the rest can go to texas

Do you know what designers love the most? When they're dealing with multiple managers on the same project, when the importance of that project warrants exactly half a minute's attention from a junior secretary, *at best*, but these managers have pressed in anyway, all elbows, asserting their 100K salaries on correcting some minor logo or disposable poster, because they can't help themselves, and seven revisions into it these managers start making revisions like, can you combine the middle aspect of version 3 with the colour scheme from version 6, I've attached an example but ignore the red, and I've also attached another poster with a tagline we need to add (near the bottom, I think), and remember that thing we talked about six months ago, the idea with the tower? yeah, if you could incorporate something along those lines, that would be great, I think we're almost there! and you know you *know* you're not almost there because it feels distinctly like fucking nowhere, you're reading but not reading, just looking at words that are dead flies sifting in piles across your screen, you no longer have any idea *what* they want because you're a graphic designer and not a detective, not even *close* to a detective, you were never really good at figuring/managing things, let alone mountains of bullshit, you just liked to draw and had a talent for combining things and reinventing things and packaging/presenting things as clear and new, and the idea of unthreading this mess is wholly impossible, especially now that you're nothing more than a monkey with a keyboard.

* * * * *

Speaking of hell, C thought it was a good idea to rent The Day of the Locust, which we watched this weekend. YIKES. I just thought it would be good since we both read the book, she said, and then confessed that she couldn't remember any of it. YIKES. The book was dark and desperate and heavy-handed with desperation and a certain kind of evil hysteria, but the ending of this movie makes it look like Weekend at Bernie's. Donald Sutherland, God bless him, deserves a special seat in that hot place for such egregious overracting, not least of which is the scene where he stomps a little kid to death. YIKES.

glamour, by extension

C is friends with the fashion stylist Rebekah Roy (left in both pics above) ... one of those people who personify calm and smiling success. On her blog she presents glamour in this very sincere, straightforward way ... whether she's taking pictures of people on the street , talking about stain removers , her favourite videos , or attending some glittering party . One minute she's ruminating on hair extensions, and in the next she reveals how she's been featured on the Vogue UK site. A real disarmer and charmer (and this without meeting her yet, although I feel like I know her because we both did our time in Winnipeg). * * * * * Coming home from Russia, we did many bad things. ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. In my own life, the glamour is wholly imagined. * * * * * witches, smoke ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. My second go at this one, and for some reason I'm painting a lot of smoke lately (note to self: tell C that I want to be cremated). *

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

red-handed

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