Inspiration and Motivation

I wish I could say I’m sitting here right now, feverishly banging away on this keyboard as I let my jumbled thoughts tumble out onto this page.

But I can’t; it’s more of a half-truth than it is the full-truth.

I can’t seem to do that kind of thing, no matter how hard I try, which is probably why I can’t do it. Writing is almost like a possession, where something takes over the hand and the phalanges flail across the keys – click, click, click – until a coherent narrative forms.

It’s an exhilarating feeling when your mind is working in overdrive and you can’t seem to get what’s inside your imagination written down fast enough. Writers know what I’m talking about. That feeling you have when you’ve lost any and all inspiration, walked away from the screen (or pen and pad) and thrown yourself at the world, when out of nowhere, a metaphorical truck hits you and the creativity dam breaks.

I’ve never been in high, but it’s what I’d imagine it to be.

I believe this kind of euphoria transcends the writing realm into other parts of life. I see it in music, I feel it in music and I identify with musicians when they put on a passionate performance. I’m thinking specifically of a performance by pianist Diana Krall on a show called Spectacle, which I will post as well. She plays an old jazz tune called ‘Night Train” with such electricity, it seems as if the atmosphere is alive, each note looking for it’s place in the auditorium. You can hear it in the way she deftly plays the keys when she goes into a solo, when she hammers down in a crescendo or when she grunts in satisfaction, hearing the sounds coming from underneath the piano canopy.

It’s that kind of euphoria writers are always chasing – always wanting to tap right into the imagination and transcribe thoughts onto paper. Unfortunately it doesn’t work like a tap where one can turn it on and off at will, which would be awesome, yet bland at the same time. Half the fun of writing is going through everyday life looking for a good story to tell, not necessarily a unique or off-beat one, just a good one. Sometimes it’s told well, sometimes not, and sometimes it’s an utter failure.

But we keep trying.

We keep trying because we inherently know that there is an audience that wants to hear these stories. Even if that audience is ourselves.

Isn’t that morbid?

It’s a cathartic experience to write, to play music, to be an artist because inspiration can bottle up until something takes takes it, shoves a breath mint in it and shakes the damn thing till it explodes. Then you’ve got a big mess of creativity that you don’t know what to do with but you know you must do something with it.

And that’s the fun of it all, seeing inspiration come alive when it strikes like a lightning bolt. Like a switch has been flipped and all the body can do is get out of the way as the mind takes over and spits out thoughts, words, sentences, analogies, allegories, metaphors...



“Whatever you are, be a good one.”
-Abraham Lincoln

Going forward (kind of)

It seems I’m always in a whimsical mood when I write on this blog. I usually sit down with my laptop and tap away on keys with no aim or purpose other than to see letters form words as they flash across the screen. It’s strangely cathartic for some reason; there’s just something about organizing thoughts and putting them down in a coherent fashion that has a calming effect.
If I was a really talented writer, I’d be using a typewriter to do this. I’m reading Moby Dick right now and I can’t comprehend writers using such a thing back then. Sure, it’s got that romantic write-what-you-feel-and-damn-the-outcome aspect to it but fixing any kind of typo would be a problem. I’m constantly editing myself when I write, looking for that elusive and perfect phrase, so using a typewriter would drive me insane.
This blog has been neglected for the last few months as I endured and survived all that j-school could throw at me. The program just about broke me but like the old saying, ‘whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.’ I still have a passion for current events and I’m still trying to read; I’m forcing myself to go after ‘The List’ - a collection of books I swore I’d read after school - and Moby Dick is at the top of it.
Someone very wise once said along the lines of, ‘find a job you enjoy doing and you’ll never work a day in your life.’ I wish it were that simple. If I want a career in journalism, I’ll have to go to a big city but I’ve fallen for the county. Vancouver was a good experience - I liked the culturally diverse atmosphere and it’s a great place for news and news junkies like journalists. But it’s so ridiculously expensive to live there and makes it a tough go on a journalists salary unless you land something at the Sun or Province. Loyalty to a job or career is a good and noble thing but devotion isn’t a collateral asset one can put down for a mortgage.
I get a little unsettled when I start going on this kind of mental track. I believe we’re all here for a purpose and we all have a place in life. We can pray to God to reveal it to us (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing) but it seems like there’s no way for personal and spiritual growth if one doesn’t flounder around for a bit.
I guess I’m still floundering.
I’m now working for a magazine publishing firm and it’s a little different from what I’m used to with newspapers. Deadlines are more lax but it’s the slow season so I don’t plan on resting on my laurels. But it’s still an adjustment and it’s in a career field I’m trained in.
Till I find my niche and place, I’ll just continue to use this blog as a canvas to explore my writing and see where it goes. Which is why I started it in the first place.

You say you’ll give me eyes in a moon of blindness
A river in a time of dryness
A harbour in the tempest
But all the promises we made
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you
-U2

Casting the line

I spent too much time going over this essay but it could potentially net me $2,000 so I did put a more-than-average effort into writing it. I wrote one for last year's Jack Webster student scholarship application but I figured a full rewrite was in order, considering I have a full year of j-school training to reflect some newly formed and altered opinions of the industry. Hopefully it'll turn some heads but for now - I play the waiting game.

Enjoy.

Journalists provide knowledge to society because people depend on accurate and balanced information to make decisions in everyday life. Knowledge is power and journalism is the vessel used to enlighten and empower society. What separates the journalist from the academic is journalists do an interrogation and interpretation of events on a daily basis and present their findings to a broad public audience as accurately as possible. This daily process of sifting and presenting information is vital to a free and informed society.

At the foundation of democracy is the free flow of information. Journalists serve as the watchdog of society, bringing issues and situations to light that have a public interest. As the world has seen in totalitarian regimes and dictatorships, information is tightly controlled, but democracy thrives on the institution of the free press. Because of freedom of the press, a well-informed society can set their own policy course and govern themselves.

I worked for a year and a half at the Kootenay News Advertiser, a small community newspaper in Cranbrook, British Columbia, to test the waters of news reporting. I quickly learned the importance of meeting deadlines, reporting accurately and identifying news items. I found it to be a rewarding profession and saw that a well-produced news story could make a positive difference.

Technology has changed the way journalism is presented, but the art of seeking out and crafting news stories has not. Citizen journalism has risen in profile in the digital age because anyone with access to the internet can post information. However, citizen journalists do not have proper training and fail to consider the importance of context, background, balance, accuracy, impartiality and social responsibility.

Journalists are bombarded with information on a daily basis and their role is to filter all the noise and pursue items that impact and concern the public interest. Journalists are interpreters who must grapple with doing proper background research all the while anticipating the direction of the story. They must be above the fray, without any vested interest in the news reported. Journalists must be credible because the public can, and will, find out those who are not and blacklist them, discrediting the entire industry, not just the individual reporter or publication.

I was in Copenhagen, Denmark during the month-long Israeli military campaign against Hezbollah in 2006. There was an open demonstration for what Western democracies have labelled a terrorist organization. I was taken aback at such open support and it served as a powerful reminder that there are always different sides to an issue or situation.

Ultimately, journalism is a profession that encourages communities to interact and engage themselves. I chose to step down the career path of journalism because I want to help facilitate community engagement. My immediate goal is to win one of the two internship opportunities at the Vancouver Sun over the summer. Despite the seeming decline of traditional newspapers, the industry is constantly evolving with new technology. I believe that the the future will only hold good things and that now, more than ever, journalists must rely on their creativity and training to keep up the profile of good journalism.

Savouring the moment

It was a beautiful day. There were no clouds at all in the sky. I stood in one place and gazed up into the blue expanse, admiring the consistency of the colour. It looked as if the Almighty had taken a paintbrush to the heavens to cover up a white canvas background. The sun was out in the afternoon sky, lazily making its way towards the horizon.

I was on my way home from an expedition to explore the city. The bus I had been riding stopped frequently to pick up other transit users. Sitting in the seat along the side in the back, I was able to view the entire length of the vehicle which contained an interesting mosaic of human diversity. There were Asians mixed with Caucasians and African-Americans, senior citizens sitting beside new mothers holding fussing babies. I saw teens sloppily dressed in t-shirts one size too large, with pants sagging down their waist, engrossed with their cell phones, oblivious to the world around them.

I took my headphones from my iPod out of my ears and placed them in my pocket. Something about the moment told me to make it pure, to drink in the ambient sounds and environment without some nameless rock star blaring noise into my consciousness.

The bus creaked and hissed as it stopped. The double doors slid open with a clanging sound, releasing those who had lined up at the door. Some faces walked on through the front door, dumping their change into a box which spat out a ticket. The bus accelerated and people grabbed onto rails to steady themselves. I looked outside at the cars and houses lining the street as the bus picked up speed and gathered my bearings. Only a few more stops to go.

I glanced outside again. I felt as if nature was calling me, which it very well may have been, but I am in the city. Cities are where people go to get away from nature. And yet, something about the day, the moment, called to me, beckoning me to the outside world.

I reached up behind me and yanked on a cord running the length of the side of the bus. A bell-sound echoed inside the bus and the driver maneuvered the vehicle to the side of the road, decelerating slowly. I got up and stumbled towards the door, using a handrail to keep my balance as the vehicle braked. As the bus lurched to a complete stop, I lightly pushed on the handle of one of the double doors. The door automatically parted at the middle, swinging inwards. I stepped out onto a gravel patch surrounded by grass and took a deep breath. Seeing me in the clear, the driver swung the front of the bus back out into the land and sped off.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and stared down the street, houses staring at each other on both sides. Lush greet trees lined both sides, reaching up thirty feet, with branches stretching out at the top, meeting in the middle. It was as if nature itself had built an archway covering the length of the street.

My eyes moved to the sidewalk. Leaves were scattered about, different shades of brown, orange and red, signaling the turning of season. I began to walk down the sidewalk, the vulcanized rubber soles scuffing the concrete. Leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright.

I passed underneath the organic archway covering the street, stepping into a shaded environment.

It was like putting on a set of sunglasses. My pupils dilated slightly to take in more light in the shade and my skin cooled. The environment, which seemed so bright and hard to see before because of the light of the sun, had taken on a new clarity. I noticed details. Colours from garden plants leapt out at me, I stared at gnarled and weathered bark on trees and watched the wind bully errant autumn leaves. Birds called out, feathered masses flying through the air, perching on uncluttered branches. Squirrels ran along tree limbs at all heights, starting and stopping in quick, jerky movements.

On the street cars drove by, their engines rumbling, howling or purring - depending on the make and model. Loud rap music pounded out of one. Drivers sat behind their steering wheels, concentrating on the road, and some (more so), on the conversation they were having on their cell phones.

I slowed my pace, drinking in all the details, eventually coming to a stop after a block of walking. Again I admired this landscape that seemed to be a fusion of urban and nature. But not real nature. Real nature is a place miles and miles away from the city, where one gets lost in mountain ranges. But this wasn’t real city either. Real city is a place where skyscrapers sit side-by-side, for blocks on end, where crowds of people wander the streets, where cars, trucks and buses slow traffic to a snail’s pace.

Weighing the matter, I stared once again at my surroundings. Whatever it was that my mind was trying to decide, I’d learned one thing. The everyday, the ordinary, the mundane, can be used to see the world differently and gain new insight.

The moments we savour.

Elemental Love

Our love is deeply rooted

in the ground, clutching the bowls

of the earth

Fertile soil bears a harvest,

Reaping that which was sown 

from coyness and mirth 

Our love is carried on a breeze,

a free spirit dancing on chinook

gusts of air

Travelling through the land

in every season, a relief

results from a prayer 

Our love burns like wildfire,

consuming all emotion in

a destructive blaze

Passions flare up from the ashes,

a single spark caused by

a sultry gaze

Our love flows down a river,

tumbling over rocks and pooling

in the current

Through the rapids it churns,

sinking in the eddies and

rising in the torrent

Like the calm before a storm

our love bides the time, waiting to

rampage across the land

Forces collide and wrestle with

the elements, only to submit

to nature's command.

A Time to Reflect

I like the night.

There is something very appropriate about the cycle of light and darkness. During the day, people go about living their lives but retire when the sun goes down to sleep the darkness away.

Nighttime appeals to me because as I get older and life gets more complicated, I find I need time to get away from any and all distractions so I can enjoy time in the present, even if it’s only a moment.

At night, traffic dies down, house lights go off and it seems like life slows down enough to enjoy the fleeting moments we miss during the day.

Some don’t like darkness because of the associations of blackness and scary boogymen contained therein.

I say darkness is a misnomer.

A full moon lights up the sky almost as bright as the sun during the day. Beams of colour from the Northern Lights streak across the sky like strokes from a paintbrush on a canvas and stars dot the cosmos, shining in various degrees of luminescence. 

What gets me about stars is the sheer amount of them in the sky.

Every time I look up into the night sky and see all the bright specks of light, I think about how each star could be the centerpiece of another solar system. With billions of stars in the sky, it makes me feel somewhat insignificant at times.

All of these nighttime sources of light cut through the darkness. Even in darkness, our pupils have the ability to dilate which lets in more light and allows us to see better. 

In addition to philosophical perspectives, stars have been worshipped and used as a navigational tool by ancient seafarers.

Stars are not visible during the day, which make them unique to night.

I find night to be a time of quietness opposite to the crazy pace of daytime.

At night, people go to bed, TVs get turned off, phone calls stop and I have time to think, listen to the blues music of a bygone era - and write.

Letting Love In

I don’t really believe in love at first sight. I guess it happens, because it seems to be an accepted phenomenon in society. You know the cliched situation where ‘time stands still’ as the eyes meet.

I’ve fallen in love. Believe me, it wasn’t at first sight, either.

I was involved in a relationship prior to this and my ex was something else.

She could quiet a room with her mere presence; stop a conversation when she sounded her voice.

Sleek and slim, she was never far from my waist.

When she was mad, you could sense it. She could shake the whole house when she yelled.

She purred if you caressed her right, squealed if you were high enough.

We had our fights, but we always made up and put any ugliness behind us.

It was puppy love, I admit. Like a crow, I was attracted to her because she was shiny and pretty. I know how shallow that sounds.

Anyways, we broke up but we’re still good friends. We still see each other, but not as often as we used to.

While I was in that relationship, I met someone else. Nothing really happened; mere introductions, but an impression was made on me.

We would meet every so often and have small talk - stolen moments in the day and sometimes night.

I didn’t know why I kept going back at the time, but now I know it was because I began to enjoy her presence more and more.

I feel more connected to her than I did to my ex. This feeling swelled in me until I could deny it no longer.

It was a gradual realization, this love. I tried to fight it by ignoring it, hoping it would go away.

But more I struggled, the more helpless I became to its whims.

She is a real beauty, too; they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when I first beheld her, I was definately not interested.

She was old, mature, and cumbersome.

I know that doesn’t sound attractive, but it’s the truth.

Yet she was still somewhat alluring, when she put her mind to it.

Her voice can be an enigma; one minute her whispers creep across the floor, the next minute, the walls reverberate her shouts.

She’s delicate, but robust.

Upon inspection, you can see she’s been handled roughly in the past. She has character, personality and a history that tells a story.

She’s personable and low maintenance, which is nice, considering my previous relationship.

She has passion, but on a deeper level that wasn’t present before. I am much more comfortable with her in an intimate setting.

With one arm draped over her body and one around her neck, I often coax her to join me in a sweet melody.

This one may be a keeper.