Prologue

So this is it. The Record - all fancy-like. Hooray. And so it befits this first post to be a self-portrayal, of the textual fashion. Yeah.

So yeah, this is me. I'm a recent acceptee of an out-of-the-ground art program way out of the mainstream, and I like it like that. I came here to further my knowledge of art, and one day maybe, hopefully become a comic book artist, to draw manga or perhaps funny sketches of daily life or growing up and things like that. Way down the line. For now, I'm just an art student. 

[EDIT] WARNING! THE FOLLOWING POST IS RIDICULOUSLY LONG FOR NO GOOD REASON! PROCEED AT OWN RISK!

I come from a small town in a small part of Ontario, called Prescott-Russel, a french-speaking jewel of a place stuck in between Ottawa and Montreal. It's an old, dying place, just like its inhabitants. And I lived on one of the newer, nicer streets with brick houses and of course, populated by retired folks. Not that I would have turned out different if it was any other way. I've always considered myself to be an introvert, I used to play with train tracks and lego, drawings and stories rather than soccer and hockey. So of course when the time came to play soccer and hockey, I sat. I didn't sit out, oh no I sat on the bench... Only just. It was the only thing I was good at doing  whenever sport was involved. Anyway, I'm a pretty weird fellow, very immature, easily excitable, neurotic, [currently famished and sleep deprived, but that's a story for another time, perhaps.] I used to live in my house, now I live on a couch, or a chair, or any other object suitable for comfortably receiving my backside, and close enough to a wall outlet that it can provide sustenance for my [also famished] PC, by which I mean "Portable Computer" I like to talk, and I like to imagine that there is a semblance of thought that goes into typing whatever it is I am typing, and there is. A semblance. You know, some people can think a ton on a subject, define it, refine it, and then give you 2 enlightening sentences, but as you've probably realized that's not me. I write everything I think, or almost, and everything I think is usually quite fluffy, all air with little matter. No matter. I will write and draw until my fingers fall off or I finally stab straight through the keyboard.

Not that my life is particularly exciting, but I need an outlet for all that excessive data, because it tends to overwrite important stuff, like at what time I'm supposed to be working tomorrow, and things like that.

I am a conflicting person. And since I'm growing weary of writing, comfortable as this sofa may be, lets just cut straight to the chase, without any detours, bypasses, tangents or unnecessary distractions or additions of any kind. Just pure, straight-up, well thought out facts. You thought that was funny? Good. I did too.

My main drawback is fear. Some people are afraid of spiders, snakes, others, like harry potter, are afraid of fear itself. I'm afraid of failure, and it has been shown me many times in the past. I will, of course, extrapolate, in a psychological format, and then we'll see where that takes me. (You see, I don't own my thoughts: they flow uncontrollably, and I ride their waves wherever they may take me)

Fear of failure likely comes from having been overprotected by my single mother as a child. I was encouraged to stay at home and look no further for answers than the dictionary, or the opinion of an uninformed relative. But I accepted that lifestyle, which only confirms that which my mother has recently revealed: This fear of failure, or it's disguise as fear of change,  runs rampant in the St-Denis family. My twin has it, My mother has it, my aunt and her daughter has it, my grandmother has it. We hesitate to involve ourselves in the unknown, but it is not the unknown itself that scares us; I am, for the most part, unmoved by the prospect of impending death, and that is because it is predictable. However, ridiculous things can cause me to fear if I am unsure of what will transpire, and this happens a lot in social contexts. Anyway, fear of failure has caused me to become secluded and to favor isolation, protecting me from the fear by removing any situation that could potentially create a failure. I realize that this fear is often what causes the failure A vicious circle, to quote Antoine de St-Exupery: 

- Que fais-tu là? dit-il au buveur, qu'il trouva installé en silence devant une collection de bouteilles vides et une collection de bouteilles pleines.
- Je bois, répondit le buveur, d'un air lugubre.
- Pourquoi bois-tu? lui demanda le petit prince.
- Pour oublier, répondit le buveur.
- Pour oublier quoi? s'enquit le petit prince qui déjà le paignait.
- Pour oublier que j'ai honte, avoua le buveur en baissant la tête.
- Honte de quoi? s'informa le petit prince qui désirait le secourir.
- Honte de boire! acheva le buveur qui s'enferma définitivement dans le silence.

And there is tomorrow's subject. This is a quite exciting project, a discussion with oneself. (of course I will have to navigate away from the traditional writing format in order to get passing grades, but it should prove an interesting and challenging piece of work.

So back to fear. I fear failure. So much that I would rather stay home and feel nothing than feel even the possibility of failure.

I experienced my first identifiable panic attack while calling Ashley Doiron of the KIAC admin, and it was an incredible experience. I quickly realized that if I let this fear govern me, it would take over my life. So. what do I do? I force myself to see that fear, to acknowledge it, and to realize that it is only a fear, and that my perceptions are hazied by it. And then, when I can see the fear lying there plainly as fears do when they are stripped of their power, I force myself forward. Forward, forward. Don't look back, don't hesitate. Just keep moving or the cold Yukon winter will get you. Stasis freezes body and soul. Will keeps you moving. I will, too.