grin - a wordless signal from the ol' sumbitch to let me know that everything is going to work out all right.

unintentional haikoo

While biking through Vancouver yesterday, I had a writing-thought about how cyclists are the masters of the urban streets. But now I don't feel like writing about it.

Instead, let me elucidate my mental state with a bit of impromptu poesy:

covered by a dull blanket of greyness
the overcast bullshit sky