The Electronical Rattle Bag

Internet scrapbook of Paul Greer (@burningfp). Animation, etc.

Items tagged: #GDSP10

mollypeck:

Guest-Directed Self Portrait #10 (dir. electronicalrattlebag)
We don’t hold on to many “things” for very long in our tiny space: photos are scanned (as are books, if not available digitally) and discarded, most objects are either not brought home in the first place, or are enjoyed for a while, then given away. 
I procrastinated more about this direction than any of the others, because I don’t really have a “burning building” box or list of things (besides Ludo, but he’s not an ‘object’). This conscious non-assignment of value (sentimental, at least) to objects has created a funny indifference to most things. 
I have things that have monetary value, but they are replaceable. It hardly seemed appropriate to hug the hard drive that holds the digital versions of memories. 
For all my claims of moving beyond sentimentality, I admit that there is, in the back of the slender “to be scanned” drawer, a little stash of objects: hand-carved rubber stamps, sticker-booth stickers, a folded paper heart with ragged black edges, and the two things in this image.
The burnt fake rose, attached to a black satin rectangular pouch, was wrapping from the first Christmas gift GB gave me. It smells like a fire in a magic shop, and it feels like something you forgot at a beach house.
I came across the photo (which really should be scanned, but it has some pleasing dimension that I’m not ready to let go) while digging the rose out of the drawer. I had forgotten about it entirely. It is proof that I get both my stubbornness about aging and my willingness to make myself look quite revolting on purpose from my insanely hilarious Mom. It, too, smells burnt, and feels fragile.

This one feels like a circle closing to me (not ending though).
Thanks Molly, thanks for making this happen. Watching these extraordinary images and stories come in as a result of something I was lucky enough to be in a position to suggest is a very special thing.

mollypeck:

Guest-Directed Self Portrait #10 (dir. electronicalrattlebag)

We don’t hold on to many “things” for very long in our tiny space: photos are scanned (as are books, if not available digitally) and discarded, most objects are either not brought home in the first place, or are enjoyed for a while, then given away. 

I procrastinated more about this direction than any of the others, because I don’t really have a “burning building” box or list of things (besides Ludo, but he’s not an ‘object’). This conscious non-assignment of value (sentimental, at least) to objects has created a funny indifference to most things. 

I have things that have monetary value, but they are replaceable. It hardly seemed appropriate to hug the hard drive that holds the digital versions of memories. 

For all my claims of moving beyond sentimentality, I admit that there is, in the back of the slender “to be scanned” drawer, a little stash of objects: hand-carved rubber stamps, sticker-booth stickers, a folded paper heart with ragged black edges, and the two things in this image.

The burnt fake rose, attached to a black satin rectangular pouch, was wrapping from the first Christmas gift GB gave me. It smells like a fire in a magic shop, and it feels like something you forgot at a beach house.

I came across the photo (which really should be scanned, but it has some pleasing dimension that I’m not ready to let go) while digging the rose out of the drawer. I had forgotten about it entirely. It is proof that I get both my stubbornness about aging and my willingness to make myself look quite revolting on purpose from my insanely hilarious Mom. It, too, smells burnt, and feels fragile.

This one feels like a circle closing to me (not ending though).

Thanks Molly, thanks for making this happen. Watching these extraordinary images and stories come in as a result of something I was lucky enough to be in a position to suggest is a very special thing.

writethreehundredsixtyfive:

GDSP #10
A room of my own.
“My belief is that if we live another century or so — I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals — and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.”
- Virginia Woolf; A Room of One’s Own. 1929

writethreehundredsixtyfive:

GDSP #10

A room of my own.

“My belief is that if we live another century or so — I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals — and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting-room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky, too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would be impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.”

- Virginia Woolf; A Room of One’s Own. 1929

thecaleb:

For Guest Directed Self # 10
It says this:

Take a picture of yourself with an important thing.
You could tell us what the thing is, and why it is important to you.
You could tell us how it smells, feels, tastes, sounds, if these are applicable.

I was torn on this prompt. I’m not an object kind of person. I love all my books and all my plants. I thought about being metaphoric with this. Then I remembered this rock. It’s the Painter’s Rock. I plucked it out of a flower bed when I was very very very young. There were hundreds of them with only slight variations, but this one was perfect. I took this one home and drew on it with markers and named it the “Painter’s Rock” I created stories about this rock. Here I’m 28 and I still have it. I’ve carried it to me from place to place and I always just set it on a shelf. It encapsulates a moment of innocence, childhood pleasure, imagination, and hope. I don’t think about it often. I don’t get it down often, but when my gaze drops on it I can’t help but smile at least a little.

thecaleb:

For Guest Directed Self # 10

It says this:

Take a picture of yourself with an important thing.

You could tell us what the thing is, and why it is important to you.

You could tell us how it smells, feels, tastes, sounds, if these are applicable.

I was torn on this prompt. I’m not an object kind of person. I love all my books and all my plants. I thought about being metaphoric with this. Then I remembered this rock. It’s the Painter’s Rock. I plucked it out of a flower bed when I was very very very young. There were hundreds of them with only slight variations, but this one was perfect. I took this one home and drew on it with markers and named it the “Painter’s Rock” I created stories about this rock. Here I’m 28 and I still have it. I’ve carried it to me from place to place and I always just set it on a shelf. It encapsulates a moment of innocence, childhood pleasure, imagination, and hope. I don’t think about it often. I don’t get it down often, but when my gaze drops on it I can’t help but smile at least a little.

jacsfishburne:

Day 285/365
GDSP #10 was supposed to consist of something important to you-
When I was little, apparently I didn’t like the eat. I was more interested in doing things, staring at people, and making food art than I was in eating what was put in front of me. So my dad would place this on the table in front of my high chair and make it move for me. Amazed at the woman dancing, I would open my mouth and my parents would shovel food in. Some people had “airplanes,” I had my own belly dancer.
And for the record, this tasted of wood and ancient paint with a slight after of wine, mainly because I’m drinking it now. And it still smells like my dad’s pipe tobacco mixed in with the smells of my room.

jacsfishburne:

Day 285/365

GDSP #10 was supposed to consist of something important to you-

When I was little, apparently I didn’t like the eat. I was more interested in doing things, staring at people, and making food art than I was in eating what was put in front of me. So my dad would place this on the table in front of my high chair and make it move for me. Amazed at the woman dancing, I would open my mouth and my parents would shovel food in. Some people had “airplanes,” I had my own belly dancer.

And for the record, this tasted of wood and ancient paint with a slight after of wine, mainly because I’m drinking it now. And it still smells like my dad’s pipe tobacco mixed in with the smells of my room.

cenizasyarena:

Guest Directed Self #10, prompt by electronicalrattlebag:

Take a picture of yourself with an important thing.
You could tell us what the thing is, and why it is important to you.
You could tell us how it smells, feels, tastes, sounds, if these are applicable.

It was January 9, 2011. I was helping my dad run errands, one of which included a short stop at Costco. “Pick a book,” he said. “I want you to have something new to read on the plane tomorrow.” I picked a Neil Gaiman, because someone had once told me I’d like him. 
I ended up falling asleep on the plane, barely past page 3. Work got in the way. School. 5 days later, my dad was dead.
I look at it sometimes. At the book. I switch it around in my bookcase. If the mood is right, I might take it out and reread the blurb, remind myself of the storyline it promises. I can’t open it, though. Maybe I never will.

cenizasyarena:

Guest Directed Self #10, prompt by electronicalrattlebag:

Take a picture of yourself with an important thing.

You could tell us what the thing is, and why it is important to you.

You could tell us how it smells, feels, tastes, sounds, if these are applicable.

It was January 9, 2011. I was helping my dad run errands, one of which included a short stop at Costco. “Pick a book,” he said. “I want you to have something new to read on the plane tomorrow.” I picked a Neil Gaiman, because someone had once told me I’d like him. 

I ended up falling asleep on the plane, barely past page 3. Work got in the way. School. 5 days later, my dad was dead.

I look at it sometimes. At the book. I switch it around in my bookcase. If the mood is right, I might take it out and reread the blurb, remind myself of the storyline it promises. I can’t open it, though. Maybe I never will.

josepha-olala:

This is my Submission to the GDSP #10:
The topc was to make a picture of oneself with an item that is important, I choose Mecki. I got him from my dad when I was about 4 years old. I have no belongings that are in my life longer. Nothing that looks more use. Nothing else that I take with me in every country I travel and never forget when I move. It is my Mecki. It always remembers me of my dad who was my very first hero. It smells old and dusty but it is like a treasure. I still m in good contact with my dad and love him but getting older kind of made the magic of those years go away… in which he was the best person in the world. I couldn’t wait for him to get home and bring me some candy or a casette tape with music or anything small that would make me happy. Mecki is a picture for the little magic that is still left ;)

josepha-olala:

This is my Submission to the GDSP #10:

The topc was to make a picture of oneself with an item that is important, I choose Mecki. I got him from my dad when I was about 4 years old. I have no belongings that are in my life longer. Nothing that looks more use. Nothing else that I take with me in every country I travel and never forget when I move. It is my Mecki. It always remembers me of my dad who was my very first hero. It smells old and dusty but it is like a treasure. I still m in good contact with my dad and love him but getting older kind of made the magic of those years go away… in which he was the best person in the world. I couldn’t wait for him to get home and bring me some candy or a casette tape with music or anything small that would make me happy. Mecki is a picture for the little magic that is still left ;)

mortalcompass:

Day 194 ~ March 12, 2012 & Guest-Directed Self Portrait #10

A Tale of Two Knives

ONE - My 9-inch Kasumi santoku-style chef’s knife

When I was growing up, I would spend weekends at my dads. I would watch my father make meals for my brother and I and they were so much more than the standard “sustain you” kind of meals I got while at my moms house. I don’t mean to take away anything from my mom, but my dad just had this *way* with food (The man loves to roast a turkey so much, even the Super Bowl is a reason to make one).

He passed on the desire to make food for people on to me (seriously… lemme melt your face sometime), and when he asked what special thing I would like for my 30th birthday, I said that I would love to have a great chef’s knife.

This astounding piece of bamboo-handled Japanese steel has been a steady friend since.

TWO - My Grandfather’s antler-handled buck knife

It wasn’t until he was dead that I realized how much of a badass my grandpa was. I mean, the man died while carving a replica tommy-gun for my cousin.

‘nuff said. 

that

woodprof:

My submission for GDSP #10. My mind is an important thing, though sadly one day I will lose it (may already have), but the important thing is the watch in the photo. I bought the watch years ago for $10 or $15 dollars at an outlet store. So by itself it is not important, but what makes it important is that I got an unsolicited compliment about it from a dear friend of mine.  I have cherished it ever since.

this

woodprof:

My submission for GDSP #10. My mind is an important thing, though sadly one day I will lose it (may already have), but the important thing is the watch in the photo. I bought the watch years ago for $10 or $15 dollars at an outlet store. So by itself it is not important, but what makes it important is that I got an unsolicited compliment about it from a dear friend of mine.  I have cherished it ever since.

this

gazzamie:

Guest-Directed Self-Portrait #10, directed by electronicalrattlebag.
Oshawa, Ontario, March 10, 2012.
This is my house. It’s my first house, first place i owned. I really wanted something more urban, but such things are hard to come by in Oshawa, where i work. But it’s got a funky mid-century interior, which i’ve painted in comic book colours.
Before this i was living with my parents, and lately, after my Mom died, with my father. It’s not that they were hard to live with, maybe they were too easy. But it was still living with my parents. But when it was just my Dad, i bore the brunt of his negativity. Not that he’s nasty, just he stressed over EVERYTHING. And felt the need to pass on the stress. For example. he used to get his BP checked all the time at Shopper’s Drug Mart, but somebody bought him a home blood pressure machine. So he checked it incessantly, even though there was nothing wrong with him. It got to the point where i had to move to save my sanity. So that’s why this is my favourite thing.
And eventually the doctor upped my Dad’s anxiety prescription, so he’s feeling better too.

gazzamie:

Guest-Directed Self-Portrait #10, directed by electronicalrattlebag.

Oshawa, Ontario, March 10, 2012.

This is my house. It’s my first house, first place i owned. I really wanted something more urban, but such things are hard to come by in Oshawa, where i work. But it’s got a funky mid-century interior, which i’ve painted in comic book colours.

Before this i was living with my parents, and lately, after my Mom died, with my father. It’s not that they were hard to live with, maybe they were too easy. But it was still living with my parents. But when it was just my Dad, i bore the brunt of his negativity. Not that he’s nasty, just he stressed over EVERYTHING. And felt the need to pass on the stress. For example. he used to get his BP checked all the time at Shopper’s Drug Mart, but somebody bought him a home blood pressure machine. So he checked it incessantly, even though there was nothing wrong with him. It got to the point where i had to move to save my sanity. So that’s why this is my favourite thing.

And eventually the doctor upped my Dad’s anxiety prescription, so he’s feeling better too.