Friends, Enemies, and Internet Losers: I have returned.

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File this under “whatever”

Even as I begin to type, I have no idea where I am going to post this. Facebook notes are usually a waste of my time and it is probably too tangential for burlesquestars.net. Too personal for the YVR blog and not self-centred and smutty enough for The Bastard’s Notebook.

I’m going to start by blaming Tristan Risk. We were sitting on the love seat in the Haus of Boudoir one Sunday afternoon at “Church”. She models a fair amount (you may recognize this if you’ve ever been on transit) and we were talking about photography. I said to her that at the stage I was at, I wasn’t ready to (and couldn’t in good faith) charge people for my photography. She, very matter of factly, said, “No. You’re not.” It wasn’t meant to be hurtful. Nor was it taken that way. It was just the honest and informed answer I have come to expect from her.

Since that day and not entirely because of it, I have grown as a photographer. I write less which is unfortunate, but I have tried to figure out where I would fit in. What would be my thing? I have gone to some shows, where I am right at the stage, contorted into positions I thought I could only manage when I was in my teens and athletic to get a shot. I have also been to shows where I see 2-3 photogs in the prime spots and don’t bother muscling in. I know them, they shoot well, why should I take the pictures they’re already taking? In those cases, I worked the edges, shooting from behind, seeing the angles they can’t.

But there is a world beyond the shows. Photography isn’t a job. I’d like it to be. But beyond the lack of any income surrounding it, it is my hobby. When I’m bored I go out and shoot. I often take way too many pictures and recently I have been paring it down. Digital allowing me to take hundreds of pics doesn’t mean I need to.

The “Summer of Shooting/Learning” went very well. What I learned most of all was, that although I have a basic studio set up, I still prefer not to use it.

I had some great photo sessions this summer. Some just happened. Some were planned. And, I have no shame in admitting, some were disasters. For me, the shame is not being able to admit to people who counted on you that you fucked up.

I will say this though: I came at a very reasonable price.

I think there are some photos I just can’t take. I don’t see them. Some are crystal clear in my head. I catch a shadow, a moment, and I know exactly when and how to shoot. Others are different. These are the ones I’ll begin working on in the winter and spring. I know exactly what I want and I aim to get it.

Technically, there’s not a whole lot I can do without a real studio space. I’ll keep collecting the gear, packing it on buses, and do what I love to do.

I can only get better. On Monday, I purchase a new camera that hopefully will help put what my eye sees into history just a little bit clearer… heh.

And, most of you who will read this know that I have at least one amazing picture of you that I have taken somewhere.

With patience and practice, I can guarantee you more.

BSC

xx

 

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So who is this @Gunslingrrr loser anyway?

All the women want to fuck him. All the guys want to be him… What a loser.

Why is he so special? Just because he  can “drink, write, and fuck like no man I’ve known before”? What a load of crap. I’ve hung out with him a couple times and I totally beat him at pool. He doesn’t take pictures or DJ and spends his time covorting with beautiful women. I’d go on but thinking about him like this just make me want to masturbate puke.

So if you happen to cross swords paths with this Polish nitwit, just smack him good… real good… yeah, like that…


INDUSTRIAL-ME-MACHINE

Where? Why? How have you gone from us?

We have been forgiven and fell to complacency

We have forsaken the picture to become

A mere, self-contained, jigsaw piece

Oblivious to the real world

Living in a lag created by

The Industrial-Me-Machine that seeks

To assassinate Darwin as surely as they

Executed God

Those who live in the sky towers who could

Never be bothered to peer down at us or up

At those who truly hold the power

Attempt to dictate and suffocate life to a mass

That should function as a collective but has been

Sabotaged by the cross wiring of Sub-contracted

Demon electricians who know what they do but still

Seek redemption from us who have been disqualified

By their masters

In the greater world where Blake’s Doors are revolving

Not welded shut by the Industrial-Me-Machine

Children play as they are while youths play as they are

While adults old men and sand filled hourglasses play as they should be

I beseech you all never call me a star

Behind the angel fire that lights the heavens

Is a physics furnace, a nuclear nightmare, a wicked fire

That runs its course according to a prescribed nature

Then burns out destroying its allies and foes without discrimination

Stranded on earth, we seek the heavens, worshipping

A distant flicker to which we ascribe name and face

We want to be the stars, and accordingly we burn out

Slaves to our nature and the Industrial-Me-Machine

And no one will truly know of our departure for thousands of years

Many miss the disappearance of a mountain

How can we expect people to peek and peer through the

Cogs and wheels of the Industrial-Me-Machine to spy

The fallen petals of the dropping flower

Those who pay-per-month for freedom because they

Don’t want to carry a quarter

Those who believe that mobility is freedom

Those who scream at microwave ovens that cook too slow

Those who goosestep and pander to curry the favour of despicable men

Those who have created a society where one must suffer the humiliations

Of teachers for twenty years just to cope

Those who teach instead of show

Those who prescribe dosage but never cure

THOSE WHO ARE THE ARMED STORM TROOPERS OF THE

INDUSTRIAL-ME-MACHINE WHO THREATEN US WITH THE NUCLEAR NIGHTMARE WHILE PROMISING THE HOLY LAND A HOLY LAND BROUGHT TO US BY DISNEYNIKEMICROSOFT AND SPONSORED IN PART BY LOYAL VIEWERS LIKE US

Welcome to today where our children are classified

As GENERAL PARENTAL GUIDANCE 14A 18A RESTRICTED

Did you give your child a name at birth?

Did you fill out a form?

Did you pay and splice and pay for the perfect child?

Did you give your child a name at birth?

What is your child’s name? What is your child’s face?

WHO IS YOUR CHILD?

Is she the angel of your world or is she 14A?

Can she watch suicide on TV as long as you’re not watching?

Do you have more important things to do?

Are you writing an angry letter to the Mansion

While your ten-year-old is readjusting the dish while your back is turned?

Is it your way or the highway?

Is it your HOUSE or your HOME?

How many flowers grow in your neighbourhood?

What is your neighbour’s name?

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

DO YOU CARRY THE BUSINESS CARD OF THE

INDUSTRIAL-ME-MACHINE?

Would you know the difference?

Do you dream in colour?

Do you dream at all?

Do your nightmares remind you to breathe?

Do the demons in your sleep smile when they exhale?

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have the dream where you’re being chased

Do you have that dream where you die?

Do you deserve it?

How many colours am I holding up?

How many could you see?

Do you see the colours beyond the pastel blah blah blah

Of the flag of the Industrial-Me-Machine that waves in the doorways

and hallways and streets and offices and sidewalks and washrooms and

classrooms and boardrooms and interrogation rooms and cells and confessionals

and hospitals and prisons?

Have you ever been in a brothel?

Where is the light rainbow of life in this world of

The Industrial-Me-Machine? I want to run wild

like a hypochondriac paranoid delusional schizophrenic

psychotic psychopath through the streets until you see

Me standing with your next-of-kin just to see the look on

Your face when you realize that life goes on without you

And you have been castrated, made impotent by the

Industrial-Me-Machine and you are forever doomed to sit

At the player piano and watch the keys


Go-Cardgate: Your tax dollars at play

I boarded the bus to find a Transit Security officer standing next to the driver. I showed my bus pass to the driver and was then stopped by the security officer who wanted to see it too. I guess the driver was blind and unable to see my valid bus pass without the officer’s help. I hoped it wasn’t night blindness because the driver needed to drive the bus too.

It soon became apparent (at the next stop actually) why the security officer was there: shake down teens for $0.75.

The adult fare for my bus is $2.50. For students, it is $1.75, but only if you have a Go-Card. All students have them. All students are supposed to carry them. We all know that all students always do what they’re supposed to.

It turns out that the security officer wasn’t just a security officer: apparently he also does research into hormonal conditions that cause 40-year-old women to look 14. His first “bust” wasn’t a day over 15 (a fact that would have been readily apparent to Helen Keller’s corpse) and therefore, unless homeschooled, owned a Go-Card. Think she could produce it though?

The looming rent-a-cop bullied her into giving up the $0.75 her absent Go-Gard said she didn’t have to pay.  The bullying he did for free. Not to mention being a little too free with his hands which almost had me standing up and in his face. After she paid her extra fare and slid away, embarrassed and feeling violated, I locked eyes with the officer.

“You’re a real fucking hero.” He could tell by the look on  my face exactly what would happen if he let it. He said nothing and kept his back to me the entire time.

In the 20 minutes I was on the westbound, West Vancouver bus, the Transit Security officer managed to shake down another $0.75 for a total of $1.50. At $1.50 every 20 minutes, apparently Go-Card gate is costing this bus about $4.50 an hour. What a good thing for taxpayers and transit users that this security officer works for only $4 an hour.

He doesn’t?

Oh, how much does he make?

Really?

“Don’t suppose you have a name or a badge number or something like that?” I asked as I left the bus. I didn’t receive an answer, but the look the driver shot me as I nodded my goodbye let me know that the driver would be saying something to someone.

You can imagine my shock when I got off the bus and saw that there were TWO! And a chase car!  How much money are we losing to these malicious kids and their Go-Card scam?

Who the hell is paying for all this? Students by their very existence as students don’t need to pay the adult price.  Should they have their Go-Cards? Sure. But do we need to pay two security officers and fuel up a single-occupant car (the whole reason people should take the bus instead) to shake down and cop feel from teens for money that they don’t owe?

I figured that saying something at the time would just make it worse for the kids involved. Besides, I kind of felt for the guy. It’s not everyday someone who doesn’t qualify to be a real police officer gets to feel like anything but a bully with self-esteem issues… oh, wait.


The Best Laid Plans of Monkeys and Men

If there was one thing my neighbourhood wasn’t lacking in when I was growing up it would be trees. Caulfeild is filled with them. Likewise, Caulfeild Elementary School. A lot of the trees have been cleared out now. Other haves been allowed to grow, changing trails that I once knew like the back of my hand into new labyrinths to conquer. There is one tree however, that hasn’t moved or grown much. It hasn’t changed at all. I know this is a rarity, if not impossible, in the natural world, but I think this tree remains unchanged for the mere purpose of mocking me and my gender.

Boys climb trees.

In Grade 4, that’s exactly what myself and a handful of my cohorts did: climbed this tree. We decided, as we looked down and the lunch hour games beneath us, to take a marker and write the names of the girls we liked at the top of the tree.

BOYS climb trees. Girls play with dolls. Girls collect scratch-n-sniff stickers. Girls… well… Girls don’t climb trees!

Girls do climb trees. Just because a girl doesn’t do something on a regular basis (leave the house looking like hell, not pee in a group, fart), doesn’t mean she can’t. This is the mystery of women and, to me, what makes them glorious. It’s not about Mars and Venus. Astronomy has nothing to do with it. It all about Quantum Mechanics and Chaos Theory. It’s not knowing what particular behaviour will be demonstrated (there are a handful to choose from and easily recognized with proper observation), it’s what behaviour will be demonstrated next. They say the hardest thing to do is hit a major league fastball. Bullshit. At least when that pitcher winds up, you know a baseball is coming flying at you. With women, you have no clue.

Sucks to be us but I don’t care for the alternative.

Now every time I return to Caulfeild School, the tree continues to mock me for being presumptuous about the opposite sex. I learned not to do that when I was 10, and every year thereafter.

Every guy has that tree somewhere.

 


Biography of a Tattoo

“What if human sexual desire turns out to be merely an ‘animal’ instinct? That is, what if it’s just a biological urge which […] fixates itself on certain physical types, shapes, faces, personalities, and out of all that […] we try to construct ‘meaningful’ relations?” ~ Stan Perksy, Autobiography of a Tattoo (1997)

I have three tattoos: the Cameron Clan seal (to represent my father’s family), a Hereford bull’s head (to represent my mother’s family), and Cindy Lou Who over my heart. There is only one “true” story as to how she came to be there. I’ve been told that others abound. I’ve never heard them. I don’t gossip and don’t give a flying fuck about people who do. But, here for the record, is the biography of my Cindy Lou Who Tattoo.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am, well, girl crazy. In fact, if you are a young brunette of my acquaintance, I can pretty much guarantee that I have dreamt about us, in some exotic locale, fucking like two feral dogs. One such young woman crossed my path nearly three years ago. I was smitten the moment I saw her. You see, I am also a perennial, hopeless, capital-R Romantic. The moment I saw her, I fell in love.

Head over heels.

Well, I think it was my heels. I couldn’t see them at the time.  When I stepped on the scale I weighed 5lbs less than Homer Jay Simpson. Yup. I was 5lbs lighter than the icon of fat slatternly faineance.  I had really let myself go.  No self-respecting woman would want to be with me. So, I got off my ass and started jogging, fixed my diet (no deep-fried foods, no deserts, no junk food), and started taking a real care about the amount and types of toxins I’d fed into my system on a far too regular basis. Over that summer, I lost 30lbs. After that summer, on her birthday, I had Cindy Lou Who tattooed over my heart.

Why Cindy Lou Who? Because she was the cute little creature who gave the Grinch his heart back. So did she. In more ways than one. We never got together. No exotic locales. No feral dogs. But she is my friend. She makes me smile, and my mood always brightens whenever she enters a room. Coming to grips with who she was made me come to grips with who I was and wanted to be.

I still love her, but as a dear dear friend.  She is by no means perfect, and she does not stand above me, looking down from a pedestal of my own design… But any girl who comes for my heart has to get past that tattoo first. It’s not a symbol of what she is worth. It is a symbol of what I must do to attain the things I desire and deserve.


The Four “Perfect” Photos: How to talk to genii

Earlier today, I created a Facebook photo album titled, “The Four ‘Perfect’ Photos”. The album’s description reads:

“Is it a bad thing to have found four photographs that come very close to capturing your idea of a perfect life? If I opened my eyes to see this scene, and everything in it, I might happily close them again for the last time.”

Here are the photographs along with their captions:

I want to drive down this entry...

... in this car ...

... to this house ...

... to find her waiting in our backyard.

If a genie were ever to grant you a wish, don’t ask for something. Ask to be granted a situation. If you ask for a nice car or $1,000,000 that’s all you get. Ask to be someone. If you are granted to the wish to be who you really want to be, then material objects become objects again, rather than aspirations.

The four photographs above are all beautiful in their own way, but the one I will certainly take the most heat for is the last one, for more than obvious reasons. But I chose my words carefully. She “waits” in “our” backyard. If she waits, she cares for me. If the backyard is ours, she, unlike the first three photographs, is not a beautiful possession; she is my partner, my equal… and beautiful.