Lost Pets #3
The Lost Pet Series is a collection of photographs of lost pet flyers.
My artist statement can be found here.
(Expect more radio silence than normal, my brother’s in town and I’m very busy.)
Lost Pet Series #3
April 26th, 2009
Where’s My Biodegradable Shoe?!
April 17th, 2009“Where’s my flying car? Where’s my fucking jetpack? Where’s my alien dancing girls?” -From Doktor Sleepless, an ongoing masterpiece by Warren Ellis.
WE NEED NEW IDEAS (THERE ARE NONE)
For well over a year, I have been wearing worn-out shabby shoes. I have been wearing these unwearables because I have been searching for shoes that are biodegradable, recyclable, or both (that is, they can be dismantled into their component parts, some being composted and others recycled). With the possible exception of “Simple,” which is nearly impossible to find in Vancouver (and I will not buy something online that I haven’t tried on first) such shoes do not exist.
Now that my feet (and legs, and body) have started to complain loudly about the rotten scraps of fabric, rubber, and plastic that I wear on them, I am going to buy new shoes. Dirty ones. Non-biodegradable ones. Because that’s all there is.
The world is built in a very stupid way. Obviously I’m speaking in terms beyond shoes alone: nearly every product we can buy is still based on that nonsensical cradle-to-grave model. Why the hell aren’t there more closed loops, already? The book “Cradle to Cradle” explored that idea in 2001, and the concept of the closed loop has been around since long before then.
And yet, we still have the same old crap squelching through the same old rotting system, only to be left stinking in a landfill, never to biodegrade. When will manufacturers account for the disposal of their products? Amongst individuals, if a person makes a mess, they are expected to clean it up. Why is it different for the companies that make the garbage we eventually have to throw away? (Note: there is no “away,” there is only a country-sized maelstrom of plastic swirling in the Pacific Ocean.) Why can’t I return my worn out goods to the people who made them to dispose of?
I want to write more, but I’m literally inarticulate with rage. We’re sitting here at the twilight of an era; night is coming. Whether that night dawns on a green world or a scorched one will depend in no small part on what we finally decide to do with our waste. This is bigger than shoes, of course, but wouldn’t it be nicely poetic if we began by moving forward, shod with sustainability itself?
Skater Eyes
April 11th, 2009
Playground
Two weeks ago, I bought a skateboard. Before that purchase, I spent a grand total of about 5 minutes of my life on skateboards, spread over four or five separate occasions and probably about 10 years. On all but one occasion I bailed horribly and hilariously. The last time I tried was in Uganda, at the skate park my friend Brian helped to build. It’s the only skate park in Uganda, and the only skate park in Africa outside of South Africa. After my ridiculous fall, one of the local kids patted me on the back and said “Now you are Buganda!“ Tribal initiation by concrete.
But that’s not what this post is about. Still, I recommend checking out the above links, because they’ve got a lot of rad photos of African kids really shredding. They’re totally ‘core. The last link is a video that Brian put together.
No, this post is about the “Skater Eyes” that I’m starting to develop. I’ve always been quite aware of the “caps” that are put on the edges of curbs, benches, or handrails (basically they’re little knobs that stick out, preventing a skater from sliding along said edge with their board), but I’ve been less aware of generally skatable surfaces. All this is changing, now. The image I’ve attached was taken a couple years ago in Richmond, it’s the empty parking lot of the Lansdowne Centre. I took the photo because I was disgusted at the magnitude of emptiness. Parking lots kill communities and green spaces, while encouraging the use of cars (which also kill communities and greenspaces, among other things). That particular parking lot takes at least five minutes to traverse.
While I still hold the belief that the last thing the world needs is more parking lots, I’m starting to suffer some cognitive dissonance - because such a giant parking lot would be a lot of fun to skate around on. Since I am still not yet skilled enough to do anything more than push myself around in large circles, big flat surfaces like the Lansdowne parking lot are attractive, now. My neighbourhood, which I love so much, is terrible for skating. The roads are old, bumpy, and occasionally potholey. The same goes for the sidewalks. It’s got lots of hills. It’s largely residential, though there plenty of grocery stores, restaurants, and shops just a couple blocks away. The only parking lots are at schools, and are small, cracked, and often occupied (except on weekends). In other words: you can’t skate here! There’s nowhere to go!
Having a skateboard almost makes me wish that I lived in a residential neighbourhood in the suburbs. Smooth roads, driveways, very little traffic, and giant parking lots. The very things that I have grown to hate are suddenly appealing. It must be true what they say: Skateboards really do corrupt the youth. Maybe I’ll take up smoking, next.
Beach-Ready
April 5th, 2009
Acceptance
Say it with me: I am always already “beach-ready.”
‘Tis the Season of the Bootcamp. A poster at an intersection near my house touts the miracle of the “Booty Bootcamp” - for the ladies, according to the sign. My workplace is partnering with a local gym for a “Beach Ready Bootcamp.” Bootcamp, bootcamp, bootcamp, everywhere you look.
The notion that one’s body is unacceptable for public display after six months of winter’s indoor huddling is patently ludicrous. In this day of supposedly liberated ideals, it should be painfully unnecessary to say that it doesn’t matter what you look like. And yet, we have the bootcamp. A four-week (or so) intensive set of workout sessions, designed to whip our flabby sedentary bodies into a semblance of attactiveness, that we might once again attain a form suitable for scanty swimwear. As if we aren’t always already suitable to wear whatever we damn-well please.
Naturally, these bootcamps are largely just a symptom of entrenched unattainable ideals, but it’s hard to see language like “beach ready ” or “booty bootcamp” and not see them as a perpetuating engine of the Myth of the Perfect Physique. Mind, the notion of an intensive workout is not in itself an offensive thing. Exercise is healthy, and if the bootcamp gets an otherwise inactive person doing something physical, so much the better. But please don’t say it’s for the sake of beauty: it’s the wrong motivator, one that can only lead to dissatisfaction for all but the most dedicated, disciplined, and genetically lucky (not to mention the large role class plays in being able to “work out” at all).
Why do I even need to say this? Why are we still so cowed by society’s expectations that so many of us still believe ourselves to be ugly, when we are not? Why stress and strain to be beach-ready? We always already are.
In a later post, I will explore the linguistic implications of “working out” in one’s spare time, and the philosophical difficulties of repeatedly lifting the same heavy objects for hours on end.