There are times when people realize and become aware of the time. The time in ones daily life can drag on or just fly by quickly. When I had noticed that time had so many empty spaces and gaps. I decided to do something with that unused portion of the day by practicing and playing the six-string, and I think that is time well-wasted. The guitar has been with me through the rough and tumultuous times in my life. I became interested when I knew I could do it, and this became my driving force, for I had confidence in myself to begin, but my very first notes were just horrifying. The guitar is a perfect companion, and if someone would put in the time and effort to learn how to play, it will become something that you can share and enjoy with others. The guitar will always be there for you on your blue or higher days. It never makes plans to do something else because it sits there in the corner of the room impartial to everything that is going on around it, and when the guitar is picked up and played: it testifies for you.I thought of giving my guitar a name, just like other musicians had done in the past, but the last time I did that I lost four guitars. The first one was called "The Bomb" because it looked ugly and was pretty banged up to an extent; However, that one had a very short life. It lost its ability to sing, when someone sat on it during a jam session, and (the bomb) was broken into two sorrowful halves. The second guitar was given the name "The Beast" and this particular guitar was just beautiful. It had the best feel and sang so sweetly whenever it was picked up and caressed, but it was stolen from its case during one of my hazy days. The person that took it should have taken the case as well because I was worried that it would get scratched. My third flame was called "Seven" I named this guitar seven, and the reason why I chose that name? After watching a sadistic film with the same name I became haunted by that number after only one viewing, and that number was burned right into my mind indefinitely. Finally, There was my fourth (by the way these guitars are acoustics) and this one was an ugly duckling. This one was just heinous looking. It didn’t even sound good to save its only purpose in life. The action on the strings was too high to play comfortably, the frets on the guitar would cut up my left hand, whenever I played it. In other words it was just sad to have it around. I looked at it one day and I tried to find reasons to get rid of it. Each time I found a way, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I worked on the thing by making minor repairs by smoothing out its insecurities so that it can sing properly once again. Slowly the guitar started to transform and it started looking very fine, and this was the first guitar I put so much effort into.
I looked at the finished product and I became smitten by its polished smile. I took this one every with me. When I went to town or for a short bush trip I would take it along with me, and if I ever left it, my mind and fingers would start to ache. Sadly though, that one had to leave its occupation, for it was smashed into several pieces. I looked at it with a sort of empty pity when it was sprawled out on the floor. I asked myself if I could fix it once again, but I didn’t want to bother with the notion any further, so I discarded into the trash. When I noticed this trend of destruction happening to my beloved guitars, I had to stop giving names to my guitars that had such a short reign and life span, whenever they were in my company, so I don’t do that nonsense anymore.
I now have one left and it is the electric kind. This baby of mine will remain nameless, so as not attract that looming untimely end, if given a title. I don’t really care for this electric guitar anyway, yet I have this unfulfilling emptiness when I don’t play the thing as often as I would like to. Besides, I play the guitar not to impress, but to only express the notes I hear in my head, and put into music as authentic as I’m able to. I have performed a few times to large audiences, during talent shows and on social occasions, and that is just uncomfortable for me to do. I’m used to the silence of a bedroom, or just any random secluded spot somewhere where the environment is void of distractions. As a result, I started to play so I wouldn’t notice time creeping by me. For the music I have played in the past, are the memories I’m going to carry with me into tomorrow, and when I play for today, I never will have to think about the wasted yesterdays that I may have spent sitting silently watching, yet another day waste away.
Whenever I run into a solid wall there are two things I like to do: paint pictures or do some simple breathing techniques to have a better frame of mind. These are the two things that keep me from doing something I might not want to do. The first thing I would like to talk about is my favorite past time: painting pictures. There was this one time when I hit a solid wall of doom, and I started wondering what to do with the pictures I saw in my head. Sometimes a piece of mine will be directly inspired by a passing fragmented dream. And when I wake up to the day it is only there for a moment, but a moment is all I need to begin: a painting; a scribbling sketch; a vague charcoal rendition of dark figures, and any other medium I can acquire to add to my repertoire.At times I will wake up half-asleep, and just do a fast sketch of what seems important, but when I become aware I lose my inspiration to go any further with the unfinished fictional piece. There are some instances where I will do something for awhile, and just toss it to the side and get back to it when the thought comes around once again. This practice of unfinished business has grown very large over the years, and there are many pieces that may look nice when they are done, but that is still up to debate to my forgetful mind. When I paint its like a flood of ideas that are coming from some unknown destination. When the flood- gates are open I began scribbling like a madman into that blank piece of paper, or it could be anything like the empty canvas that is my arm. In some blank paper there can be many possibilities to start something, and some unfortunate times I run into that wall face first, but that splatter of blood on the wall can lead to a very interesting. For instance, I spat on this piece of paper when I had that drawing block and I could not think of anything to draw. When the spit slid down towards gravity it started to look like a hawk. When the hawk was forming I grabbed the closest thing, but I could not find a pen, nor a wet brush, so I had to use my woman's make-up kit that happened to be sitting right beside me. I did not even bother to ask her for permission because I rather suffer her wrath, than to lose that image that was on the paper. Luckily the art piece was excellent and impressive, and I gave her the piece that was inspired by my spit and frustration.
Secondly, The reason why my breathing technique was stated is because it's crucial to my art pieces safety. There are times when the walls can't come down between you and your imagination, and that is where frustration takes over. If this ever happens to your hard work and ideas they can be tossed right into the garbage or they can be torn and shredded into many shattered pieces. I have seen this happen many times and that is why I started learning how to breathe, so as not to lose another idea again because they can easily be lost forever; when you lose control.
So those are the things that I like to do when I am bored with the time that I might have wasted. It is far better than doing something than doing other things that you may regret in the long run.
A COLORFUL ANCESTORHe always got up before the sun reached the tree line at his trap line. He never missed a morning's sunrise. He would always make his daily tea to compliment the sunrise's dance atop the boreal forest that secluded him from the cold and unforgiving prevailing winds, but before he made his tea he would grab his little axe and began chopping his firewood. He would also grab some dead tree branches to give the fire its first flicker. He started to feed the fire with his chopped wood. He usually talked to the fire as he fed the flames its food. And when the stove started to rumble in its wake, he proceeded to walk way into the bush for fresh snow for his morning tea. There is a reason that he went out of his way to get the snow, for fear of the dreadful yellow snow. So everything was in place when he returned the stove was red hot, he had his fresh sanitary snow and he was ready to start his routine. It only took a few moments to melt the snow into water for the tea. You could hear the cracking rhythm that the burning crackling wood was making. It was music to my ears to hear him humming away with the stove to an obscure gospel tune. While sipping on his tea he had some cold hard bannock with his morning ritual. When he had his daily fill it was time to go and lift the fishing net that was set late evening on the previous day.
The fishing net was very far away from the camp, and walking on the freshly fallen snow made the distance harder for him to travel. He had a dog team that was ready to go anywhere with him. So he laced up three fine looking huskies to his sled and off they went. As they traveled he looked at the surrounding forest and looking at opposite sides he noticed that a storm was on the horizon. Knowing that this was going to happen, he made the dogs pick up the pace. The dog team was very tough, because this was just a little jog for them. He finally got to the fishing hole, but the ice-hole he made yesterday was frozen over. As an experienced woodsman he always carried his trusty axe wherever he went either to fetch his traps or the chore for looking for firewood. His axe was an extension of himself. He started chopping into the ice using his techniques to get the job done faster. Every chop he made created this hollow resounding sound across the ice floor. Finally, the water came up from the newly chopped hole and he was ready to begin his task of raking in the fish. The net was about 15 feet in length so he had to hurry because the storm was coming closer to his location. He had no gloves to protect him from the frigid ice water and he had no one to assist him. He caught about ten fishes of two different assortments some were pickerel, and the rest were jack fish. The dogs were becoming restless and hungry. They probably knew the seriousness of the coming storm and wanted to get going, or the fish just looked tasty to their empty stomachs. The old man was almost ready to go and the storm finally reached his part of the lake almost knocking him over. The cold blast of northern air hit him hard, and he knew that this storm wasn't going to cease its growl. He told his dogs to get on their feet because it was time to go home. Through the howling and unrepentant winds, he couldn't stand on the sled anymore. He jumped into the cradle of the sleigh and wrapped himself in his blanket. He was of no use to navigate and tough it out with his hounds. He couldn't see anything around him maybe a slight glance at his team of dogs, but beyond that it was a hopeless cause to even try to strain and look for the shoreline for some shelter. It was up to the team leaders instinct to take them home. The old man sat quietly, humming a tune, and saying a prayer at the same time. He reflected on the last few days and realized that the dogs weren't being fed enough and made a vow that when they got home he would start taking care of the dogs. Blindly racing through the snow, the dogs did not let up their trek across the large lake. They were constant in their struggle to get the old man home. Just when it was about to get even worse, he heard the rest of the tied up team howling in the distance, to the old-mans delight he knew that he was almost home. He peeked out of his comfortable sitting position and saw the camp just ahead. He gave thanks to his team leader and was very happy to see his home again. He remembered that he made a vow to his dogs and he honored it by letting the team drive right through the door and into the cabin. It was very strange to the dogs, but I am sure they enjoyed the warmth of the cabin, and the man's newly found respect for his hounds. At the end of the stormy day they ate and rested well to some fish and hard bannock. To this very day the dogs are heard on the lake on very blinding weather bringing the old man home. This is a story I was told by one of my relatives. It tells of the old mans daily life to make the best out of everyday by putting in a lot of hard work to provide his daily existence as a living human being in the harsh realities of the cold north.
What things are important to you: For me it would be the right from of mind; a sensible partner; time to make better choices; significant questions and answers.
Qs and AsWhat is your most valuable: My most valuable is my guitar (of course), and my need for inspirations for certain situations. I value friendship also because where would people end up if they didn't have anybody to talk too.
Who has influenced you the most: The people who have beaten considerable odds when everything was against them.
What was the impact of the meeting? The impact of the meeting was important in its significance where the human soul has so much perseverance to overcome the surmountable odds that it faces everyday.
Do you ever question your past whenever it comes up? When my past comes I don't really have that much to say except for the many times I have laughed and played with no worries in the world.
Who has ever puzzled you? People who have failed to understand me; even in broken down terms the conversation never has any resolve.
Did you ever do anything about the questions your dreams may have bought up, and was it anything important to you? Whenever I remember something clearly from a dream I struggle to keep that certain image or words that are seen and spoken, yet the importance dissipates when I am fully awake.
What bothers you the most? The thing that bothers me the most are the misguided assumptions that are perpetrated by people with hidden agendas.
Has there been a life- altering situation that forced you to change your ways? There were a few incidents that may have been life threatening, but I fail to recognize the situation that would probably change my ways. Ultimately, its going to be my decision if I want to choose to change.
Do you admit when you are wrong? When I know I am wrong it is hard to swallow because you will have so much conviction in your words just to prove you are right that when its time to confess to your mistakes and errors, your mind becomes conflicted with other unrelated impulses.
What do you like? I like everything that is good for the soul. It could be anything in my daily life including the little enlightening thoughts that crash into me when I least expect it, and this for me would be a good enough reason to search for the things that will hit me in this fashion.
How has life been treating you? Life so far has been treating me fairly all I have to do is my part and I think that I must start as soon as possible, but I will put that thought into effect at another date.
What threatens your existence or point of views? The thing that threatens my existence is the poison that runs into my ears, and then leaks into my conscience. Ex: lies that people tell others about you. The common hypocrite: is my threat in life.
To survive in the bush you will need three things: a will to live; a little copper wire; and some wit, or for sure you will wither from the weather. You are flying towards the north, and you just came from a four- year trip from Europe. The trip is kind of bumpy as the plane swerves hitting the cold turbulence. You begin to think about your warm and comfortable bed that is waiting for you, and you made many promises to yourself that you will just relax and watch the shows that you always wanted to catch. You begin to drift off to sleep and you are thinking about the time you're going to be taken off from your hectic, and you finally drift off to dream. You wake up all of a sudden to the hysterics of the passengers including the pilot's yells for order. In screaming terror you find that none of the propellers are working, and the pilot is going in for an emergency landing into the bush. You pray for a safe landing, so you can see your home once again. The plane crashes hard into the snow-filled bushes, and the planes components are demolished except for the seat you have been sitting on. You get off the plane unscathed. Unfortunately, you are the lone survivor of the crash. You look around frantically for some sort of communication device, but are unable to find one. You sit and wonder what you are going to do next because the cold approaching night doesn't wait for anybody. You begin to slowly gather your senses. You begin planning for your survival. Meanwhile you are on shock and notice the sorrow that surrounds you. You sit there by the broken plane and wonder what you should start on.
HOW TO SURVIVE IN THE BUSHThen shelter comes to mind, so the first thing you do is look for an area that has a lot of spruce bows. When you find your spruce bows collect as much as can. Then scan for a place that is free of stumps and rocks. When you find an ideal place; you begin by digging toward the ground. When this is done you place your spruce bows over the cleared area. When this is done, place two sticks about five feet apart, and then gather more spruce bows. Intertwine them so they won't fall apart. Then gently rest them over the area just like a blanket. After that is done put a light blanket of snow to trap the warmth inside the sandwich. This way you can keep moderately warm in the cold night ahead. If this keeps up, and nobody finds you. You are going to have to hunt for something to eat in the coming uncertain days. You are warm and scared as you drift off to sleep. You remind yourself of your trapper days, as your eyes go heavy from the fatigue and hunger, you fall asleep listening to the howling winds above you. You are dreaming now, and all your worries of finding food has prompted the mind to take you on a hunting trip.
You're with grandfather and you are rearing to go hunting for some rabbits in the bush. You're a child enthusiastic and ready to learn, because you're always reminded that certain survival skills will be needed in tough times. The snowmobile starts and you are both off. As you both travel he tells you that when you are without certain implements, all you really need is some snare wire and you'll be well off in the bush. You both walk towards the forest with snare wire in hand, and ready to trap for some rabbit. First, you must look for rabbit activity and you'll most likely find it where the brushes are thick. When you find this area look for trails because some rabbits can jump off the beaten track, and that is where you will usually find the broken in highway. Do not disturb the area too much because the second part is crucial to catching your food. You will see a part in the trail, where the hares pass between the heavy brush, that is the place to set your snare, so fasten your copper wire into a lasso. Fasten it to a middle of the stick. Make sure its tight- or you will have a wild half- crazed rabbit running around in the bush with your snare- and lower it over the trail where they will run into it, and hopefully catching your rabbit in your contraption. It will only take a day to snare a rabbit, for they run blindly, and hungrily. In the meantime you can eat bark off a tree. Honest.
You wake up from your slumber only to find a disturbing rustling above your make shift bed. You clench your teeth and fists in fright, and all of a sudden you just lose it. Half-crazed and hungry, you leap out from under the freshly fallen snow, yelling like a madman. Only to find out that it is just the rescue team that followed the homing beacon that must have been activated, but you were prepared right?