This blog's for ME

Almost 25 years old, asking my parents if I can sleep in their bed with them. I had thought I was going to be the 25th Prime Minister of Canada. Things had changed. 10 years later, I was still a scared little boy. The time had come to slap myself awake. One Saturday morning, November 19th, 2009, I declared to the world I would be riding my 10 year-old motorcycle from Vancouver, BC Canada to Rio de Janeiro, Brasil, and back.

The official departure was August 28th, 2010. A group of well-wishers saw me off at 8:03 am.

I arrived in Rio de Janeiro around 6 pm March 1st, 2011.



My return to Vancouver came on July 5th, 2011 about 2:00 pm.

Drug & alcohol abuse, ADD, social anxiety, health, chronic pain, night terrors.

So many concerns. But I am far more interested in this question: Do I have the capacity to make this trip despite all my shortcomings?

My mission: To inspire myself to face my fears, enlighten myself on how all living things can peacefully co-exist, enjoy every moment, and see the world as plentiful and generous.

Go ahead. Call me crazy. Call me anything you like.

I'm out to save my world.



I LOVE YOU ALL



Questions, comments, concerns, threats? Contact me: jason.chapman99@gmail.com


Wagon Burns in Horrific Crash

Ok people, never before have I crashed so hard after an ultra intensive self-motivated health challenge. Oh except 45 and 61 days of Bikram's yoga in a row respectively, with a 4 year hiatus between them. Maybe quitting smoking for 1 whole year only to start again? 6 days of a Master Cleanse. What about 6 weeks without a drop of alcohol when I was 24? Oh, yes, that was a good one too.
Now what? Do I go back to monkdom, or let it all hang lose? Aaahhh let's just watch a Justin Bieber video and forget about it!

It brings me to a thought I had about today's topic: animal or artist? It's been percolating for a few days, culminating in a conversation with Geoff today at an impromptu brunch party.

NEWS FLASH:
New word of the day: redonkidant, adj. A combination of ridiculous, which evolved to redonkulous, and redundant.

I've realized I need to really lose myself to do my best writing. If not it is most certainly surface things; it's why I must completely give up wanting anything, and almost letting my brain speak directly to the pages. Right now, I'm spelling every 2nd word wrong, and it's taking me a long time to get this down. When I'm in the mode, there is a split second difference between the thought and the word on the page. I took two years of typing in high school, a time when the first public computerized word processors were coming out. In fact, one year prior we had type writers with an LCD digital screen, about an inch high by 4 inches wide, and that was big technology(left). In 1989, the words were typed out in the same way they had been since 1867 (top right). Windows was widely accepted by the early 90's, and our lives will never, and have never been the same.

In a long curcuitous pattern I am making my way to my point of animal or artist. Please allow me to be lazy and just put two opposing pictures in your mind: One, a complacent cow chewing her cud. The second, a Van Gogh self portrait.

My premise is based on a comparison of an animal and an artist, and that they occupy opposite ends of a happiness spectrum as I'll call it. I should say at this point I do not profess myself to be an expert on this, I am only an insignificant human musing about existence. For argument's sake, let us say happiness can be a combination of being at peace, comfortable in one's own skin, a sense of belonging and a complete and utter disregard for time and any of it's concepts. If you ever watch a cow longer than a fleeting moment, you may personify that animal in such a way that you call it 'happy'. It's really all you can do, as you are a human speaking in a language that only your species knows; it's the only way to describe something outside of yourself. Comparing this to one of the most famous artists of all time, a cow would seem a demi-God of peace and serenity, and not just in India.

Vincent Van Gogh supposedly cut his own ear off in a fit of unrequited love. This story has become quite convoluted and has as many possible twists and associations as Elvis' death, but the point remains the same. He joins many famous artists, musicians and writers who have committed suicide, or other acts of self-mutilation and destruction. Frida Kahlo, Alfred Maurer, Ernest Hemingway, Emily Bronte, Kurt Cobain. Sorry had to bring that last one up, but the idea of the tormented artist is certainly not new. There is also something here that associates itself with pain somehow; cows avoid pain at any price, and artists seem to crave it, then when filled can hold on no more. The stoic words "You must have pain to be a painter", seem to ring true.

At the risk of over-simplifying human nature, I can boldly say our troubles as humans begin to multiply the further we come away from our animal nature. Technology, Communications, Entertainment are all small reminders of how far we've come, and in a very very short time. What will become of us? How will the technological revolution leave us? It has implications on everything from how to lead our own lives, to how we raise our own children. Do we keep them innocent, and simple or do we let them explore past every boundary that they find in the world. Most logical answers involve moderation and compromise. From a mental health standpoint, it is important throughout a human life to learn how to sooth oneself, and to mentally keep things in perspective. The human brain can get away on itself very quickly, especially if there is a history of abuse or neglect. There is a connection, and we are foolhardy to think our society and lifestyle does not adversely affect a great deal of people who are simply victims of their own humanity.

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