works of wanderlust

Month: September 2025

  • urban sketch, one

    Crossposted on Notes for a Sketch

    It has been a few years since I plunked myself into the blank pages of a sketchbook for my reprisal into the plein air arts. It was an adventure that took me down a rabbit hole of watercolours and personal expression through ink and pigment that has been hard to quantify in the context of the last few years.

    I waned in my artistic efforts this past year or so for two reasons.

    One, simply, distraction and stress.  Bumbling between efforts of professional self-actualization is a chore, let me tell you.

    But two, performance pressure. I got too caught up in the gig-ification efforts of my sketchy self. I saw all these people documenting their personal artistic journey’s online and felt like I could, should, would do the same. But then art becomes performance almost instantly. My art becomes a posting frenzy to get stuff online and getting stuff online becomes the driver for art and trying to post things that are (a) good enough to post and (b) interesting to my nascent audience became this emotionally all-consuming feedback loop of anxiety about quantifying and artistic output and all that jazz. It was no longer about making art but rather about producing content. It is the sad story of our age, to be honest, and hardly unique to me.

    So I admit. I took a little break.

    But we’re leaving for Japan in a couple months, and I would be so regretful if I went there without a sketchbook and the intention to lock in some art on my travels. Bothering with the whole paints and brushes bit is a bit of hesitation, though, so what I’m left with is honing some simpler sketching efforts. 

    I just completed a running streak. I ran every day for sixteen days in a row. I admit this is hardly a record, even for myself, but there is value in locking in on a repetitive daily goal with the intention of building a practice and a foundation of skill or endurance. There is absolutely nothing saying that I can’t do the same thing with my sketching, right?  And with October just a few dozen hours away, looking towards the month as a daily sketching challenge I could easily see myself getting out into the plein airs of the city with such intention to match a running goal, but with a pen and paper.

    So, a new series on this blog. Urban Sketch.

    This is not put here with the intention of returning the world of artistic performance, no. Rather, to use words as  I often use them—for personal reflection, logging, and being mindful of the whys behind my whats. 

    I’m going to try and draw every day in October. I had intended to go to the art store today, and I still will because I do really need to refresh my watercolour paper for the winter season, but I’m going to go with the intention of getting back into that artists mindset, too. And I’ll write more about it here, of course, as the months wear on.

  • head over feets, ten

    Autumn is probably my favourite season. The colours. The full nights sleep thanks to the sun setting at a normal time and the temperatures being cooler. The abundance of excuses to settle into a cozy quiet evening without feeling excessively guilty about squandering the summer.

    My running streak is over, which is a shame only because some people had just found out I was doing one and were congrats me on the effort… which I had to explain I had finished it and was happy with the foundation it gave me to ramp up towards my race and thanks anyways.

    But since I’m not running every day anymore, I had to focus on the quality of runs and not just the quantity, huh? That means starting the short but important build up to a confident ten miler distance.

    This last couple weeks I…

    Wednesday was just on the verge of too warm, but there was enough of a breeze that joining up with the Run Club for about six klicks in the evening was definitely a win. We ran a big suburban lap, complete with some unexpected elevation change in the neighbourhood. It had only been a couple days of rest, but it was my first post-streak run.

    I was having a bit of a recovery week so I didn’t get back out on the trails again until Sunday. It was our long run day, of course, and now that we’re officially “training” we cranked up our distance incrementally over the last weeks. I led the group on a 12km route into the autumn-toned creek valley and we tackled a few hills in the process.

    With Autumn arriving and the Kid’s birthday eating up a couple days worth of free time, I didn’t manage much for a couple days. But after some blood work on Wednesday morning I threw caution to the wind (rest your needle arm for two hours, they said) and drove to yet another new pool. I swam five hundred and some meters in Confederation pool, and tried out my new headphones underwater too.

    Our first run of Autumn happened a few hours later. I have other commitments (read: Japanese class) on Wednesday nights upcoming somy participation in future Run Club runs is up for debate. But I took advantage of this night off to join a trail-ish sunset run for nearly seven klicks in the chilly September air.

    Thursday, meeting again locally for a run from the local pub (for drinks after) we had to search out an alternative route to avoid following the same path we’d now taken two runs in a row previous. A bit of improvisation resulted in nearly seven klicks of suburban adventure… and then a beer and cheesecake. Running is so unhealthy these days. *sigh

    Sunday was another long run. The race is only about a month away at this point which means that I’ve been ramping up my distance for a couple weeks. The plan was to do fourteen klicks, but the plan was off a bit so we did an unplanned fifteen klicks. That’s alright, tho. Knowing we can do the distance is often as valuable as actually just doing it. And fourteen is better than fifteen.

  • book reviews: on down the river

    September may be the end of summer reads, but no doubt that I am still trudging through a reading list longer than I care to admit. My lack of completed tomes this last few weeks has less to do with the quantity of reading I am going and more to do with my ability to focus on just one book.  It would seem that my digital distractibility in this department is no less a problem than the analog version.

    That said, I have been reading. And reading. And reading some more. 

    And lately I’ve read…

    James by Percival Everett

    James is a horror story. Flipping the perspective on a book I literally just read, it instead retells the events of the famous Mark Twain novel Huckleberry Finn from the view of the runaway slave Jim.  But where Twain’s original text is merely a weighty adventure romp with a moral imperative baked into its layers, all of it nudging and imploring readers to examine their notions of the racial divide in the Americas of that time, James wraps Jim in a kind of fictionally-driven agency to offer a story that is both compelling in its context and chilling in its implications. It is made no better, of course, that the all-too-real monster chasing James as a runaway slave through the pre-civil war south is the great grand-pappy ancestor of the same monster now creeping out of the shadows and into seats of vengeful political power in the US in 2025. Being a white, middle-aged Canadian man leaves me in no good position to offer any opinion on what this book does right or what it is supposed to mean or how it should be read. All I know is that it shook me, shook me to the point that like a horror story I often had to put it down for days at a time to process the descriptions of inhuman cruelty written inside. It is a fictionalized account, of course, and rightly so told as it is as a counterpoint to a “great American novel.” My reread of Huckleberry Finn recently was still quite fresh in my head, of course, and having just revisited the raft ride down the Mississippi I was all too aware of the weight of that story in the modern context of American neo-racism and an orange menace normalizing two hundred year old ideas that should have long been sent to their grave. But naivety of reality is the greatest ally of the dark impulses of humanity and one’s greatest weapon is education of the horrors as painted in even just a fictional tale, and empathy for the fact that while James is fictional his is a story built upon more truth than many of us can stomach.

    Shit, Actually by Lindy West

    There are days when I fashion myself a humorist of a sort, attempting to write clever reflections of life, the universe and everything—but mostly books and video games if I’m being honest. But that said, even if I can’t always measure up in my own witty writing, I do have a vibe and am drawn to reading the kind of observational kinds of reviews that I wish I could churn out with my little keyboard here at a Starbucks. This book of clever film reviews of a bunch of movies, all of which I have almost certainly seen every last one (except Twilight, I’ve never seen that one!) multiple times, showed up as a recommendation in my audiobook feed—and there I was looking for a low risk, light-hearted listen with a credit burning a hole in my digital pocket. I am also, notably, a fan of the oft-chided podcast rewatch genre, which has led me into similar additional reading expeditions. In other words, this wee book checked a lot of boxes for me. I consumed the whole damn thing inside of two days, all seven hours of short essays read by the author, providing clever, witty and jabbing summaries spectacularly mediocre movies while sticking her finger into the gaping plot holes of the same. And what else is there to say. I was funny, sometimes laugh out loud funny, which startled me almost as much as it did the other people in the room where I was listening with headphones.

    The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

    The day I finished re-reading this classic all tangled up in the history of American racism and slavery as it definitively is, the government of my (Canadian) province released a book ban list to the public, which given the company it would have been among—classics of political reaction like 1984, cautionary tales of amoral governments tangled up in religion like The Handmaid’s Tale—it was almost surprising that there was no Twain on the list. We live in dark times here in the mid-20s and while I’m not exactly sure the motivation for Twain to have written a book and a character like Huckleberry Finn, and can’t help but believe it was, too, a reaction to dark times. The book, obviously, is an indictment of American slavery told from the perspective of young adventurous Huck Finn whose adventures in a previous novel landed him a rich kid with an abusive, alcoholic father (all too normalized by the society in which Finn lives.). He escapes by faking his own murder and lands up in a classic travelling-the-river tale in the company of Jim, a slave who has also escaped. The duo’s adventures are a fictionalized glimpse at middle America of an era, one assumes, peppered with the moral maturing of Huck as he faces down the complex questions of right and wrong in a society that taught him that certain people are property and that what he is doing is abetting a crime the likes of which he figures will condemn him to hell, all the while we as the reader look at it from the modern perspective of Finn’s innate judgement being the right one. And still it is a hard book to read, not because of anything particularly narratively confusing, but if only because does at time feel as though the demon Twain was shining sunlight upon has risen up once again, never truly departed from this world.  It wouldn’t surprise me to see this wind up on the banned list of any American politician who had both read and understood its story.

  • media: streams of september

    I have been dabbling in my media consumption. I have half a dozen books on the go and it’s a dead heat to see which one I’ll race ahead and finish first. I’m deep into at least four different video games right now. I’ve got a couple movie-watching missions on the go. And I’ve been tackling my episodic entertainment on the streaming platforms with a scattershot abandon.

    My lack of focus is probably linked to a couple of things happening in my professional life and my inability to sit still for longer than thirty minutes, it seems, lately. I have this overwhelming sense of something that I can’t really describe in other way than as a sort of productivity fomo, a fear of missing out on making or doing something more important than what I am ever doing at that moment, so I can’t sit still and just do much of anything.

    But my neurosis aside, I did manage to push through a couple of series.

    The last couple of weeks I watched:

    streaming: Umbrella Academy, Season 1

    I watched this whole series the first time, start to finish, pretty much as it rolled out.  Each new season release turned into a binge watch with the Kid. Binge watching is not my preference. I think it must be a generational thing. Kids these days! I prefer my suspense to hangout at arbitrary act breaks determined by the commercial nature of broadcast television that forced me once to wait an entire week between episodes. Gah! Alas, there was a part of me that felt like watching it in binge-mode the first time through had my poor old guy brain at a disadvantage and that a slower paced rewatch was in order. I spread my second go at season one out over about six months, which admittedly, might have been a lot slower than the spirit of my long lost self intended.  If you have not partaken of the Umbrella Academy quite yet think of it like a kind of off-brand Marvel superhero-type story blended with a bit of goth style, some retro-alternate-futurism and a dash of dark humour. Oh, and a lot more random death. It was the brainchild of Gerard Way founder of My Chemical Romance and cousin to conspiracy theorist Joe Rogan, which should tell you more than enough about the vibe of this thing.  I watched it first time with a fourteen year old and now she is doing an arts degree in drama and film studies. Correlation or causation, you tell me. The backstory is far too complex to explain, except maybe to say kids with mysterious powers are raised by the world worst parent without access to therapy and what could go wrong? The end of the world could go wrong, that’s what could go wrong. Worth your time, but maybe watch it over a few weeks and neither two days nor six months.

    streaming: Avenue 5, Season 2

    I have a soft spot for comedic science fiction. In fact, did I have the confidence of prose to compose comedic narrative in a science fictional setting it would almost certainly be my genre of choice. I even wrote a series of articles trying to wrap my head around the mechanics of the absurd, thinking (probably vainly) that if I could put some logic to creating the illogical I might have a thread of hope upon which to grasp and thus, perhaps foolishly, try to write some silly sci fi. The conclusion that I ultimately came to was that writing absurdist and funny spec fiction is actually hard—and so much more difficult than writing “big guns in space blow shit up” fiction or “evil robots chase frightened people” stories. The thing is, I grew up on a steady diet of Douglas Adams and Red Dwarf, and I know for my endless efforts of looking for it that good absurdist comedic science fiction pretty much remains a genre with a lot of empty shelf space. Again: because it’s hard to do well. And I mean sure, modern casual science fiction bros like Dennis Taylor or Andy Weir have written great stories that are funny-adjacent, often providing a good belly laugh, but those and other funny-adjacent authors are storytellers who are telling serious stories while acknowledging that sometimes regular people do funny things. People are not generally absurd all the time, is what I’m saying, and neither are their characters. What I’m talking about here are mostly slapstick among the stars humour, buffoonery and chaos and, yeah, absurdity. Avenue 5’s cast was stuffed full of great comedic actors but only earned itself two short and obscure seasons of what turned out to be a cliffhanger serial narrative because—I’d like to think—it was misunderstood. I finally tracked down the second season last week and watched it in the span of twenty-four hours binging, and too watched it with the eye of someone looking for absurdity in space. Anyone looking for a moral or a message would be disappointed of course, but like all great comedy it had heart and that should have earned it a couple more seasons—and not an abrupt cancellation.

  • social games, three

    I spent an hour curating. 

    Look, I’m sorry: If you follow me and I follow back, that’s the powerade of what is supposed to make social media work—but if I open up the feed and literally the only thing you do on there is repost angry memes and incite capital-lettered ranting commentary above links to random articles, I may need to unfollow you.

    I probably just did, actually.

    A fairly famous cartoonist I follow wrote something about his ideal social media feed, and it being free of algorithms and video reels, sorted in a meaningful (read: chronological) way, and a place for good discussion. Or, as he footnoted, he wanted the internet of 2008 back. I agree. Jokingly, sure, but gawd am I sick of whatever these spaces have become. 

    The flood of stupid is inescapable. You’ll notice that this blog, my site, and anything I control may be thought of as a highly managed and ordered space, but unlike the vomiting algorithms of The Socials, mine are purposefully curated to reflect a kind of personal expression on my part. That difference is important. 

    Dropping reshares and drivel into a big churning algorithm whose only job is to grab ahold of your attention and never let go, as is the case on social media platforms these days, is the polar opposite of what I attempt to do here.

    Yeah, to the untrained eye, they look pretty similar. But that similarity stops at a level so shallow that it would make the silver scratch off goop on a lottery ticket look like an atomic blast shield. 

    I curate what I post, I figured, so why shouldn’t I take more care curating what I see? Weed the garden, as it were.

    I mean, I need to spend less time online in these apps. I really do. And I barely spend any time at all in them, so I can only imagine what other more deeply entrenched social media addicts feel from their mainlining the algorithmic feed juice. Curating only does so much for that effort. And in fact, it may be that by curating I give myself more reason to stay on them longer. Sigh. But the hard reality is that I need to curate now so that when my energy levels are lower and more susceptible to the doom-scroll flow of the feed I have already done some of the work to reduce its potency. 

    So last night I unfollowed some of the people who I have incidentally picked up along the way. They will not notice. They don’t engage that way. They don’t comment or reshare or like. They are on there to firehose themselves, and give almost nothing in return.

    I had this rule: the courtesy follow. Had. If you are not a bot, and you seem like a real person posting real things that are not trying to sell me something, I would follow you back. But that rule has bit me in the ass. Angry shit-posters.  The hyper-political. The influencer repost machine. The caps lock granny. The patriotic sledgehammer. You all have a role, sure, but you are overwhelming me and you have created an internet that is dank and sickly. 

    My amendment to the courtesy follow has changed (even if it has not been posted so clearly elsewhere) that I will follow back anyone who is not a bot and who appears to be curating a web more closely resembling the internet of 2008: creativity, discussion, and something leaning in the direction of their own truth.

    I’m not rushing back quite yet, but I am trimming the digital weeds because I know I almost certainly will go back soon.