New Photos -- Finally!

So, I've been very busy lately. I landed myself a job as the writer-on-staff (as well as being the webmaster and graphic designer and photographer...) for www.prylab.com. It's a local business that sells Raspberry Pi mini computers (I have one; they're super cool -- basically a desktop computer that's about the size of a credit card and costs $30), so I've been all kinds of distracted learning Linux and all about the Arduino microcontroller so that I can write about said gadgets. I've always had a love of technology, so this marries my interests really well. It's been one good turn in an otherwise UNREMITTINGLY AWFUL year.

But, I have been missing my art, so the other day I took a stroll around Vanier and shot some rather dystopian photos with my beloved DSLR. The full size versions are available to download as stock (eg., to be used on book covers, etc.) at my Deviantart page.

Don't be afraid to feel. Fear is never strength.

There are a lot of people in this world who seem, on some level, afraid of their own emotions. They mask them with sarcasm, irony, logic, substance abuse, denial, or some other form of distraction.

I am one of those people, and it’s silly. Why are we, as a culture, so ashamed to feel? What’s weak about crying? Emotions are the very thing that give power to all we do. The more emotion you can poignantly convey when you create, the more powerful and moving your creation. The more emotion you feel in a touch, or when you look out over a stunning natural vista, or greatest of all when you see the sun dapple on a weed in gravel and suddenly understand that it’s marvelous, the more you understand about life and the more you appreciate it.

The ability to feel strongly is a gift. Don’t hold back.

Lost in Cyberspace: The impact of social media on depression

Author's note: I would like to preface this post, lest it sound too negative, by saying I have met a few truly lovely people on Twitter and other such sites. These observations are about my experience overall, and are not meant to belittle the positive contributions of the few. Those few are the reason why I am still here.

I am relatively new to the world of social media as an active participant (rather than a studier thereof; I did learn its workings in college along with all my other web expertise); I think I have been actively engaged in it for about 3 or 4 months now. I got involved because I wanted to find my place in a community of active readers and writers, to get my work noticed on a realistic but noteworthy scale once I publish it, and to find work to purchase that really speaks to me as a person (a lot of mainstream media and books that are traditionally published really do not). I have always been a consummate 'outsider' and I hoped to find a community of other outsiders so we would all be outside together, which is in effect to no longer be outside at all.

I am also a sufferer of mental illness; bipolar disorder, to be precise and to satiate curiosity. Despite my illness, I have a long-honed positive attitude, high creative output, and lively energy, or... I did.

I cannot, of course, blame my experience with the internet alone for my current 'relapse' into negativity, depression, and frustration. I have been through hell in my 'real life' over the last year, and my life, like that of too many among us, has never been what you would call easy. I have experienced poverty, abuse, being abandoned by loved ones, etc. Be that as it may, I find social media is detracting from my recovery and overall state of mind, rather than being a venue for hope and support, and that is a problem. It's been bothering me so much that I sat down today despite advanced exhaustion to try to figure out all of Why.

One of the major reasons why is the complete lack of validation or being truly 'seen'. I feel like the internet kind of swallows me in a vast sea of white noise every time I spend too much time on it. It's not a feeling I am used to. For all my struggles in my offline life, I am used to my talents being validated by those I interact with, as long as I put in the required work to make them shine. I was always the student who, to give an example, spent long extra hours on their photography assignments and as such got straight As and their work shown off to the class as a good example. By contrast? Spend hours touching up, uploading, etc. those same photographs to deviantart, and not one person so much as takes the time to +fav most of them. I know I'm good, but it's hard to keep believing it sometimes, in that situation.

In my writing classes, my positive experience was always similar. I was diligent and paid close attention to what my professors told me, listening with humility and taking their advice, rather than being sensitive to constructive criticism, arrogant, or lazy. I was rewarded with brilliant grades and my poetry professor calling my progress over the semester an 'amazing literary journey'. He encouraged me to submit my work to publications, which is why none of my better work appears on this blog; I am saving it for such.

Basically, here's the thing: I'm used to hard work being rewarded with actual recognition. I don't expect to be treated like the second coming of Jesus for being able to write or do half decent digital art or what have you, and I have NEVER expected opportunities to simply come to me. 99% of talent is perspiration and persistence. I am beginning to fear, however, even that rule doesn't seem to exist in cyberspace, and that has a nose-dive sort of effect on depression. It removes the hope that things will get better, that all of this is going somewhere.

People with depression already tend to feel invisible. Entering into situations which validate that sensation is profoundly unhealthy. Similarly, we tend to be plagued by feelings of hopelessness, loneliness, and worthlessness. Forcing yourself (when you barely have the energy to even eat, or shower) to get up and do things like write or take photographs or create art, and to give those things your absolute BEST when you as a being feel like utter shit, is a monumental effort. It's like toiling your way up Mount Everest during a slow avalanche of molasses. And then to add to the above, the internet is FLOODED with absolutely jaw-dropping work in some areas (photography and digital art, primarily), so you are reduced to feeling like you could not compete even if you had the requisite energy to be prolific and the money needed to buy $10,000 worth of equipment and travel to picturesque locations. Recognition begins to seem like the byproduct of privilege, rather than hard work. That is oppressive.

Compounding all of that is feeling like 80% of those you follow on every site you share your work or words on is largely full of people who don't see you, but instead see you as one of many potential cows to be milked for money or greater exposure -- a surefire way to make one want to give up and shut off the computer. Even worse, it discourages one from bothering to create because obviously nobody that notices you even exist CARES about that aspect of you. You are just part of a perpetual, invisible audience.

Now, I really don't have anything against shameless self-promotion in and of itself, or advertising. I want other authors and artists to get recognized and validated for what they do. I want independent writers, bloggers, and those like me that suffer with limiting and sometimes invisible disabilities to be able to make a living in relative comfort. I'm not a greedy person; I want for others what I want for myself, quite freely. But when self-promotion is ALL YOU DO without taking the time to notice or talk to or promote your fellow independents or share anything of yourself, you contribute to a complete lack of community that comes around to make the life of newcomers entering the scene harder. Also, dear authors, let me just say this: I am far, far, far more likely to buy your work if we talk a little (even a few tweets!) and hit it off, or if you just talk about yourself as a person and your passions and show some of your heart, than if you just spam my twitter timeline with your book 589 times per day. In fact, I unfollow people who do the latter.

If we talk, or I like who you seem to be, and we have some modicum of chemistry as human beings, I am likely to assume your writing will speak to me, too. If I have no sense of who you ARE because all you do is self-promote without adding any context of actual self to it, I'm unlikely to purchase your work unless it looks bloody amazing. I am unlikely to even keep following your accounts; I don't follow 'brands', like Coke or Pepsi, so why should I make an exception and follow you? In my sense of the online community, we're here to build each other up and take a united stand against the limiting world of traditional publishing and media, it's not all about you trying to make a fast buck.

You would be amazed at the number of authors I have reached out to with an offer to help promote their work entirely without charge who have completely ignored me. No perfunctory "Thank you, I will keep that in mind" -- nothing. This rejection of basic human courtesy and generosity is something I have never experienced in the 'real world'. What is it about being behind a screen that encourages people to treat their fellow man as less than human? (Or less than animal; personally I have never ignored a dog or cat with that kind of flippancy, either.) It says something about the nature of people and the future of communication that is, in itself, depressing.

I think, personally, it's time to stop putting real personal effort into social media and put that energy back into doing what I love, and when I have more spoons, into submitting my work to physical publications and attending physical meetings of authors, artists, and poets. Aside from my blog and Goodreads, which actually does seem to have some semblance of community vibe, the rest is going to get my bare minimum of effort. Likewise, I am going to attempt a gradual shift away from following authors and start following more readers and everyday folk who use twitter to, well, socialize.

And to others suffering from mental illness or another disability, let me say this: What at first may appear like a great 'low spoons' method of interaction, validation, and exposure, may have too high a hidden cost, so choose where you invest your time wisely, and remember to keep good boundaries.

Peace and health to you all,

-Phoenix

Detroit: Dystopian Paradise

I have a fascination with abandoned buildings and generally desolate, eerie places. I find them beautiful in a chilling, stilling way that makes one pause to reflect.

I've always been a tad morbid, but not negative. In the silence I see hope, the idea of new beginnings, of building something better. Detroit seems to embody so much of that (from the 'Paris of the Midwest', to a sprawling post-apocalyptic drug mecca, to being largely reclaimed by nature -- a center for urban farming to take root and artists to flourish); it's hard for me to even comprehend such a place exists in one of the wealthiest nations in the world. America is such a bizarrely polarized country, or so it seems to my outsider's perspective. I've only ever been to the country briefly, once, many years ago. I went to upstate NY and I have to say it was creepy as hell in its own right. I'd love to go back but can't convince anyone in the family to drive me...

Some links to further excellent photographs and articles:

http://www.wired.com/rawfile/2013/01/detroit-dave-jordano/

http://sararemington.blogspot.ca/2011/09/detroit-rock-city.html

http://laughingsquid.com/escape-to-detroit/

http://www.63alfred.com/thewalls.htm

So, this happened.

It happened about a week ago, to be specific, but I hesitated on posting about it because I didn't want to come across like a nut. But, I have given in to the temptation to write about it, because it keeps nagging at me and if nothing else it may give you horror and paranormal writers some inspiration.

I have had quite a number of inexplicable things happen to me over the years, but I wrote most of them off as 'weird, but not definite proof of anything specific'. I'm not a 100% closed-minded person by any means and believe in a wide range of spiritual concepts, but I lean towards a healthy dose of skepticism. It keeps an imaginative person like yours truly balanced.

I have seen UFOs, but at a distance -- not close enough to prove them as, yes, definitely a giant alien spacecraft hovering on my front yard, complete with little green men peering curiously at this lower life form. I have heard the sound of someone invisible loudly clapping their hands beside me (even ghosts think I'm awesome!), and had an invisible force shove my leg hard enough to move me sideways, but one cannot definitely prove those things as not being bizarre hallucinations. The only proven odd experience (one which I had a second reliable witness with me at the time of, who observed the same phenomena) I have had is seeing blinding white flashes of light indoors in my room, as if someone had just pressed the flash down on a camera. Now, I am one of those freaky hermits that sits in their room with their blinds closed and curtains drawn most of the day (the sun creates glare on my laptop screen, hiss), so this definitely was not caused by anything outside the room.

But, whatever, right? Maybe I just have some really enthusiastic static going on in there. My presence is electrifying, even to dust.

All of these experiences seemed isolated and benign and never took up much of my conscious thought, which I have mostly devoted to other deeply important things, like Skyrim and memorizing which stores sell the plain kind of Fritos, not just barbeque. Then last week, I had a dream.

In the dream, some kind of entity shifted form, between several people I was close to in the past, who frankly treated me rather horribly and then abandoned me like the happy-go-lucky, soul-sucking leeches they are. When I figured out I was in a dream (something I almost always do -- I know, in my dreams, that I am dreaming. I figure it out, have a full conscious awareness, and even the ability to CHANGE my dreams if I don't like them. My head is my own personal Choose Your Own Adventure novel, you guys), the entity felt 'caught', and tried to flee. I chased it to a closet. When I opened the door to the closet it had shut itself in, before me stood a seven foot tall, red and black demonic... Thing. Which then attacked me. I fought back, and it retreated. I woke up. I thought damn, that was weird, but it was just a dream. And I moved on with the rest of my day.

The following night, I was up late, as is my habit. I was at my bestie's place and we were sitting on our computers. The cat was asleep beside me. All the windows and doors were closed up for the night. The house was still.

Suddenly, we hear an enormous crash. The clock on the kitchen wall, which must weigh 3-5 pounds, has flown across the house, more or less. A good 15 feet. I am not exaggerating this. The nail on which it hung is still perfectly stuck in the wall. The clock seems to have crashed against the fridge on the opposite side of the kitchen, ricocheted, and broken, at precisely 3:33 am, for no readily apparent reason. This clock had previously hung on its wall without an issue for years.

Well, that's odd. I didn't let it get to me, though, mainly because I was too lazy to be freaked out enough to go home or even go upstairs. I shrug and go back to the internet (priorities are priorities, after all). This, my dear readers, is why horror is the one genre I simply cannot write. Can you imagine it? "Just at the moment the terrifying apparition appears and the windows begin to rattle as if shaken by the distant thunders of hell, our hero sees something really interesting on Tumblr..."

Yeah, that one isn't going to work out for me.

As I browse the net like the alarmingly complacent social media junkie I am, my bestie says to me, "It's really odd the clock stopped at exactly 333. In chaos magic that's the number of a major demon." Curious, I look it up. Yep, he's right. According to chaos magic (which I don't know much about, so don't ask me how credible it is, but I tend to treat all religious beliefs as equally credible), it's the number associated with a major demon who is apparently known for changing form frequently, and attacking people before staging mock retreats, as if luring them into the false notion they can beat him. Well, looks like the weird cake just got its icing, kids.

Fortunately, I am pleased to report that I haven't yet started speaking in tongues, crosses haven't started vanishing from houses I enter, the walls aren't bleeding, and basically nothing too spooky has happened since. I am guessing that he didn't enjoy all the hours of browsing for humorous pictures of cats.

A very random question...

Yes, this post has little to do with writing or art or... Anything of a significance deeper than burning personal curiosity.

I have grown to consider Spam one of the great mysteries of the internet. There is so much of it. Email, twitter DMs, even SMS... It seems to find one almost wherever one goes.

The mystery in it, for me, is how in the world is it lucrative? Wikipedia states, "Spamming remains economically viable because advertisers have no operating costs beyond the management of their mailing lists," but, be that as it may, surely it still takes a good deal of time to set these systems up? Or to run around Twitter spamming DM boxes? Someone must pay these people to do these things...?

And really, who will click on links describing things like how to meet amorous Asian girls, or how to enlarge one's genitals in a substantial and surely medically unsafe way, unless the person in question is both terribly insecure, and has been living under a rock for, oh, about 15 years now? Surely, all the time and effort and money of those creating these spam messages must be at least 80% in vain? How in the world does such a proliferation still exist? A margin of at least 15% of recipients who click by sheer accident...?