& Zed.

of the Divorce that killed the old & gave birth to the new.

2011-05-12T10:19:00.000-06:00

Two years ago, this month, I went through my divorce to Alyssa and Mormonism.
I was married to Alyssa for 5 years.
I was married to Mormonism for 27 years.
It was acceptance of the reality that I would never fit into a culture that will never fully accept me.

It is a difficult time, this month.

While I am more sustainable, pain is pain, memories are still sharp.

z.

‎(a toast: calling old friends, finding new friends)

2010-12-31T21:31:00.003-07:00

Once knew Salt, now new Rose. Rain for Snow, Gray for Blue, Green for Brown, Warm for Cold, New for Old. Raise a glass to our past, to our future, our present our New Years, new faces, new places to where we go ~ keeping mind where we have gone. Anew my friends, anew. 2011. z.

story. by z.

2010-12-19T15:50:00.002-07:00

When dust fell upon the books no seemed to care.

Bills, obligations and the tedious tasks of every day living took much more prominence over the literary works of Twain, Joyce or Poe.

For Candice, this was a loss.

Not a loss of monetary or personal gains, but a loss of community, connections.

She desired to see a glowing face of inspiration when they read the literary works of Emily Dickinson, or traveled far away to distant worlds in worlds created by Asimov.

To see a child stumble over the words of a Seuss or laugh at the intricacy in worlds Animilia illustrations could bring.

These brought joy to her, a smile.

But those creaks in the wood were not from the library welcoming, but rather a series of long sighs reverberating through the stacks. She was lonely and so was the library.

But she found purpose. Between those rising stacks of neglected bound and proper, her purpose was yet to be realized by the community of Smithtown.

That town, that quaint town was one of old diners, waitresses that would call you sugar and old folks who swayed back and forth waiting for the setting sun. It breathed and exhaled in slow steady paces, biding its time to get nowhere in particular.

Neighbors were friendly and in that small town everyone knew you. Perhaps they knew each other a bit too well. (Gossip spread across the town like weeds among grass) Old people grew older and a younger generation learned its place in replacing them. Life continued on, albeit slowly.

Too damn slow.

Candace bit her lip and propped her feet up on an a desk as old as her. On the desk lay a sea of papers to be sorted, due notices to be issued and sent proper. The room smelled of an old musty scent that held so many memories that were once forgotten and now found.

She was lost in following a fly across the room and land nonchalantly on her glasses. What was the purpose again?

She was running, running with lungs full of air and the sun shining to her lips. Grass was long and flowed freely past her outstretched hands. Her dress danced among the grass flirting ravishly with each piece she passed.

Giggles erupted into the air and caught the warm summer breeze. On the hill in the distance trees swayed to and fro delighting in the afternoon.

Purpose, yes this was purpose! To breath out without worry, and to breath this field, this world in.

She continued running, lungs filling up, legs outstretching to no place in particular. She owned this field, this experience.

"Miss!"

Before her stood Mrs. Crowley, draped in the past, unfortunately, here in the present.

Candice collected herself, woke up.

"Yes, uh, Mrs Crowley how can I uh help you?"

"You my dear, were sleeping on the job!"

"Oh."

"Yes," she stressed the 's' as though it was somehow important, "You were!"

"Sorry?"

"Well enough of that, feet off the desk you have a library to run her miss!" Mrs. Crowley said pointing at her feet on the desk.

"Quite. So uh," Candace put her feet back on the ground, sitting up, official like, "So what can the fine library of Smithtown do for you today Mrs. Crowley?"

Candace gave a lopsided smile.

"Hmmph." She cleared her throat, "Well I need a book about bowel movements."

Now Candance tried her damndest, but she could not suprise her lips from turning upward. It was an nominally, a random occurrence, that just had to be.

"Oh, erm, okay," She pushed the smile back down.

Mrs. Crowley pushed a menacing glare back at Candace piercing her with her dark eyes.

"Why yes, Elbert, he, he is not natural you see."

Oh God, Oh Zeus, Oh fucking Titan why me, why this why now! Why not those fields of green flowing grass that brushed across my fingers and traced my purpose! Why bowel movement discussions?!

"Hey! Dummy! Listen to me, you are day dreaming again!"

"Oh sorry, Ms. Crowly, lack of sleep. You realize that a survey finds most americans don't get enough sleep. Like seven out of ten or something.."

"I could care less!"

"Well then, right this way," Candice ushered Ms. Crowly to the medical section. She followed letting out a loud sigh.

"So besides, you know, the problem, er, how is Mr. Crowley doing these days?"

"He is a miserable sod. I hate him and love him all the same. But you wouldn't understand deary.."

Candace bit down on her tongue, "Oh really?"

"No, of course not. You never have seen, nor experienced love, truly. Your existence is and has always been nominal, meek in this library."

"Ms. Crowley here is your book!"

Pushing the book into Ms. Crowley's hands she stepped back and began to turn her heels back to the desk.

"But deary, I need help finding more info on a rash too!"

"Ms. Crowly, Six Four Nine point Nine Zero Four One S Four Three Nine H!"

"What?!"

"Coming Ms. Crowley, coming to help you find your rash."

"Why, I, miss you are inappropriate, quite inappropriate!"

"No, Ms. Crowley, I'm bored. Bored of you. Bored of this city. Bored of this mother fucking community that needs to desperately get laid!"

Ms. Crowleys face turned red, her eyes shot from her head.

"I, I, I..."

"Here Mrs. Crowley, your rash," she forced the book into her hand, "and your receipt."

"Good day."

"Good day?"

Mrs. Crowley hurried out the library in a daze.

It was going to be a bad day.

Right Here Right Now. Right There Right Now.

2010-12-04T13:41:00.000-07:00

portland, oregon
air quality: 12 m³

salt lake city, utah
air quality: 44.2 m³

Word Wars Take & Zed Online.

2010-11-16T11:11:00.008-07:00

VS.

F i g h t !

Online?

So i suppose offline, online, downtime, uptime, this place, that place, I am left trying to find the pace to keep all of my creative outlets fueled on people power from the Zed.

Shall I go offline and wander to and fro leaving behind this place to grow cobwebs in its corners and nooks?

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

The future is unwritten. Fate is not sealed.

Offline in the yesterdays, back to explore the nuances of the online blog on todays'.

A through Y

& Zed.

offline.

2010-08-05T09:37:00.000-06:00

i have volumes upon volumes of written material off these here interwebs.

& while i once appreciated the idea of moving onto this online world and sharing with the masses, i feel the loneliness of blogger has struck me.

i post here on this blog because i desire conversation, but often find myself in an echo chamber.

once upon a time in a different medium interaction used to work. i would write, others respond. in the world of blogger i have found it to be a rather lonely existence.

it is not praise i seek, but rather discourse, discussion, conversation.

i could wait patiently for this to happen. i could change my writing to something more engaging such as sex, politics or religion.

...but i believe in freedom of speech. my speech. & if i changed up my words to bring the masses to me i would just be a washed up sell out no better than Cosmopolitan.

again i find i placed too much hope in a virtual world when reality, the feel of a pen, pencil, finger paints, wax, marker - across paper would inspire and delight me.

& to share these with the select, the few of my friends -
seeing them trace the contours of my journal as though it was a body into itself.
hearing them express their thoughts on my work, my sweat, my creative outlet.
irreplaceable,
the book
friends perspectives'.

online, "i traced the cord back to the wall, no wonder it was never plugged in at all."

it is time to breathe art back into my life;
it is time to write unrestricted, unregulated by the unknown reader;
it is time to create, explore, to tear the seams of my own confined prison,
it is time for an offline journal, again.

if this seems disconnected, it is because it is.

Compassion.

2010-07-29T05:42:00.002-06:00

A dedication to the passion that will kill a human: Compassion.

Fist held high
Fires held higher
Tension mounts
Tension grinds
It finds
Itself in
Every thrown fist
Every pulled trigger
Every dropped bomb
anger, rage
Anger, Rage
ANGER, RAGE
Tensions rose (anger, rage)
The man stood up and walked slowly to the crowd (anger, rage)

He spoke of truth (anger, rage)
He spoke of honesty (anger, rage)
He spoke of peace (anger, rage)
He spoke of love (anger, rage)

He spoke of truths that live men dare not speak (anger, rage)
So when the bullet pierced his skin (anger, rage)
One, two, three shots into the air (anger, rage)
He was another life lost to the passion (anger, rage)
of Compassion. (anger, rage)
(anger, rage)
(anger, rage)
(anger, rage)

z.

Radio Lab: Feeding the Curiousity

2010-07-29T02:31:00.000-06:00

"Radiolab believes your ears are a portal to another world. Where sound illuminates ideas, and the boundaries blur between science, philosophy, and human experience. Big questions are investigated, tinkered with, and encouraged to grow. Bring your curiosity, and we'll feed it with possibility."

WYNC - Radiolab
wnyc.org/shows/radiolab/

the Telephone, it is personal.

2010-07-29T02:10:00.000-06:00

Remember getting a personal letter from a real person instead of a faceless corporation?

Or how about a phone call from an old friend?

How many of you actually take serious those facebook invitations that invite out 5 people you know and 393 that you don't?

I am making efforts to personally invite friends out to events starting in September with this event and maybe others that come to mind.

Because you, my friends are not faceless in a crowd of facebooks. You are unique to me.
I miss you when you don't show up.

Especially to this event, because it will be the last Salt Lake City Tall Bike Joust that I am involved in before moving to Portland, Oregon.

So if I don't have your number and you would like for me to call when insanely great events happen, etc. drop me a line:

Text might work... even a text is more personal than a facebook invite - but I really do want to talk, to connect beyond the faceless facebook.

Will I still use facebook events? ...Of course, but with realizations of its limitations.

I call you.
You answer.
& if you can't attend, no worries or concerns.
It would be good just to hear your voice, to connect to you.

Wake Up.

2010-07-29T01:27:00.003-06:00

Took the pill at five pm.
Just woke up.
Eight hours of hard sleep.
I hate to have to succumb to this, the turning off of my mind, my body and placing my life on medication.

Sometimes its all I can do to get my head back on track.

So I finally succumbed to sleep. After running, exercising constantly 5-12 miles a day, cycling hard, I slept hard in a dreamless state.

My mind feels cleared, calm, collected. Waking up anew.

I am needed in my full capacity as a partner, a mentor.

Some would question why I allowed this anxiety to run for so long.
A friend sent this to me:

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain."
— Jim Morrison

I take much offense to the fake shit filled smiles that we allow in society. As though suffering needs to be hidden -- but I also take offense at those who do not know how to control and properly manage their emotions.

So here lies a balancing act. This life. Too much, too little, just right.

A time for rage, a time for peace and much more time to process all of these. The processing is important. Different for all of us.

Another friend told me that they take only small amounts of mind altering substances so they could still process their trip, their experience with their mind.

Some of my best trips have happened completely sober, just taking life in.

So I allowed this anxiety, this trip of the human condition to occur and now I feel I understand where I am where I am going.

Waking up....

((( DJ theZed Select Selections: Music That Moves )))

2010-07-22T17:45:00.000-06:00

Calliope Modular V (buy print)

find this music here.
have a music suggestion of music that moves? drop a line in the comments.

The Exercise Cure.

2010-07-21T10:01:00.000-06:00

Stress?

Take this pill.

Depressed?

Apply this patch.

Insecure?

Drink this.

You have a problem?

They have a drug for it.

As prescription drug abuses increase in a tide of pharmaceutical pills, I refuse, resist the need to medicate all my woes from a bottle, a patch, a drink.

Instead, I have chosen to exercise.

Such a dirty word, exercise. It reminds many of gym class and that long rope that you had to climb while fighting off wedgies from short shorts that no matter how breathable would inevitably end up riding your rump.

I have gotten beyond the horrors of high school hell's gym class and realize exercise is not just a hobby, its an essential passion for my well being.

Whether its running, cycling, walking, dancing, or the occasional swim, I find my mind is clearer, my reach is greater and life is more amazing.

Enough talk,

Stop.

Hammercize!

baby blue. a blues song.

2010-07-20T13:50:00.000-06:00

your touch,
your skin,
let this dance begin.
take me,
take me,
away
from this hot, hot, hot sun baby
that threatens to end me and you
do you, do you, oh do you
believe in the fate
oh do you
that me and you
could sweat
drip, drip, drip
make it rain
to kill all this hot
all this pain
do you believe
oh baby, do you believe
oh baby, do you, do you believe
in a me and you
take me, take me, take me
take, take, take
you are mine
believe, believe, believe
believe, believe, believe
let those blues
flow from your head to your toe
oh from your head to your toe
oh baby, do you believe
oh baby, do you, do you believe
in a me and you
oh baby blue
me and you
oh baby blue
just

me and you
me and you
me and you
baby blue

-z.

new project: bike local.

2010-07-19T12:33:00.000-06:00

today i am meeting with Buy Local First Utah to pitch an idea to push for more cyclist involvement in the Buy Local program through a yet to be introduced Bike Local program.

the idea is that cyclist should support local businesses and local businesses should support cyclists.

i am hoping that this will create more local business awareness, bicycle awareness through encouraging local businesses to install bicycle racks, host bicycle oriented tours (Tour de Locale) and increase general awareness for two groups that need more recognition: cyclists and local merchants.

as i am leaving this fall, i am hoping to find someone interested in taking up this program.

this email to Buy Local is what got it all started:
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Portland, Oregon has a thriving local economy that is successful due largely to the fact that they invest heavily in cycling.

Many local businesses in Utah do not have bicycle racks and the only means to lock up a bicycle in front of these businesses is to search desperately for a tree, a pole a guard rail.

A campaign that begins with a simple sticker, "Bike Local" -or- "Bike Local, Buy Local". A list of the businesses that are local, have bicycle racks and give bicycle benefits (http://www.bicyclebenefits.org/)
would be a win-win situation all around.

The cycling community is growing leaps and bounds. I would suggest collaborating with the SaltCycle community ( http://www.saltcycle.com ), the Salt Lake City Bicycle Collective ( http://www.slcbikecollective.org/ ) and Cycling Utah ( http://www.cyclingutah.com/ ) to launch this project.

I am moving to Portland, Oregon this fall and have been heavily involved in the local community for over five years. It would be great to see this program or similar programs to encourage local cyclists to buy local and local citizens to consider cycling and buying local.

Thank you for your time.

Best regards,

Zed Bailey
-------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't know where the project will go, but feel compelled that if I remain silent great opportunities for the cycling communities in Utah will be lost.

If i present the idea and they drop it, then it is no guilt on my conscience. Its the power of the idea and its loss of not being shared that bothers me.

bi and by

2010-07-18T19:02:00.000-06:00

Bipolar disorder or manic-depressive disorder (also referred to as bipolar affective disorder or manic depression) is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a

category of mood disorders defined

by the presence

of one or more episodes of abnormally

elevated energy

levels, cognition, and mood and one or more

depressive episodes.

welcome to bipolar by Zed.

fluid.

that is how he would describe his life. fluid, sticky, moist, wet, sexual, disgusting, artistic, nasty, deadly, lively, fluid.

secretly he hoped for a consistent stale. predictable, on time, never changing, comfortable, stale.

at least one day. one day is all he wanted. to wind down to normalcy. he was lucky to get one hour.

but what was normal? suburbia, two point five kids? working 40 hours? no, he didn't want normal. he actually wanted stable.

fluid demanded otherwise. sometimes it would slow down to a crawl with a drip, drip, drip, drip, but never, oh god damn, never would it dare stop.

it was his shark, never stopping, always roaming in his head somewhere in the sea of connections, neurons and ideologies.

it tried to eat him, his Jekyll, his shark always alive, always lying in wait.

he thought he had it pushed down, down, down deep into the ground.

he cursed, "fuck, feel it, its all the same playing this game. ain't gonna know an better, ain't never gonna be plain."

he accepted that it had nearly bested him, but he would not accept that it would control him in those deep dark thoughts. oh no, not those.

it all had a purpose, a reason and he felt closer to the answer after living a lifetime with it. the problem was that the questions life continued to ask him continued to change, fluid.

so the grasp to which he had strong, slipped into a handful of nothingness, dripping down, down, down to the ground.

bi and by he would get by with his hello and his bye.

bi and by he lived, he loved as the days beat their sun upon the ground, casting streaks of brilliance before fading away.

bi and by, he knew not the why, he knew not why.

bi and by some questions don't need answers,

nor have them

but it sure makes time tick so hard

when he was alone

bi and by

Travels.

2010-07-18T00:53:00.000-06:00

I convinced myself that my writing needed to take a journey into a story, a two bit allegory.
-----------------------------------
The man was a lonely traveler with dirty hair, a lengthy body and a cigarette that dangled from his fingers.

He had been walking the streets all night and now light trembled over the mountains awaking the deep dark night.

Holding the cigarette to his lips he took a long drag focusing on rays of light that pierced his blood shot eyes.

Coughing, he crushed the cigarette underneath his boot and lurched forward to somewhere, anywhere but there.

What he had was a failure to communicate. What he had was the wrong smile for the wrong town. What he had was hope for a better human, a better woman, a better man.

What he got was a whiskey and shit face.

He needed to get out of this place.
-----------------------------------

1

2010-07-16T14:41:00.000-06:00

I am no one

I am some one

I am one

The only one

the art of anxiety

2010-07-14T12:13:00.000-06:00

thump. thump. thump.thump.thump. thump. thump.thump.thump. thump. thump.thump.thump. thump. thump.thump.

my heart pounds from my chest promising an edge of anxiety that brings the ticking tock of the clock, the heat rising, the sweat of the skin on edge.

i can no longer afford this luxury known as sleep, nor grant it time even though i desperately need it.

strung out from a drinking binge that never existed last night i hold to an imaginary hang over without the joy of drink as a precursor.

my head follows my heart, not in emotion or thought, rather in that slow rhythmic thumping that screams as the tell-tale heart from the baseboards of being.

my psyche is a wreck and i supplement it with music to carry me away, so far away from here, to well, anywhere.

yet i remain. still i remain.

to carry on, to go forward with this human condition that questions what it is to be human, to be a man, to be, to live, to love, to see.

its an art, really.

anxiety.

under appreciated, bottled in mason jars and placed in the same dark closet of pain, jealousy, fear and anger far from the ever so ever out of reach joy, pleasure and happiness.

yet, often so surprised, dismayed when these jars spill over into my life as though i am not supposed to feel, to be this way.

i seek not this happiness jar of allusiveness that is offered but rarely fully given. no i seek the human condition, the art of anxiety.

for there comes a time when we stop asking the questions about life and in turn start answering the questions life gives us.

why am i feeling this anxiety now? what is it asking me?

it is an art you see? for me to not simply to overcome but to understand why my heart, my head, my life swirls in this way. i used to kick walls at thought. now i am the observer of myself, the owner of pressing my destiny from these emotions.

there never were simple answers, only more questions.

& in my daily thought, actions i find myself answering those questions. its mans search for meaning in this world of passions, emotions and discoveries.

it is my art. the art of anxiety.

& by simply sharing this, writing this, thinking so extensively of this, i find myself one step closer to understanding self.

Anxiety
Regina Lafay

a love note: of bunnies, of raccoons, five shades of green and shiny things.

2010-07-13T15:14:00.000-06:00

Late nights, quick afternoons.

Waiting for the exhale from your inhale.

Trust in the cause, trust in the purpose to delivery us from here to there.

Oh there, oh there, it won't solve many of the problems that are here,
but it is a start, and oh Gods, oh Beings of Greater Understanding how i need
a start so i don't end.

So I see the purpose, the intent is greater than my own.

And how could I be angry for such a purpose to gain means to live our dream?
This is bigger than me.

This is skyscraper big. oceans big. sky big. world big. universe big. so it is no time to shrink to the occasion, but to make manifest the values of being powerful beyond measure.

-Marianne Williamson

yet, i still miss you,

long for you

& certainly

love you.

O.K.

2010-07-13T04:25:00.000-06:00

just beneath the surface locked behind the closed doors and kept in a box underneath the bed is a collection of fuck ups, regrets, anger, anxiety, frustration and fear.

i try to hide it, put it away hope for it to come out on a better day.

but this box is not about better days and is not cordial or formal. it is crass, abrasive and permissive. demanding, relentless and abusive.

it has tried to destroy me on several occasions.

i try to not give it a voice, an audience and push it back down into that box.

make believe, pretend that everything is O.K. and it is no worry.

i am looking to lessen this box's impact. it has too long impacted me in every aspect of my life. so i will kill it with food, sleep, exercise. because as long as the box exists, i am not O.K. and those who have investments in my well being are not "O.K."

so now i sleep, kill the contents of that box and dream of better days blinded by the darkness of the nights.

the cold realization of i, alone

2010-07-10T12:34:00.000-06:00

what is the distance from i to us?

this question has been scratching at my brain for the past couple of days when i realized much of my life i was focused on the 'you' of life in lieu of the 'me'. so after scratching this curiosity for some time i think its time to sniff it, own it and make it me.

self realization slid backwards from my earliest memories.

there was a party. music blaring, people smiling and enjoying themselves and i was caught up in the midst of these peoples presence. in particular this girl. her smile, her laugh, the way she brushed her hair away from her face and how i was able to trace every contour of her face with my eyes closed.

she was amazing. i don't remember her name, it doesn't matter, as she was represented of every butterflied stomach encounter of new that i have experienced. so we are dancing, we are drinking and where am i, what am i thinking?

i am lost in that lone body on the couch that is starkly cast out from us enjoying ourselves.

i try to drink, dance, think it away that this individual is okay to be alone, but i cannot.

i feel that loneliness in the midst of this gorgeous body, these fine folks. i think to how often it was me on that couch alone, cold.

so on this particular night i try to include this person. it is not always so. sometimes i hide them, push them away from my mind with drink and dance. but tonight i engage them, invite them to join. it becomes very apparent and complicated as two become three placing the two in a tense situation.

it would have been better to leave that person to their own place.

some are better left alone.

i look back at these incidences that once brought me a sense of redemption and realize that in that self righteous extension of self i lost the i, the me. it has for my entire life been the we, the us.

it leaves me thinking i am a pseudo-philanthropist still caught up pushing too much, too often for approval from others.

"Before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the people! Your own work, not any possible object of your charity. I'll be glad if men who need it find a better method of living in the house I built, but that's not the motive of my work, nor my reason, nor my reward! My reward, my purpose, my life, is the work itself - my work done my way! Nothing else matters to me!"
-Howard Roark, the Fountainhead

in my Mormonism roots i was taught that we should love everyone, to give and to find ourselves in giving to others.

i took this not as a suggestion but as an ingrained fact of my very conscious, that it wasn't about me and it was about everyone else.

i was wrong. i was wrong because i never learned to own myself, to discover who i am and so i hurt myself the worst. because i didn't matter. only you, only us.

this self preservation of knowing my limits and saying no truly began after my divorce to Alyssa and Mormonism. But I have only begun to own my own BULLSHiT.

its time to own it, to work through it and find the cold realization of i, alone.

perhaps somewhere between the teachings of my past and the learning of my present i can be strong enough to not just make it in Portland, but to thrive and be the allegory of truly living, loving.

make or believe?

just begun.

2010-07-10T11:11:00.001-06:00

just when you think you have reached the heights, the pinnacle of all that you are and could become life has a way of letting you know you have just begun. just begun.

and still i find the difference between the light and day is so stark, so gray, its not in the skyline but in the way you carry yourself
i am neither that night, nor alive in that day, just gray, just gray. still i age, still i learn, still i misgiving and fuck up too

i try to to find that connection, that point between me and you only to realize to get where it needs to go that i need to think, to love, to grow

won't you grow old with me and sway to and fro like those weeping willows cast in the wind, bending back and forth again and again?

and this will be our song that we will sing, and this will be the song that we will sing, and this will be will be the song that we

scream - we live, we love, we die, what more? we live, we love, we die, what more? we live, we love, we die what more? we live, we love, we die what more?

embrace me, fall into me, tell me its okay, its okay, its okay to cry, to shout, to scream, to rip the sky off from the ceiling,

to live, to love, to die.

z. 07.10.10. dedicated to my friends, love of loves and those cracks that form in sidewalks. :)

a history of projects. part one: the misfit mormons.

2010-07-05T21:31:00.000-06:00

i am a man of projects as i have as many projects as there are stars in the sky. it makes for late nights and early morning because when an idea grabs me, it really grabs me. i present now to you my series in no particular order, "A History of Projects." as mentioned, feedback is highly encouraged. now on to the Misfit Mormons...

my first major project was misfit mormon and was basically my way of trying to fit in with a culture that i would never really be able to fully fit. as the black sheep flowed to this oasis our coverage moved towards the print.

City Weekly did a feature article entitled "Land of the Misfit Mormons" followed shortly after by an article in BYU's Daily Universe entitled, "Web-based club places 'Misfit Mormons".

there were numerous tangents, ideas streaming every which way from the shrine of Misfit Mormon. one of my favorite was a comic strip that i created entitled "Morm Out of the Norm" which really pushed me to question Mormon culture as a whole.

Morm out of the Norm also helped me to work on my humor and my comic design skills that i would use for later projects from journaling to comic strip creating.

i started with basic images being inverted, very basic stock images coupled with my own photography and combined with sketched up balloons of awesome. readability was a big issue, but the unique flavor had me turning more and more of these out despite them being confusing.

i really just felt at home with the invert and lent it to that good ol' fashioned Misfit Mormon feel.

creativity smacked me upside the head again and screamed illustrator. adobe, illustrator. so i took it and ran will illustrations.

the idea was that these comic strips could be inserted into ward bulletins at the amusement of the Misfit Mormons. sadly, i don't think a single one made it. Jesus wept.

the other factor of awesome in this comic is the misfit mormon logo. it looked really great, a logo i designed from the depths of symbols.com combining two symbols, unity and togetherness into one.

The third wave.

Pick it up! Pick it up! Pick it up!

Color pencils were fun but readability caused burning eyeballs.

My fans (all 10 of them) were displeased.

So it was onto the next wave.

Computers! The future! & sexy too!

It was time to go back to the hacking board known as the macintosh
and give it a whirl again.

& thus saith Zed,

it was rad. rich colors, easy to read text. the only
issue was the flow could have been reworked to
be a bit more fluid.

however, it was very time consuming and so i soon went back to the hand drawings routine, busting out the color on the scanned in copies.

i really digged those smooth flowing pens o' bliss that made all

the swirls and lines go so freely. in fact it makes me artistic just

thinking about them... mmmmmm.

it was fun playing color in on the computer, but again i felt like a lone wolf amongs the black sheep of misfit mormon doing this comic strip and the comments while awesome just didn't feel me up enough to continue the project.

so i decided it was time to go out with a bang on this here Morm out of the Norm and ended up doing a multipage spread about the dreaded "Y" Man.

readability again suffered, but i didn't care. i tried coloring it in, but only got to the first page. it was more for me, a closing of a chapter in pushing my energies out to a community of Misfit Mormons.

i continued to do comics - in my journals, for 24 hour comic book day and even forming a comic community on livejournal.

however, my biggest most ambitious and committed comic project was with Norm and his adventures in the Land of the Misfit Mormons. because really, i was Norm.

all the stickers had been pressed and my Misfit Mormon hoodie had been reduced to shreds and so it was time to say goodbye.

i don't ever regret these projects, these explorations into mormonism. some hide them. i share them, learn from them and carry them with me as lessons to be learned and cast to the wind as seeds.

i learned that misfits don't make good mormons and mormons, though they claim to be peculiar people really don't belong with misfits.

from the A to Zed

2010-07-05T14:56:00.000-06:00

i am a man of ideas, dreams, visions -&- the pursuit of the unknown exploration. i am that man who walks to the beat of an unheard drum, doing my own thing exploring your streets, your city, our world. this project, this blog, this exploration is about getting all of those ideas together in one place in an alphabet of diversions, twists & turns.

educated comments are always appreciated. i enjoy when others explore my world,

so please do.

& Zed.

of the Divorce that killed the old & gave birth to the new.

‎(a toast: calling old friends, finding new friends)

story. by z.

Right Here Right Now. Right There Right Now.

Word Wars Take & Zed Online.

offline.

Compassion.

Radio Lab: Feeding the Curiousity

the Telephone, it is personal.

Wake Up.

((( DJ theZed Select Selections: Music That Moves )))

Calliope Modular V (buy print) find this music here.have a music suggestion of music that moves? drop a line in the comments.

The Exercise Cure.

baby blue. a blues song.

new project: bike local.

bi and by

welcome to bipolar by Zed.

Travels.

1

the art of anxiety

a love note: of bunnies, of raccoons, five shades of green and shiny things.

O.K.

the cold realization of i, alone

just begun.

a history of projects. part one: the misfit mormons.

from the A to Zed

Calliope Modular V (buy print)

find this music here.
have a music suggestion of music that moves? drop a line in the comments.