Counterpoint

I was so excited to stumble upon Robert and Shana Parkeharrison's new body of work, titled "Counterpoint". Since I discovered the Parkeharrison's work four years ago, I have been an avid fan of their mixed-media images and find them to be some of the most profound and significant contemporary artistic commentaries being produced. 

As per usual, the Parkeharrison's center their efforts around environmental concerns and themes of human and spiritual interaction with the material world. Although I am usually not a huge fan of color photography, I find their use of the medium to be extremely effective. Please check it out. 

Robert and Shana Parkeharrison

www.parkeharrison.com

Hope everyone is having a peaceful Sunday. 

Bite the Bullet... Before It Bites You.

On our ride today, Kate asked the very profound question:

"What would it be like to poop your chamois?"

Once I realized I was not going to choke from laughter- all I could offer was a simple "I don't know!?" 

I have never had the pleasure of such an experience. 

My guess, though, is that the feeling would be akin that that which I experienced, multiple times, in my previous week. 

Certainly, some of my cloudy disposition was not entirely unwarranted or unforeseen. This week just happened to be the one where I chose to take responsibility for spreading myself too thin socially and physically in the previous months. Thus, self-reflection (instigated by my previous week's drama) forced me to confront some situations and emotions that I had been neglecting to deal with as of late. To continue the metaphor, it was time to take care of the poop in my chamois. 

And I did. To the best of my ability. 

And I felt better. 

Until I got sick on Thursday morning and missed the same class I missed on Tuesday. My physical and mental spheres were apparently incommunicado about the whole 'sacred tuesday of healing'. 

And then, on Thursday, I had the pleasure of  meeting Bullet. And Bullet met my leg.  Or attacked it, rather. Bullet's doppelganger can be seen at the top of this post. Cuddly Pitbull he is. Thanks to his owners for letting him get out, nibble my knee, and take off while I was bleeding. 

I don't know if the painful, shitty, headwind-filled ride that Kate and I took today is even worth complaining about. It was physically miserable, but mentally strengthening. 

And without it, and my good friend (and Valentine) Kate, I would not have a poop metaphor to work with for the whole of my weeklong smackdown.  

In the end, it's all good, I suppose. But I am hoping for an accident and clean chamois week-next. 

Cheers.

And don't forget to breathe...

Took the entire day to clean, organize and evaluate the 'state of my union'. I am looking forward to moving in a more positive and centered manner than in weeks past. 

"Tu o Nadie. You or No one." 

Also,

Are they going to stop teaching young children how to handwrite in school? Because you certainly do not need the skill in College Academia, or the rest of the working world for that matter. I think it's absolute bullshit that our society relies so heavily on technological correspondences and assignments. 

For kids like me who are kinetic learners, and who desire not to spend their entire days indoors pecking at a computer like a tranquilized monkey, handwriting correspondences, notes and papers IS actually beneficial. I know it would be hard to go back to the way it 'twere - but jesus, when did our society and colleges get so fucking lazy and boring that every textual document had to come from a laser printer? There was once a time when people had to, GASP, write out research papers and letters, professors and bosses had to discern Joe Blow's chicken scratch, and the rest of us actually had to CALL the pizza guy instead of ordering online (a bit off-topic, but also another technological development that seems totally bogus..).

All I am saying is, Long live long hand, motherfuckers. Someday this whole shithouse is going down in flames and if you can't write you name or an SOS note, you're going to die. 

Cheers. 

Riding Bikes with a Schizo

"Yo, Gene Roddenberry, there is no humanity in embracing your inner domineering rapist asshole!"

             -Twisty, I Blame the Patriarchy

Nor is there any humanity in embracing the apologia attitude that our culture tells us, especially women, to take when we feel the need to express our emotions.  It has become apparent to me, via various overly-dramatic situations occurring around my Annibirthary (yeah, I made it up) that in an attempt to accommodate the feelings of too many people, I have compromised my own happiness and peace (pieces?) of mind. 

Truthfully, I have attempted to avoid hurt feelings because I fear being viewed or seen as inconsiderate, or god forbid, apathetic. I have internalized hurt, discomfort and anger because I have felt that I was not justified possessing confrontational emotions. It has taken many years of unexpressed guilt to get me to ask these questions: Who the fuck taught me to feel this way? Why do I let people make me feel bad for expressing my own desires and discomfort? And how sad is it to realize that my subconscious attitudes are the result of my cultural conditioning, and not my own sensitivity/ empathy? 

Fairly sad, I would say. But, at the very least, I am recognizing this tendency within myself. 

I cannot blame people, or significant others (past/present/future) for possessing these attitudes - I suffer from the affects of a patriarchal society just as much as the next  twenty-something. However, I am fucking sick of being made to feel like I cannot trust my own instincts or intuition. And I certainly refuse to apologize for it anymore. I do the best I can to be respectful of my friends, loved ones and strangers. To be told otherwise is not a direct reflection or truthful assessment of reality. 

And to be fair, alcohol always compromises any judgment, and can derail the best of intentions-  something I, and friends, know all too well. I am guilty of believing that I can control my actions with a high BAC. Nice try. This has lead to many guilt cycles, that which I feel like I cannot and do not express, and reinforcing the apologia paradigm. 

The topsy-turvy, holy-fucking-drama-batman events of this weekend all culminated in one of the most chaotic and shitty rides of my thus-short (also not a word) cycling career. Although I feel that Mission Road will teach me a great deal about the nature of racing and riding a bike, and I will do my best to embrace it, I will curse it the whole way. Especially when I'm getting alternately rained on and sunburned. 

This will be the only and final year I try to extend my birthday beyond its menial one day. Everyday's me fucking birthday. And yours too. <3

HuZZAH! 

Do you have your tickets?

Ever the place of opportunity and eclecticism, Tucson is hosting two special interest shows for the hobbyist in all of us. The famous Tucson Gem and Mineral Show, and the Gun Show (no need to dick around with fancy names) are rapidly approaching. Both are hosted by the TCC- and god willing- will be operating simultaneously. 

So hop on the opportunity to get that handgun you've always wanted, and some fine gems to bedazzle it. Place of mount on the bike is up to you- although I suggest the handlebars for maximum intimidation.