A Successful Relationship

According to Dr. Burns the CBT guy, a successful relationship is based on 20 things I find satisfying. So I rate my level of satisfaction 1-5 for each thing. This gives me a percentage when I add it up.
20% – coffee buddy
40%- dining dance sex whatever
60% – marriage
Because a successful relationship means I am accepting and putting up with 40% bullshit.
Because I’m not a damned perfectionist.
There are deal breakers like drug addiction etc. but I am talking reasonable mentally/emotionally compatible adults from the get go.
So what about my relationship with me?
Here I find I am a damned perfectionist.
I must I should endlessly, making myself anxious and depressed for not being perfect.
Then along comes a stroke, and now I’m really not perfect. Now I’m fucked because I’m living with a tyrant. Me.
Is there any evidence that I must should be perfect at anything?
I highly prefer to, and so I work hard, but I don’t have to.

here is my 20 things:

likes art
attractive to me
internet savvy
mentally/emotionally reasonable health
good conversationalist
likes to dine out/coffee shop
likes exercise/gym
likes healthy food
frank conversation willing to compromise
has at least one strong interest
liberal at least
life long educated learner

Three Perspectives on Ethics in Image-Making

photographer, model unknown


What is the intention of the artist? How are the participants elicited and acknowledged? How does the methodology employed by the artist enable or limit the agency of the participant? How does the artist reflexively address their own assumptions, and challenge dominant preconceptions about the participant and the subjects of their imagery? Where does the artist disseminate the work, and how do these contexts affect the representation of the participant? How has the artist used models of documentation to make the questions, problems, constraints, and subjectivities explored throughout the duration of the practice explicit?

Adults Having Adult Conversation

I wish I could run the universe like you, and decide what is art and what should be shown

Adults having adult conversation are self censoring,

we are not children that need to be protected from the world, and neither are you.

If you don’t prefer it,

push the magic button to make it go away,

then do that for the rest of life

until you die in a soft padded room


no light

no sharp corners

no pain

or loss

or pleasure

or hope.

or magic

or love

I am unconvinced of your belief that you can’t stand it

that you can’t handle life

big beliefs require big evidence.

I don’t have to disprove your belief,

you have to prove it to me.

So far I remain unconvinced of your assertions about the nature of




me, or my art and it’s intent and meaning.

Perhaps its better that I speak for myself,

since you doing it for me and for art is a tad patronizing,

and poorly researched,

based on, you know,



Those who I thought were friends (not you gentle reader, you aren’t a defriend) are seeming open and welcoming but are really like those automatic door closers for example, almost impossible for a wheelchair on your own, really hard with a walker, so necessary as a fire prevention, and so expensive to put a push button mechanism. Lack of empathy, and common greed = stupidity. So dependency is created by opening doors for folks. I’m your friend, I will help you (till I get bored and dump you, it’s all your fault). Condescending minimizing trivializing patronizing grins on their slack jawed religious faces, an opportunity to tell me jesus will heal me, if I pray, (or buy a new age potion) oh, he didn’t? guess you weren’t doing it right ya loser in a wheelchair, even jesus dumped you.

Access Calgary

The scene of my constant humiliation, Access Calgary where I go to be defined by my disability.
Eighteen months ago I had a devastating life event affecting my mobility. After 6 months in hospital, I moved into my home, fully dependant on these characters in cabs to move me to outpatient facilities and for essentials like groceries.
Excuse me I need to stop, here at this Starbucks, I need to use the washroom.
We don’t stop.
Not even for basic human needs.
I asked the guy in the wheelchair, what do you do? Piss yourself and sit in it, they don’t give a fuck he says.
So right away I get the message, this is for the cab company’s convenience, not mine. On time and fuck you.
I used to manage the dispatch for this cab company. I bailed and went to art school, glad to be away from this harsh draconian conservative regime. After I graduated, I trained special needs bus drivers for a fleet with 2000 vehicles as a day gig. First thing I told the drivers, don’t treat them like they are broken, just drive safe and be pleasant, give them a comfortable ride like you would for anybody.
So, when I get in the Access car, the driver starts doing my seatbelt, and won’t take no for an answer. Faster this way he says. Never mind that his body rubs against my genitals, if I had breasts, well I don’t know what they do.
Put up with being felt up by the driver. It’s not like you have a choice.
There is a monopoly in place and they are fighting to maintain the 300 bucks a day per driver (his share).
The attitude is friendly and helpful with the part-time relief guys, but the regular drivers, forget it. They hate the job, and they hate you. They live in fear of being fired.
If you assert your rights you are being difficult. Every trip is an arguement or passive aggressive silences, watched by video cameras, every trip. Orwell was right.
I’m waiting alone at my building, the driver comes to the lobby, and demands, What’s your name!
My name is Jerald.
What’s your last name!
OK are you here for Jerald? I’m the only one here named Jerald who is waiting for Access.
If you don’t tell me your last name you are not getting in the car! The Access Nazi, no ride for you.
I chose to stay home, called Access and told them what happened.
The next day, the same driver was sent again, same scene over again.
Access apologised again, and put on my file don’t ask his last name, like I am the problem, I am difficult.
After a successful career spanning 40 years in transportation, of special needs folks, I’m the problem.
I called the cab company, talked to the dispatcher, a deeply stupid gent who has been doing a bad job there since I left. Jerry, (they call me Jerry) he was just following orders, you want I should fire him for following orders? No fire the insane individual who gave him the orders then threatened his job if he didn’t comply, was my thought, but I said, uh, this is your policy isn’t it. Yes, he said proudly.
This would be so simple to fix.
Call a cab, Uber, whatever.
Go where you want when you want.
Give them your access card. Process it.
Get out of the cab.
Duh, is that so hard?
Bad weather, call and book a reservation. Access goes to the head of the list. These people have computer dispatch, I know I helped build it. They can do this.
Well only certain drivers have Access training, you say? Ya from now on if your company wants Access trips, all drivers have Access training, it’s called career development.
Sorry about your monopoly but it sure wasn’t in my best interests, was it?

Calgary Arts Development

I took a course in cultural anthropology one time or maybe it was the other one about the bones and stuff, where I learned that humans migrate, for the usual reasons, war being a big one because it wipes out shelter and food. Following the herd, weather events on a global scale, cosmic events like asteroid collisions causing a type of nuclear winter. Not much has changed really. Random shit still happens and we up and move. Brexit from genetically defective inbred island mutants notwithstanding.

Folks take their better war tech with them, Neanderthals with their bigger brains and bigger bodies were wiped right out because we had domesticated wolves, a really viscous war tool, and the resident folks living in the new place, got raped and their heads bashed, killed by new diseases to them..

This is actually good for our species because the immune system seems to like the challenge of new foreign bugs, our bodies are strong because of adversity, we overcome injury through exercise. We are built to run all day and follow the herd.

Herds migrate.

And we evolve as a species.

A kind of evolutionary tough love.

Here in North America my grandfather migrated/immigrated to lands west of Calgary, the army had displaced the usual residents using their better war tech for him, he proceeded to grow grasses (wheat) to live off, promptly got diabetes went blind and went broke.

We have only been trying to live off grass (agriculture) for 6 thousand years or so (?), and we are not good at it. Sedentary diabetes modules is what we have become, what with sugar thrown in the mix life is short but its not sweet. Don’t even get me started on what tobacco and high fructose corn syrup (other types of grasses) does to us.

The mapping of the human genome wiped out the notion of race, but we have different cultures for sure, based on different war tech primarily (IMHO) to deal with our anxiety that all humans have brought with them from the jungle. Oh and religion for the same reason. Anxiety and hostility and religion go hand in hand.

So one of our cultures or religions is not better than the other, and because we are the same human species we are all thinking the grass is greener in our neighbor’s yard let’s migrate there or in our retirement let’s travel, and we have a taste for rape called lets meet interesting people and sleep with them, in college, or any opportunity really, sowing our wild oats continually as it were.

So now I am an artist, my preference.

It’s insane, eugenics really, to think I am smarter or more talented than anyone else. I have a preference for making art so I learned and practiced and tolerated the huge frustration of doing that, and now I make satisfaction for me, the purpose of life.


Rooty toot toot.

The City of Calgary wants me to meet with them about the uselessness of being on a jury to decide what art to buy and show with public funds, a practice fraught with abuse from the public here. Indigenous art of the conquered folks is preferred these days, but so is gay/lesbian and gender issues. Handicapped art like the freak in the circus is also cool.

Since I’m white, male, straight, and  middle age I’m usually the anti-Christ of art selection committees so this is rather peculiar to me, I hope they pay for my bus ticket to the meeting, but I doubt they will.  Perhaps I am considered handicapped after a stroke so that is the appeal.

So basically they traditionally make selections based on some physical attribute.

The non eugenics viewpoint says we are all intelligent we are all talented and we have different passions that we tolerate frustration in order to succeed at.

So making art selections based on physical characteristics of the artist, who their grandparents were, who conquered them, who they like to socialize their mastubation with (all sex is masturbation, we just invite friends along sometimes) whether they walk or roll, is really a kind of Barnum and Bailey freak show for the entertainment of the uneducated who are paying us to pick this stuff so they don’t have to bother with frustration of an education in the 800 years of history and tradition of the conquering culture, or the thousands of years of the conquered one either.

So a eugenics scorecard was developed to help spread the blame for this really authoritarian even fascist Hitlerian selection process. Each proposal that took months even years to develop and asking for thousands of public dollars is given half an hour, the juror paid $7.50, and based on a score of 10, a rating of artistic merit and social impact. Both of which are meaningless terms based on a prejudiced belief rather than evidence, so it fits right in with the eugenics model that one human is better than another based on conditions.

So what’s the solution?

Fire the notion of a jury.

Hire an art historian, as curator, to develop a curatorial them in conjunction with your art committee/board of directors, whatever.

Put out a call for artists based on the curatorial theme.

Send the curator off to do studio visits and make selections, leave her alone to do her job.

Support her in her decisions.

Educate the public with publications on this is the curatorial theme, this is the expert hired to curate it, these are the accomplished artists chosen to execute it.

Live with the inevitable flak from a city of Trump loving expert hating nazis.

Learn to dodge bullets.

This is business as usual as an artist.

Your likes and dislikes only describe you, not the art.

Grow a set and don’t stand to be pushed around.

Celebrate ‘it’s art because I say its art because I am an artist based on qualifications’.

Learn to dodge more bullets.

That’s our job, that’s what we do.

Stand up and do it.

Getting Waxed

courtesy © Caroline Luez Mallet

I’m in hospital, last year, victimized by a stroke, can’t move the right side of my body, and my nails and toenails are growing.
So, I ask the nurse, could I get them clipped please? Oh, we don’t do that, was the indifferent reply, followed by an indifferent shrug when I asked for advice on who does it.
Family, get your family to do it.
This is the standard Catholic conservative solution du jour put off of the typical Alberta health system employee.
Hmmm they (family) don’t visit, and not only are they not close family, they are actively competitive and hostile. The kind of people you disinvite from your Twitter feed.
Still, I called up my estranged sister, a former private investigator and current Tantra sex groupie/leader, Eastern spirituality cult recruiter for hire and asked her to come to the hospital to cut my toenails. “I don’t even cut my own!” was the ridicule response.
I’ll pay for you to get it done, she offered.
OK, when will you be by to take me to the mall? Well I’m pretty busy. Well we are all busy, can you make this a priority? Well, the dogs need walking, your wheelchair is a bother, I mean the list of put offs was never ending.
And my nails kept growing into my hand. which was clenched post stroke tight into a fist 24/7 except for therapy sessions where they managed to get it open using Functional Electrical Stimulation (FES), electrodes attached to my arm. I was selectively electrocuted to make my hand open, at a 150.00 a session to the taxpayer, once a week.
I bought the same machine on Amazon for 80 bucks and use it daily now for an hour a day, but the hospital wouldn’t receive deliveries so I had to wait and use their machine.
So, anyway, the conservative family values option disintegrated into the usual self pity and inconvenience. The next solution was a store I had never been in, at the mall where they would do a pedicure manicure for 130.00. No wonder my sister weaseled out of paying for it, I thought.
I booked an Access wheelchair transport, had to be 24 hrs in advance, for the next day at -30 in summer clothes, as it was summer weather when I went in hospital and all my cold weather gear was in storage. I couldn’t get up 4 flights of stairs to my home, or pay rent, as I couldn’t work or drive, so I returned my Toyota to the dealership as well. Serial loss piled upon loss, even the cat had to go to the kitty homeless shelter.
The Access driver was an asshole. This I discovered was typical. Career drivers are working class conservatives, their base, they listen to Fox news on the radio. We aren’t friends. Also I imagine he was pissed about loading me in a blizzard, his frustrated inconvenience was a tangible thing emanating off him in waves. This wasn’t a medical trip, it was going to the mall, considered by many conservatives as an abuse of the system. He showed his disapproval by jamming the brakes and gas, throwing me around when I didn’t have proper muscles to hold myself up in the wheelchair. In the past my day gig was as a driver trainer for a bus company, I knew he knew how to drive with consideration for his passenger because I know his training. They refer to their vehicles among themselves as gimp-mobiles, the passengers as gimps, sometimes raisins or prunes if they are elderly, and treat the clients like children with dementia. It’s really humiliating.
He got me dumped at the mall, pushing my chair with one arm and leg, in the snow, my first outing since the stroke, I had been indoors in an institution for months.
I was really anxious after the abuse of the ride and didn’t know what to look for at the mall. Later I found out it’s called a spa.
I really had to pee after the cold and the ride, with no options for that obviously accessible and available.
It turned out that there was a nail place right by the entrance, thankfully, the mall was as least a km. long on 2 levels, and they had no washroom anywhere nearby.
200 bucks later I had a haircut, nails and feet bathed and expertly trimmed with the realization this was a monthly expense, and I had no job. Anxiety piled upon anxiety loss piled upon loss.
I was the only male, in the spa, I was surrounded by women, in bathrobes, having just arrived from the waxing booths presumably hairless from the neck down, looking I imagine as prepubescent children or porn actresses for their lovers enjoyment.
They were acting much the same as children in the spa what with a man being there. Giggling at being busted by my gender for having a hairy ass I suppose.
The attendants were all immigrants, Asian mostly, Korean and Vietnamese.
Now I understood why the conservative white nurses and my white sister wouldn’t do my nails. This was nigger work, to use a relevant term from a past age.
They felt themselves above the class of coloured help: their child’s au pair or the spa wage slave that ripped the wax off their hairy rectums. The nurses aids that emptied the bedpans at the hospital were similarly Asian and immigrant.
I once had a coffee buddhy, a retired Brit doctor, and one day I started my sentence with, “As an immigrant you must realize”, which was as far as I got before he exploded in indignation, as I had just called him a nigger in his British conservative mind. He offered me a prescription for Prozac, saying under every bad concept is a bad molecule.
Shortly after he was diagnosed with brain cancer and he took his bad molecules off to die in the niggardly hospital system he helped to create.
The ride home from the mall was awful. My mall buddy from the stroke ward with the walker was too short to climb up the seat of the Dodge caravan. The driver wanted to leave her at the mall which was closing. I suggested we swap because I’m tall, so I managed to stand up and then fall up into the passenger seat, the wind howling the snow blowing at 30 below. I felt like I was in search of the northwest passage on the open Atlantic in February.
The driver stuck my buddy in my wheelchair, crammed her in the back and took off for the hospital. The freeway was black ice, the driver was insane. He obviously had to pee badly but there was no place in the mall for him within the km. of stores. He wasn’t allowed to leave us alone at any rate, why he didn’t stop ahead of time I don’t know.
So there we were, racing on black ice, passing cars going half our speed, I’m flying around inside the vehicle unable to hold myself upright, the driver is steering one handed, the other holding his crotch, his face screwed up in obvious discomfort. We get to the hospital and were left alone anyway, the driver racing for the washroom. I got another Access driver to help unload us and get us inside, I never saw my guy again. I’m not convinced he ever returned, due to embarrassment.
It was a surreal day full of obstructionist class privilege, animosity and assholes, some bearded, some waxed. A typical day on the stroke ward in a Catholic conservative hospital system. A typical getting around as well to outside appointments listening to Fox news and pissed off drivers. They don’t seem to like me somehow….

Whoever Controls The Money Controls The Art Controls The Message

How do I know what I don’t know?
“Please know we are still very interested in having your perspective on a future jury, but we will creating each jury for each program as they roll out throughout the year.”  
What perspective is that?  And on what subject and in what context.
I was not informed that I would be part of a pool. I was making myself available and making a commitment to be on a jury to offer a professional opinion, as part of my professional responsibilities to recognize and nurture talent, and as a contribution to my community.
The reason I do not like secret pools is that it gives the impression of stacking the jury so that political agendas are served. This hidden process that is done in secretive back rooms smacks of censorship.
I have served on juries for 25 years, and generally there is an open context, and an agenda. Like the New Gallery has a focus on contemporary art, for example.
Your jury selection conext and agenda are not obvious or open to the public, yet I see artists picked for the banner project for example for the last seven years, not only for the quality of artistic merit, but for membership in social groups, apparently. Perhaps it is just coincidence.
I recently was offered a show as a handicapped artist. I was recently turned down to show as an emerging photographer due to my age. What do my physical attributes, choice of gender of sexual partners, age, choice of gender of myself, have to do with my art in anyway at all. Well, lots, if you have that as a curatorial agenda but it needs to made clear at the outset. The national gallery of Canada changed their age requirement for their emerging artist competition when I pointed out it was ageist and bigoted. You can emerge as an artist at any age.
The optics of this selection committee, and it’s vague catch all of artistic merit and ‘social impact’ are terrible.
Without clear and specific information as to curatorial theme, specific reasons why I was chosen to be on the jury or not, I am not interested in being part of a secretive process in a back room where for all I know the selections are made on the basis of social groupings and political agendas. 
Thank You