Archive - 2001

Well, I went over to Victoria this past weekend for a whirlwind tour to help out with my mommy's computer and then did a few things with friend's around town. It was really cool to visit, but the time was limited and I didn't see all those I wanted to see. I think I will have to take some time off and visit some more.

Although, I got a web cam -- and I don't know why! I suppose it was just fun and now I will litter my computer and my website with pointless pictures of myself! Yay! Here is the first one...from the ShaneCam!

Again, I have lacked in my posting. This is not due to my stupidity, but it is due to my lack of time. But, who the hell cares? I doubt there are people who read this site on a regular basis, anyway. Yet, I will post more often now that I am settled into my place here in Vancouver.

My life appears to be getting underway finally. There is quite a difference happening over here. I feel it everyday, but I just hope to stop wasting time commuting all the time to work. It is quite silly. All of these hours wasted in the car, due to a transit strike here. I want to get more things done without being trapped! Anyway, I will be quiet now and save up my energy for tomorrow's entry.

Throughout the history of writing there has always been, and always shall be, I would imagine, the bane of the menacing critic. I have heard and read there have always been critics of the theatre, but more recently an explosion of critic weed has expounded our psyche with their brilliant and, at times, intellectual commentary.

Critics began as such a quiet and well-read breed. But, now, they have emerged in every facet of our lives. We see them in our theatres still, but also in movie houses, public forums, and the most sinister of them all -- the self critic. This kind of critic is not just an interior type of beast, but it roams the halls and streets of our daily lives. We see the self critic in the hallway on our way to the bathroom. We see this critic at work, both in the reflections of our computer monitors and on the face of each individual we meet. It is terrible. We can't seem to escape the self critic.

This critic is always a negative force. We are not able to find a single shred of existence that will make it happy. We can brush our teeth asnd see it talking to us or hiding from us only to strike when we least expect it. Imagine, sitting on the toilet and having that little critic tell us we were doing our business wrong! It is always nagging and sucking the creative force out of us. I wish I could invent a device to quiet our critics. Very powerful, it is.

This self critic takes things we hear and makes them different. The words are the same and you may hear them a few times a day, yet the person who hears them will, for some reason, think they mean a different thing. Did that make sense? Well, it was supposed to...

I guess what I am trying to convey, and as usual have not made a whole lot of sense but that is what I get for writing this stuff late at night and spending no more than ten minutes or so, is that I have been trying to ignore or quiet my self critic. I am sure I will be able to speak more about this later.

Someone told me today that I was a "good boy". Does anyone really give a hump about their neighbours anymore? Are there people out there that would give a left arm to help out their nextdoor buddy? There must be! I can't imagine it any other way...?

There is always some reason to not feel good enough, but why? Some people just do not understand.

I was thinking the other day that most of my postings are quite vague. I usually do that on purpose, but I thought it was worth a mention on my website and I don't want to hide some facts about my life. Sure, these are facts that are well known, but if anyone were to read this site, they might actually not understand a whole lot of what I am speaking about.

I have always thought that the art of writing should always come from the heart and not the head. That is always for later. So, I will now write with the most heart I have written with in the entire writing I have done on the Internet.

Many people have asked me in the last few days since I found out that I was moving away:

"Why are you moving, Shane? What brought this on?"

Well, I had always said, for years, that I was born in Victoria, and I would end up dying here. That remains to be seen, but I expect it will come true. Victoria is not a bad place. But, I know that for the last year, it has become some place that I don't think I need to be at this point in my life. There are so many things I can experience elsewhere and I hope to make the most of it. I need to stretch out and expand my own horizons before I realize I am 40 years old and wonder where my life has gone. Now, my reasons...

I tried an experiment this past weekend. It was a success. Good for me, but never again! More will be explained next month!

To write. To write. To write. Why do I write. What is it with all of these pictures in my head that spin around like hovering tops. Nothing ever seems to touch the ground inside of my brain. Nothing ever is clear. It is always blurry.

Is it really a job or an occupation to write something down on paper or, in this day and age, to post it digitally for others to read. I mean, what is it that drives me to write. Well, if I were to answer that question, I would like to say that it would most likely be a fact that I am driven because I have no explanation other than that. I am driven. I need. I desire to write. I think that as time goes onward, my desire becomes all that more pushy.

I have many friends who worry that they are pushy or demanding upon me. I don't see why this is such a worry for them. Maybe, I should express my hidden secret that I am a late night writer. I should really tell them. Okay, well, these rants are not what I write all the time. I just enjoy writing something where the preparation time is not all that demanding. If I miss a day here and there, then so be it.

Well, I have established that I write because I must. Most committed writers will tell everyone the exact same thing. But what about those who don't write. Are they doomed never to write since they feel nothing that makes them want to write? Or can one be trained...interesting.

Why, I ask. Why me? Why have I got things in my head that I find not overly exciting to enjoy and too unclear to express? Over active imagination? Probably. Well, enough yabber tonight. Must sleep.