Drag path

Whether archaic or zeitgeist-y, unfamiliar words or phrases fascinate me. Currently, I'm captivated by the phrase drag path. Apparently, it's also a social media hashtag...so for those who imbibe in that sketchy pastime, perhaps you were already familiar? 

Although I don't know much about this phrase's history, I encountered it thanks to the (fantastic) band Twenty One Pilots who recently released a song bearing this name. Perhaps they coined it? 

If you know anything about me, you know I'm an (overly)enthusiastic learner so experiencing this song, this phrase felt...how to describe...? 

You know when a much-missed friend covers your eyes from behind...like a makeshift blindfold, then suddenly removes them to reveal themselves? Like that...like a sight for sore eyes, but for my ears instead, ha. I didn't know I was missing this phrase (and this song) because I didn't know it existed! It turned me round. And now I see drag path evidence everywhere. Thanks (once again) to music and language, I'm empowered to identify something that once needed many more (failed) words to describe the profound but typically nebulous after-effects of an emotional experience.  

To explain: a drag path is literally the path made during a task, struggle, or conflict—it's a sign, an impression, an earthly scar—somewhat forensic in nature. Metaphorically though? Imagine a grief drag path, or those created by addiction or depression or trauma. And like a drag path through the snow (eventually melted) there's intangible and psychic evidence everywhere. Think about the personal story a series of hidden tattoos might tell. Think about a heart surgery scar. Think about the pandemic's ongoing effects: a drag path of health issues, education gaps, politics, histrionics and loss. Think about the devastating drag paths of this violence and these (endless) wars.

Hardwired to be introspective, I think I've long sensed this idea but I'm grateful to now name it, to recognize it, to help others acknowledge theirs. Sometimes my own drag paths linger like ghostly trails. Heck, much of this blog might be a drag path. 

We've all endured something—or we're currently enduring something. This phrase enables us a lens through which to investigate life's inevitable emotional scarring. Who/what dragged us? Did we drag our own feet? At what moment did we stand on our own two feet again? Others may never know our hidden struggles, but whether the evidence is subtle or not, they leave a wake. What might we learn from the wake? 

The song features a character's intentionally-left evidence, "I dug my heels into the gravel as evidence for you to unravel," touting some type of rescue. One could insert their favourite saviour accordingly, but the song leaves it ambiguous, resisting a single interpretation. Regardless, what I'm more interested in about drag paths is this: they signify BOTH weakness and strength, surrender and resistance, friction and perseverance. In this sense, some are necessary. And sometimes we rescue ourselves. 

Dear friends, contemplate, even examine your drag paths, but remember those struggles also represent survival. Whether it's to signal rescue or pure tenacity, continue digging in your heels.  

Things that deserve the stink-eye (in a good way):

kiwi fruit. Yum.

Bonus: when peeled one might say they're giving Dr. Seuss vibes. Despite this fair assessment, I will eat them in a box, I will eat them with a fox, I will eat them here or there, I will eat them everywhere... because they're delicious. Not-so-bonus: unpeeled...well you already know what they resemble. 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyhoo, I mention them because science says the exterior fuzz is just as nutritious as what's inside. 

Therefore, dear friends, as Dr. Seuss might put it, do you nosh them with the skin or does that make your stomach spin? 

To learn more about kiwi fruit please visit this entertaining YouTuber who shares the fruit's history (and takes a jab at a certain world leader, lol.) 

Canadian Mishap

zoomed in to said offending snowflake ;)

Curious to know a little known life-as-a-Canadian hazard?   

Choking on a snowflake. 

True story. 

Mishap occurs more than you'd think. I will never not recommend a brisk walk during a snowfall but if the wind(chill) is blowing a certain direction—the exact direction one must trudge to return home—well, dear friends, don't sing along with your ear pods or risk inhaling those adorable fluffy (damn) (killer) snowflakes. 

One more thing: if it weren't March this post would be unnecessary (even embarrassing) but it's time FOR THE MELT TO BEGIN. Sigh.

A quick reminder:

we all know some words are better left unsaid. Conversely, this adage suggests that some words are best said.

Precise language impacts worldview. Words influence action. So, dear friends, what if you and I—at some point today—released this word like a balloon into this sorry world? 

It certainly couldn't hurt, could it? 

Makers

im-peck-able design :)

Recently, I enjoyed a few hours playing with my middle granddaughter, I. Considering she has a new baby brother, she loved the undivided attention. And me? Also a total boost. 

She has the cutest bedroom; last summer I helped her Mom paint it pink and white. Her Auntie painted big yellow flowers along one wall. Her room is big, with ample space for toys. Although I will always be a fan of big cardboard boxes, stones, and crayons, some modern toys exhibit impressive design. I's miniature A-frame cabin—it has a tiny glowing campfire next to it—ha, I played with its sound effects more than she did! And of course she has a big bookshelf with her Mom's childhood rocking chair next to it. We spent most of our time reading aloud: she brought me book after book after book—this is classic playtime with I. 

But my favourite of her toys? A knitted chick. Imagine the person who created this?! How could you be sad or anxious with this little friend?  

Let's take a moment today for people who make things: artists, creators, composers, cake-decorators, all types of creatives—their skills, their imaginations, their hands. In these modern times of tearing-down, remember and celebrate the people who make things: they empower us, they comfort us, they inspire us. 

Markus Zusak said, "I guess humans like to watch a little destruction. Sand castles, houses of cards, that's where they begin. Their great skill is their capacity to escalate." Sad but true, eh? Let's be honest though: the greater skill is to make something that de-escalates this impulse. 

Dear friends, what do you make? Or which maker inspires you? 

Let's be honest:

Thanks, Chris
(for fries cooked in beef tallow,
 and for everything else too).

Everyone should know a guy who

a. knows a guy

b. knows a guy who knows a guy

c. knows how to make homemade French fries.

Dear friends, who's your guy? And what do they know?

Art

Dear friends, I hope you already know that a sketchbook can change your life. 

Because a sketchbook is your very own secret laboratory. Or workshop, or garage. It's your office—perhaps the one you prefer to visit. It's a forge, a factory, a shop. You can lose yourself there, time will disappear, the work is "all." Things will happen and you will begin to see the world anew. 

Some cautions though: a sketchbook is not about perfecting or producing something. Unless you want one, there's no clapping nor silent audience. And it's definitely not (all) about your so-called artistic skills. It's not about good or bad, right or wrong.

Defer judgment. Discontinue criticism. Suspend doubt. Waive embarrassment. Slow down. Think. Observe. Record. Stop verbalizing. Quiet. Calm. Think. Move the dialogue inside. Or silence it. Because, here's the truth: you must must must destroy the gatekeepers of your imagination. 

So, draw. Depict. Experience. Scribble. Write. Paint. Smush. Paste. Cut. Journal. Quote. Recipe. Smudge. Doodle. List. Strikethrough. Ask your questions. Reflect. Swear. Remember. Forget. Free yourself. Experiment. Create. Whatever. Just (verb-intended) art. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

"Illegitimi non carborundum."

 Um, why is this printer so rude? 

I have this temporary teaching gig and I'm love, love, loving it. But the printers? They're conspiring against me. I did the HR courses; I know this is low-key harassment. I mean you can't just threaten me with a papercut and call me an MF! 🤯

Indeed, I print too much but it's for EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES you copier gate-keepers. I'm not peddling microplastics or printing guns...I'm trying to prepare pre-service teachers to love teaching and create art and celebrate student self-expression and make a difference in the world...but those persnickety printers? Let's be honest: they've made it xerockward, haven't they? 

Let's be honest

Thanks to a childhood filled with sci-fi/horror books and movies, I am especially intrigued by this "lab" situated near my new temporary office. Sure, my cerebral cortex is like calm down, but also DANGER. And those frosted windows? They certainly add to the potential for an "outbreak" of some design.  

Let's be honest: laboratory is a synonym for a fraught 48 hours from an home-made asylum. Yikes. Remember The Fly (1986)?! (Don't google it.) Hence, that's why I would LOVE to visit this room! Because, mystery. Because, curious. Because pea-brain. 

Dear friends, what in the amygdala do you think's going on in there? 😕😁

?

Um, a snowman...or perhaps a (one-eyed) snow-golfer? 😁

Whatever it is, I love it because I love it when creators resist a huge detriment to their art-making: overthinking.  

Dear friends, what do you think? I glimpse an curious and unusual story here, both in its composition and in its substance. 

Is this good? Who cares? It captured my attention plus it simultaneously disturbed me and made me laugh. That's what art should do. 

Bonus: it also hints there are others out there who might also be losing their minds about the unending snow. Art is always a good way to cope.