Something else that I started and also abandoned.

Staring at a brick wall.  Literally.  Staring at a brick wall.

An Addictive Hobby to Combat Death Itself

Let's consider this a mini essay that I have since abandoned,

To become idle is to become dull.
To become dull is to become devoid of value.
To lose ones value is akin to death.

This is why we escape.  Why do I escape?

Escapism exists as a binding agent between both the wandering mind and the desire to ground it in unreality.  It is free from human judgement and value, though it is subject to them.  It's purpose is to pluck one's wandering mind from thoughts of death, and the pain and suffering of the physical life by guiding their imagination and attention to the form of an activity or event.  These agents of escapism can exist either as physically engaging activities, or phenomena that can be experienced vicariously, such as a craft or a television show respectively.  For the sake of this passage, I'm going to try my best to avoid an attempted justification of my hobbies, and rather explain what the hobby does for me as a person and as an artist.

Every individual has a weapon of choice, Certain hobbies can even be experienced in multiple phases, such as being a spectator at a sporting event, or actively participating in a social sport organization.   We take our interests and talents and channel them into the thing that our minds attune to.

Recently I have become reintegrated into the addictive hobby that is video game playing.  This isn't the first time I've been in the love and hate relationship with the medium, nor will it be the last.  At times I am at odds with a hobby.  Primarily for the thoughts in my head that I'm just wasting my time, and that I'm too old for that kind of stuff, though in a way most other hobbies and recreational activities yield the same level of production and actual contribution, but we're putting this argument aside for now for this passage.

Gaming does more than just take me away from the world for a few hours at a time.  It helped turned me into a writer, and a collector.  Aside from gaming itself, my other interest involves actually going out and attempting to finish collections, or finding a game that just isn't so easy to find.  I love surfing through Reddit's game collecting page to see what people are getting at their thrift shops for fractions of what the game would cost in a hobby shop.

Truly, there is only one thing in which I can somewhat confidently produce in a moment of paralysis,

and that is the written word.  Through human limitation I cannot put my feelings into speech, and by personal limitations, cannot express them in a visual form.  I can however express them in the written word.  Pen and paper, fingers and keys.  The mind works swifter than the hand, but the hand is capable of scribing just what it needs to to get the essence of the thought.  Within that text lies the true mystery, the true answer.  With time and revision, anything can be expressed without the urgency of completion and presentation...but where is the task at hand if your hand is guided?  It's the MISguidance that stirs the emotions in the first place.  The thing that brings out ones own insecurities and darkest fears.

The answers are neatly tucked away in between the words, and it doesn't stop there.  The spaces and breaks in between words are nothing like the dark dusty corners of ones room or desk.  The spaces in between letters and words merely open to the mouth of a cave so vast, so boundless, and with infinite passageways that criss and cross to the exit of another sentence.  One sentence alone doesn't convey the metaphor, nor does the page or even the chapter.  At any point in time one thought can extend its awesome ability to another word or another thought, and pull itself there, or let itself remain.  The network of possibility is endless.

And with that, farewell.

Counter balance to the mindset that I had erected in my mind long long ago.

It always existed.  It didn't just pop up out of nowhere.  Like all great works of art this sculpture was carefully crafted piece by piece, but not without imperfection.  Within the marble soft surface of fear, there are places where even IT may chip away.  To return these feelings to the dust in which they came...how can one overcome them?

Whenever I find myself tiptoeing along the edges of the chasms I call doubt, I find my safety net waiting just below the threshold,  ever ready to catch me should I fall.  Soft meshed gentle on the skin.  I know it well, as it envelops, caresses.  It breaks my fall and gently delivers me to a place where I cannot be hurt.  All reason resides here, reasons of my own making.  They tell me that all is well.  It's OK, nothing can hurt you here.  You may stow away from the adversity you encounter on your travels.

It turns out it was another typical day at work.

They told me that New York City was one of the best places to work,

Yet they failed to mention the finer details about the lovely little rate race you would have to participate in for the duration of your time there.  In all of my life I have never encountered such adversity for the sake of apathy, where even great deeds evoke no more than a slight tweak of the corner of  your viewers mouth. 

Anyway.  It was way past late, so I decided to hang out in my usual place.  Somewhere nobody could find me, but I could hear if anybody were calling me or trying to reach me.  It was a special place.  MY special place.  I opened the window in the back of the studio and climbed out onto the fire escape.  The building only had six floors, so I climbed up an additional four flights of metal staircase.  To reach the top.  Not a satisfying or gratuitous experience.  I wasn't mounting Everest or even conquering Mount Doom for that matter.  The company itself only "owned" two floors of the established building.

They told me that New York City was one of the greatest cities in the world.  When I reached the top of the ladder I walked up on the roof of the building.  The building was encircled and enclose by all sorts of tall skyscrapers, easily swallowing any perspective of the city and the sky.  You could look straight up for a few moments and catch what you would hope to believe is a star before your neck started to get sore from the extreme angle.  I wondered, that if anybody in any of those tall buildings wanted to jump out to there doom that they wouldn't even have the gratification of hitting the city streets and causing some sort of a fuss.  They would land on this desolate roof, equipped with air ducts and air conditioners, and some garbage that found its' way here over time to be forgotten. Just like the waste, they too would become forgotten and left to become a meaningless integration of the edifice they had just met.

Those towering buildings.  So regal and professional looking, so erect.  I come here to be alone.  More alone than I was inside the office just now.  Why did I find such comfort out there I would never really know, but I was always attracted to safe offshoots from the norm.  Kind of like standing just outside of a mosh pit or a social circle.  Varying intensities not included.  I don't sit down on this roof, due to the excessive amounts of waste and filth, not to mention any insects or rodents that make a home of this place.  I merely stand and lose myself in the darkness.  The only light provided is of the offices and apartments surrounding me, so courteously and unknowingly giving me a small token.

I remember when I used to be stressed out about all of this.  The late hours, the constant required standby hours, and waiting for other people to finish their work so that I could commence my task that normally took one hundredth of the time that I spent idling around.  I am the end result, and the last eye of production, yet I do not produce.  I am at the beck and whim of those experience and outgoing enough to land themselves in somehow of a better position than I am.  In all due respects, we all exist as some level of indentured servitude.  Some just make more money and have to work less hours than others.  Those who are at the bottom rungs are left to collect dust while they continuously pour their hearts over an indefinite future.  I can barely see five feet in front of me let alone five years, metaphorically speaking.

In the past I would complain and rant about my apathy and depression over my work-no life balance to friends, industry buddies, and my girlfriend.  There's only so much somebody can say or do to cheer you up until you realize that it's all empty pep phrases that guarantee you nihil, which by all rights is the best they can do in the first place.  I used to kick chairs and scream.  I used to throw light objects across the room, wishing i could just smash the everliving hell out of some heavy shit.  I considered therapy, career shifts, lifestyle shifts.  My job barely allows me any consistent time to myself throughout the weeks, and I have no personal insight of where else I would like to land myself...and therapy?  What's another person going to be able to do for me at this point?

Nowadays, I am drained.  I bend over and take it how they want me to, and I always remember to say "Please", "Thank You", and "You're Welcome" after every helping.  I'm a good little boy aren't I?  I climbed back down the ladder, through the window, and resumed my usual position in front of my computer.  New articles, new posts and notifications, and the latest ideology, yet nothing changed for me.  I slouched further into my chair as I scrolled on and on...

Inactive, as expected, I sat at my desk staring deeply into the frame of light before me.

Bright and persistent, it's purpose to serve endless hours to an operator who also was an extension of another purposeful entity. I could feel time literally slipping out from my ears and dancing upon my brow like a will-o-wisp free of it's vassalage. It also grew weary of it's physical detention, and longed for freedom, yet it had no choice but to return to it's chambers.  And just like that it slipped away, and without missing a beat, the hour passed.  2 AM.

All the while during this amusing performance I was, with great disinterest, skimming through various blogs and news sources, attempting to somehow enlighten myself with the ongoings of the outside world. Though today's news, I could simply refresh my browser and a new ascension of data would swarm the screen exclaiming urgent breaking news. Give it a minute, it changes again, possibly even discrediting what you just read a moment ago. At times I almost felt a sense of dread when I opened my internet browser, with it's limitless possibilities and infinite amounts of user created content within the realms of intelligence and/or lack thereof.

Steam Machine Turtle!

This is another short project that I finished a few months ago, and finally got around to publishing it last night. It's a steampunk turtle with a watch in its back, and a turnkey which makes it work. The turtle itself doesn't animate. I spent more time working on the textures, lighting, and compositing than I wanted to, but I wanted to get a new reel out before the end of the year. I'll come back to this idea down the line, when I feel like making a steampunk axolotl in the shape of my pet Luka (I'll post a photo of him soon)!

Whoever sees this, enjoy :D

Steam Machine Turtle! from Donald Pearsall on Vimeo.