Growing up in Saskatchewan in the 1990s, sexual discrimination was legal. The first pride parade I ever attended, was masked to protect the lives, livelihoods, and families of the pioneering leaders of our modern revolutions and privilege. I was a skater, so part of everybody and everything. By default. If you know you know, if you don't, rollerblading is cool too. We're good. Also, shout out to high school football players protecting skaters from getting eaten alive by hockey players. Seriously, my experience.  Anyways, we were all different colors and talked, walked, and thought, even swore differently. NOT living that skate or die life,  was the only ticket to fuck - off - landia. Our race was 'Skate.' Otherwise, half of us were homeless. 1 person's single mom would drive 10 of us somewhere, so we didn't die getting there. Some of us lived in a chicken coop full of broken beer bottles, in a basement downtown. Others backflipped off 4 story buildings into snowbanks. Whatever the bat shit ridiculous, instantly gratifying choices in front of us; we made them as a unit. Everyone, everything, all belonged. It was magical to just be 'in.' Down, without segmentation. Skaters. Skate, the rest is fun, fighting the power, and living between. Because Saskatchewan was such a very complicated place to grow up and stay out of trouble, and trouble is peace for the wild; skateboarding saved our lives. 

 

My sense of identity early on became inextricably intertwined with the Cathedral, North Central, and Downtown areas of Pile of Bones, Saskatchewan. When I wasn't in Saskatoon, complaining about Regina. As the proverbially youngest at every spot, or house party show, back in the day - I was treated like I was special. I didn't know I was different. I was ignorant to how you could treat people anyway.  Unless they sucked at skating or were cops. My big orange Afro and huge pants my homies made out of other pants, meant 'that's Iraaaaaaaa', to the skaters, and the punks, and the straight edge kids in our little world.  So, on the weekends I was a rich white kid at grandma's, and during the week, trudged through everything else. I quit skating when I started falling in love. I quit falling in stuff when I started making videos and films. I quit quitting when I figured out no one cared about my diary, in ten-foot-tall letters.  10 years of that later, I guess what can best be described as 'I stumbled into riding the bike while I built it.' Reflexively almost. Suddenly, I felt that gorgeous, foul pushback, and defensive disdain I had always craved from those superior artists, friends, and even mentors I admired, paid, worked for, and with. This new mixture of surprise, envy, and sweaty fear. That's when I knew. That's when I really, truly knew. 

 

Never stop loving. It will ruin your skateboarding.

 

The pivotal moments of my personal and professional development, growth, and my favorite multimedia works are all born in that 'trance-like state'.  I often talk about how 'art is practicing until the reflex grows.' This was how I learned to ollie. This is how I learned to 'look' like I could kickflip. Thousands of hours of solo practice.  Before, we all went skating. The Hypno void. Whether it's sleep deprivation, substance abuse, method acting, Dogme95, (Ask Jeeves about it, yo.) I don't believe in feeling inspired. I can't recommend pampering your ego to that degree. You have to be. That's the window. Do. That's the secret. Live. BE OUT - painting on your little wooden porch. Making your little songs. Get that 'lifestyle blog' money. Basically, put on red lipstick,  while you are standing in a garbage can fire full of hemp fuel. 

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Find your teachers, make your experiences, upskill your talents. No matter what, experience what you need to learn. You may not have a choice of how, when, or what order. The system projected on to us is a backward lie. Rules are only for the poor. Life is the only test worth living. Success is your own scale measure. Dreams are a plan. Wishing is rehearsal vision. 

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A lot of teachers/ educators kick me out of their class / or interject to reorient the conversation at this point. And we both know it's too late. So let the old guard cling desperately to their messed up, antiquated, detached, colonial, systems and institutions.

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What happens when you are hanging off a cliff by three fingers? Consider that you can ask the mountain, or trust the fall.  

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