The ballad of the semicolon

There once lived an independent clause. She was the fairest of all the clauses and lived in a field of subjects, nouns, and verbs. She invoked quite a bit of jealousy from the other clauses who got less attention. Even her cousins who expressed the same ideas were less gallantly dressed up and got shoved into the background.

The independent clause--let's call her Sen-Tance--had a cousin. Let's call him Bob. Bob grew frustrated with all the attention Sen-Tance was getting from all the peasant readers, so he hatched a plan. Since he and Sen-Tance were related, Bob surmised that they could get attached by their dog Semicolon, people would view them as on splendid idea, and all would be right with the world.

The trouble was, although Sen-Tance and Bob were related, their ideas couldn't have been farther apart. As Bob tried to thread their ideas together into one attention-grabbing clause, he couldn't help but notice Sen-Tance was doing her best to sabotage his plan. While discussing Semicolon--the new puppy their Uncle Deelogue had bought them--Sen-Tance claimed that "puppies are the cutest thing in the world."
"They bite your bum," Bob argued, realizing, after it was too late, that this is what the peasant reader was subjected to:

"puppies are the cutest thing in the world; they bite your bum."

Now, unless someone had some strange butt-biting fetish, this statement would confuse the wits out of these peasant readers! Not only that, but through working together, Sen-Tance and Bob had only clamored for more attention. Sen-Tance's piece always had to be at the beginning, always had to be the "bam" part of the piece; by the time Bob got his two cents in, he was merely an afterthought.

That, and two cents doesn't even get you a piece of gum, much less afterthought status.

A week passed, and Sen-Tance and Bob continued to contradict each other, leaving a highly messed up story for the reader at hand:
"I'm going to the store; what about the living room that needs to be cleaned?"
Perhaps it was the fact that Uncle Deelogue had left for a vacation in Paris. Or that Semicolon was content to chase after frisbees and let everything get smushed together. Whatever the case, Sen-Tance and Bob just couldn't agree. And thus began the journey of the confused reader. Whenever the two cousins turned to their pet dog for help, Semicolon would simply push their problems together and go gnaw on some bones.

Bones ruin plot points. Remember that, people.

One day, Sen-Tance and Bob were taking Semicolon on a walk. They refused to talk, resisting farther complications that would anger village readers. They stopped by a lake where Semicolon took a long drink and began to play with two other dogs--a golden retriever and a chocolate lab. The owners waved from across the lake, and the cousins, who listened enough to their mothers to realize the importance of introductions, walked across to properly introduce themselves and their dog.
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" Sen-Tance mused.
"The sun really is shining," Bob answered, pleasantly surprised. Already their discourse had more sense.
The owners looked up from their picnic lunch of pickled pickles (how can you farther pickle a pickle, Sen-Tance wondered?) and pet Semicolon behind his ears.
"Who is this precious guy?" the owner asked.
"This here is semicolon," Sen-Tance answered. "Who are these lovely canines?"
"Their names are But and And," the owner answered. Before any of the humans could realize what was happening, But started tugging at Semicolon's collar; And ate him.

Sen-Tance and Bob were devastated. But as soon as the other owners gave the cousins But and And to console them, their problems started going away. Just as Bob started arguing about the worth of puppies, he'd look to But for a solution to the problem, and it just took one easy fix:
"puppies are the cutest thing, but they bite your bum."
Sen-Tance and Bob were instantly happier with the addition of But and And. They still shone in the same sentence, but their conflicting ideas were no longer irreparable. They realized that it was a mistake to adopt a dog that required more maintenance and attention before adopting less high-maintenance dogs who could fix their differing views with one simple word.

And thus, the ballad of the semicolon was created:
Semicolon was a loving dog; he nurtured many-a-writer
He let equally important people have equally impressive reputations
But and And were simple creatures, but that made them no less loveable
They were simply a first step into the dog raising world.

Sen-Tance and Bob loved Semicolon, But and And equally, but they knew there was a time and place to care for each canine.

Semicolon will live on in our hearts and our writing--but if you're reading "The Idiot's Guide to Dog Raising," please adopt some Buts and Ands before taking on the hyperactive canine that is Semicolon.

Namaste.

The Fault in Looking for Katherines--ordinary-ness, desire, and why I want to be John Green when I grow up

Not that I have a particular prejudice against Katherines. I do, however, have a particular bias towards John Green's books. During this (dreadfully short) winter break I've gone on a John Green binge, and my reaction to his work went something like me dancing around my house screaming "hdkalejiowaekalfjeoa;ifjewa how on Earth did John Green get so amazing?"

I'm not entirely sure how you pronounce a semi colon, much less how you scream one. I'll get back to you on that.

Now, normally I'm a fan of labels. They make life cleaner, simpler somehow. But one label that angers me is the "YA" title that has been slapped on Green's novels. Yes, the vocabulary constitutes these books as light reading that a middle schooler could enjoy (minus the impressive vocabulary of Colin Singleton who informs his reader about words such as "abligurition"--look it up), yes these books revolve around the lives of teenagers, but they are not purely for the adolescent sort. It's not like once you hit age twenty or thirty, you suddenly stop enjoying the wealth of knowledge that are John Green's books. There are some deep philosophical questions in this light reading, and the YA label makes it no less valid.

One phenomenon Green covers is the experience of being your average, ordinary, fucked up teen. In his book An Abundance of Katherines, Colin guides the reader through a mathematical formula that tries, 1) to predict the next time he will look forward to getting dumped (as many an average teen experiences), and 2) prove his genius to the world. The formula seems less about predicting his future and more about proving that he mattered--that somehow, somewhere, he made a permanent mark of his existence. It certainly seems like pushing himself to be a prodigy/genius wasn't fun, and even that "eureka" moment caused more pressure to be impressive. The fight to be extraordinary is a difficult one--and Green portrays that high school struggle with wit and grace.

The extraordinary moments--and this could just be the realistic fiction geek in me coming out--seems to be the ones that are, in fact, extra ordinary. Colin's mathematical discoveries were intriguing plot points, but when his character truly comes alive is when he's just chilling with his friend Hassan, or laying with Lindsay (his first non-Katherine!) in a cave. The conversation isn't about slaying dragons or finding the cure for cancer--it's about what any of us would've mulled over in high school: relationships, heartbreak, that pesky little thing called emotion. It's in those ordinary moments that we find what's behind the surface of a person. In Lindsay's case, it's her struggle with contradicting personalities (something I can 100% relate to):
"I'm full of shit. I'm never myself. I've got a Southern accent around the oldsters; I'm a nerd for graphs and deep thoughts with you; I'm Miss Bubbly Pretty Princess with Colin. I'm nothing. the thing about chameleoning your way through life is that it gets to where nothing is real" (150).

None of it's REAL!

That scene resonated with my own life. Throughout high school, I've "chemeleoned" myself through many situations, but like Lindsay, I've always had that person who just brings out the true, honest self, even if I didn't see it was my true self at the time. And like Colin, I've pressured myself into believing I had to make a huge production of my existence, when all along, it was those moments you don't think twice about that shaped a lively sort of existence that any accomplishment never could (thought I admit, dancing around my room singing "I believe I can fly" over an A in a science class made for a fun time). The five hour monopoly game with my dad was not some grand act of genius; I didn't get any gold stars for late night talks with my best friend--but that compilation of ordinary moments meant a hundred times more than any extraordinary accomplishment.

Maybe it's just the desire to be extraordinary that makes those moments unappealing. John Green covers the trap of expectations in Looking for Alaska, where he discusses the Buddhist view that desire causes suffering (he also reminded me that the word labyrinth is really cool). But at this moment, I desire to go to bed, and that is a wish I doubt will bring any suffering--as long as I don't dream about a labyrinth.

So we'll save the whole investigation of suffering and expectations when you and I are both alert and awake and ready to conquer the world, one cup of coffee at a time.

Until then, I bid you goodnight.

Namaste.

Stumble upon

No, I'm not talking about the website (although I am addicted). I'm using the term "to stumble upon" i.e. to "rather ungracefully happen upon" in the old fashioned way--to run into. I have stumbled upon many things: tables, chairs, mud (much to the chagrin of my jeans), but more importantly, I've stumbled upon people, places, and passions.

The most prominent thing that I've happened upon that's become a necessity in my life is yoga. Technically, I've done yoga for most of my life (one, because I've taken deep breaths most of my life and that is the first step in yoga). I was introduced to the practice in elementary school, through a delightful teacher who turned bends and twists into a joyfully creative endeavor. But just as I started getting into the practice, I entered the challenging world of middle school--a place where yoga would've done wonders for my "demonically possessed personality" (as my father affectionately calls it), but where such a practice would be cause for incessant mockery. Apparently in the world of twelve and thirteen year olds, hitting each other in the head with a volleyball is a much better stress-reliever. Who would've thunk it.

So I lost sight of yoga for a bit. Enter tenth grade Kira, who's entered the acne age and must resort to solitary exercise. I flipped through the fitness channels on television, died after a couple Jillian Michaels routines, and decided it would be best to stick to some calmer cardio, if there was even such a thing. One ten minute yoga workout and an open chakra later, I'd found my fitness calling.

Except it turned from an exercise form to a spiritual activity before I even recognized the change. It was amazing how breathing through a particularly challenging posture (or asana) could make you see the world more clearly. It was always in the back of my mind that twisting myself in a pretzel could make me have nice abs and legs, but it was no longer the main purpose...until I hit what I call the "yogic wall." 

The yogic wall is vast, but not great, like that wall in China. It is painful. It is similar to writer's block, only add on ten more pounds. It makes you say "if I see another downward dog ever again, I will scream." After letting a month of spiritual yoga seep in, I turned my practice into a seemingly jogging-esque activity rather than an enlightening one. If it looks ridiculous to see someone bend and stretch in fast motion, it feels ten times more ridiculous. When I go to the studio to practice, I almost revel in the discomfort of holding a pose. Huh, this isn't so terrible, I think to myself, a good kind of challenge. Then I get home and start doing some lunges like I'm running a race to enlightenment. "And the winner of reaching Nirvana for ages 18-29 is...not Kira because she's seemed to collapse in a puddle of her own sweat!"

It's a process. But even when I start to view yoga as more of an exercise activity, the rest of my life is still affected by it. As I rush through postures and grow dissatisfied with the discomfort in my body, I rush through my day to day activities and grow dissatisfied with the discomfort in my life. As I turn my yoga practice into a humdrum routine, I become convinced that I am doomed to a life that never changes. The other day, I did a set of sun salutations and while I breathed through the discomfort on one side, I rushed through the next. The rest of that afternoon I wondered why I felt unbalanced.

The thing about yoga, is that you can't just breeze through a half hour of poses. It requires a mindful attitude and the willingness to breathe through the challenging poses. I may have stumbled upon yoga, but I'm learning that you can't stumble into it.

Namaste.

A Word is Worth a Thousand Pictures

We've all heard the saying "a picture is worth a thousand words." It's true that art plays an important role in our society, and the contrast of colors and shading can sometimes speak a lot louder than a description that could look different in everyone's head. At times, it does seem that the art of writing is inferior to the graphic colors and messages art portrays. I admit, I've wondered if words are a "second best" to the kind of emotions art can evoke, and if I was simply wasting my time trying to get messages across through words.

But then, yesterday, I went to a yoga class. And I don't know what it is about bending and stretching and saying words that I don't understand that causes so many revelations, but cause them it does. We began our practice by working through a chant that, at first glance, sounded absolutely foreign to me. Then I realize that the end of each line was "om namah shivaya"--which means, "I bow to my inner self." This was the phrase we lived by at Shoshoni. Before every dish cleanup, during every meditation, throughout our chores, this chant brought tranquility and inner peace. And just as that phrase was foreign to me when I first entered the ashram, it was a comforting vibration of words when I left to return home.

You know how you learn a song in school--one that is obscure and seems to stay inside your school's walls--then you hear it again on the radio? At first, it's a shock how something so personal to you could be open for the rest of the world to hear, but at the same time, it brings back memories; it brings back that feeling you had when you first grew to love that set of words. 

It's difficult to describe the feeling a set of syllables and vibrations on your tongue can take you back to a place where joy emanated from your skin--maybe it's just that humans are more easily reminded of things than we think. We think something is purely stuck in the past, until we hear something that reminds us of that time, or see an image that we assumed only corresponded with that experience. The thing about "om namah shivaya," is that it wasn't saved for only one emotion--we said it when we were troubled, when we were anxious, when we were joyful, when we were full of love, when we were scared. It's like a warm blanket, or a bubbling plate of macaroni and cheese. It serves as the perfect tool for any emotion. For a while, I tucked that mantra away, saving it for one place, but I now realize words don't only have a special meaning in the place where they were introduced. I may spend my day to day life being less focused on my spirituality, but the connotations of "om namah shivaya" are just as powerful. If I'm feeling overwhelmed, or just need to acknowledge the inner self, those words will always be there--even when Shoshoni is thousands of miles away.

Beating on a Shoshoni drum :)

Don't be a selfish shellfish!: How I Survived being a Writer

For most of my time as a writer, I was convinced I was writing for myself. I scribbled through journal entries, wrote blogs that reflected on my life, and even throughout my novels, I wrote what I knew to clear my head of the oddities that are my obsessions. Obviously everyone who creates wants the world to be proud of their works and admire them, but to me, it was the fact that it was yours that was what made it unique, what made you able to take pride in something you created. To me, it was all relative. If a twenty-something year old had written a picture book about two dogs named "Boofy" and "Dog" who went on crazy adventures, it wouldn't be entirely impressive. But my third grade self was mighty proud of this creation, because I had made a contribution to the literary world, no matter how minute.

Only now have I realized how solipsistic this assumption is. Sure, artists are reputed to live in their own little bubble, but what is art without an influence on others? Some writers may stick to plot lines that better reflect their own lives, but their main purpose is not to repeat what has happened to them: It is to tell a story, to exchange ideas. Perceiving and questioning ideas doesn't work if a writer just holes himself in a little box and only lets his eyes see his words. The act of writing is a private endeavor, but it loses its qualities as both vulnerable and powerful if there are no readers. As Jean-Paul Sartre reminds us, the reader is part of what makes writing. In the literary world, a reader is not a pair of cute heels or a shiny bracelet; it's your head, your head, or that one pair of sweats you can snuggle up in and feel all is right with the world.

I can see what it's easy to refute the importance of the reader: There is nothing more critical than an audience. When you present something you've grown attached to, a large audience isn't going to see your work in the exact same way you do. A sentence you thought magical and flowing may seem awkward to two-thirds of your readers. A character who reflects your growth as a person may seem flat and obnoxious to the rest of the world. Even in writing something as light and fun as a blog, I'm sure there are plenty of critics of the words I'm putting out for all the world (okay, a teeny tiny fraction of the world) to see. But even these critics are what make the "conversation" (remember that thing our eleventh grade teachers kept telling us to enter) so fun. To bounce ideas off one another. To remind others when something seems off and to give positive feedback when a writer really hits the spot.

It is important for a writer to review her own work, but you can't see your own words with the same objectivity that a reader can. A writer (ideally) puts her entire heart and soul into a piece that she's written. She can anticipate the end without making guesses, without really getting to know the characters or the style of the writing. It is the reader that turns a fun hobby into a truly analytical process, into a profession.

But like with everything else in the world, there's a fine line between respecting others' opinions and relying on them. Just as it isn't helpful to only write to appeal to your own wishes, it's essential to have some idea of the quality of your writing, how you want your own voice to sound. If you apply all the complains and advice the readers direct towards you, you start to lose the integrity of your creation. A writer's commentary that remains true to them can quickly spiral into a jumble of other people's opinions and views on the world. So how do you know when to stop listening to something that makes your writing concrete, makes it objective and real?

This is a question I have no answer to--fellow writers and thinkers, have you struggled with this question? What are your thoughts on the balance between writing for yourself and writing for others?

Have a happy Friday!

Namaste.  

Taking up Space: A Yogi's Attitude

Last week, I went to the first Lila yoga class I'd gone to in a while. And while it was nice to stretch my limbs out and re-learn how to breathe and chant, the most important thing I got out of that class was not the hip-opening stretches, nor was it seeing my first lit candle since I got to college (although that was rather pleasant). It was realizing that yes, we as humans take up space, and that we should be proud of it, rather than constantly apologizing.

During our wall stretches, I remember feeling distinctly awkward when I heard the teacher say, "Kira, you're taking up space." My first instinct was to curl up into a ball and to try and take up less space, to hide from the yoga class. Why do we encourage inhibiting ourselves, rather than celebrating that yes, our bodies are here? There are so many art forms--dance, gymnastics, every sport known to man--that require confidence, which first requires admitting that our bodies are physical beings that are not only useful when shrunken.


We live in a culture that advocates small-ness: We are bombarded with images of diet pills, skeletal models, and ads that tell us this product will help us lose those ten pounds that will change our lives forever! This "small equals success" driven world seems to disregard the energy, productivity, or happiness level of these disappearing people: It only matters that we envy them, that we would do anything to become them.

This is not a correlation...

of this

The other side of the pendulum is by no means healthy either, and that's not what I'm advocating. Many people fall into depression when they're too far on the other side as well. But those who are happy and healthy still act ashamed by their existence. How often, in the course of a day, do we hear "I don't mean to bother you," or "I don't want to impose..."? We're quick to conclude that "Oh, you blinked an eye, you must not want me here, I'll just leave."

There's decorum, then there's shame. Sometimes it's a fine line. But we seem to shy away from BAM moments where we can just throw caution to the wind and admit, "yeah, I'm feeling pretty darn sexy and fabulous today." Taking up space is not always a bad thing. It's not always interfering.

Even Twiggy took up space. Remember that. And people love that chick.

Namaste.

Last week!

It's my last week of my first semester as a college student. And all I can think is, where did the time go?

Like with anything, I walked into West Halls with expectations. I was convinced a bundle of fun times and positive feedback were ahead of me. I thought growing experiences would be some daily routine, like brushing my hair (although that is quite a process, let me tell you) or making my bed (an improvement from my high school routine). But I quickly learned that college is not a Lifetime movie. There were disappointments. There were some ridiculous comments that have come out of sleep deprivation and stress. There were moments in which I wanted to bang my head against my desk and say "if I hear one more thing about vampires, I'll scream."

I'm also not the most outgoing person on the planet, which made it seem like every college preparation book was rubbing it in my face when it was all "you're gonna make so many friends you won't be able to count them." So hey, maybe going out and partying with friends does affect one's ability to do math. This is probably the aspect of college I struggled most with, because I was bound by the perception that quantity overpowers quality, which, as my science professor pointed out when discussing our blog assignment, is simply ridiculous. I've been happy to meet and converse with new people, but I'm not the type of person who says, "you had cereal for breakfast too? OMG besties!" It's a slower process for the shy sort, but for now, I'm enjoying the company of the people in clubs I've joined, and I've also realized that throughout the awkwardness of friend-making, it's not a bad thing to have a bunch of familiar faces from high school. Sure, I don't want to get stuck in a rut where lunch time gossip and gym class humilities are the last time I'll ever grow socially, but it's through my best friends that have also come to PSU that I realize quality laughs in quanitity's face every single time. Just by rooming with my best friend this semester I've learned a lot about her, and, consequently, myself. I don't know what it is about those few minutes before bed, but nighttime chats seem to be the most philosophical and meaningful. Even when I'm eighty years old with a cane and no teeth, I won't forget those talks.

In terms of classes, the work load has been manageable, but I've still stretched myself to think critically and to question everything. My comfort zone has always been in creative writing, but I doubt inventing a story in which Charles Foster Kane falls in love with Norma Desmond and they live happily ever after would impress my English teacher, no matter how many times I used the word "albeit" (another thing I've learned: if you use that word more than once in an essay, you sound like a pretentious ass). But as it turns out, analytical essays are not entirely painful to write. They can, on occasion, even be fun. It makes reading a book even more engaging because an analytical reading requires every sentence, every word, to matter. Reading for leisure is still important, but it's easier to skim over something that could be vital to a story. Through analytical writing, I've become a better reader, a better thinker.

What really shocked me, however, was not what the classes for my major allowed me to accomplish. I signed up for my science class just hoping to get a few GenEd credits out of the way, and ended up taking away more than I could ever imagine from science. It helped that the class was designed for non science-majors, so the topics were less intimidating than what a chemistry or biology class might present. This class was intended for us the question the numerous scientific studies out there and realize that the peer review portion of science is a dog eat dog industry, almost making it impossible for new studies to be published, or at the very least, given positive feedback. I've learned to not just take scientific studies as though they were the word of God; I make sure to do some background research on the study at hand and see how statistical evidence could be distorted in that particular study's favor.

Plus, we got to blog, which obviously made me want to do this:

Guys, I'm seriously addicted to blogging. It's kind of an issue.

So, all in all, I'd say it was a quality first semester. Next semester I hope to get out more and not be as intimidated by talking to new people, and to challenge myself more in classes. Which, with two upper level English classes and a (gulp) math class, I'm pretty sure will be the case.

Namaste.

An age of silliness

So I feel as though I've been trying to make my blogs all serious and have these massive revelations about humanity and what makes us tick at the end, but with finals, I just can't take another moment of analytical thought and trying to sound all smart, when really, I just want to rant about something that happened in college.

So. Allow me to go back to the original purpose of this blog: To tell y'all a little about what's been going on in my life. And perhaps to analyze a little bit about age versus tradition, since I really can't help myself.

I'm a person who likes labels. I feel safe when you can pin someone as a neat freak, or an extrovert, or someone who has a rather ridiculous obsession with Johnny Depp (hem hem...). It's comforting to box someone into a category, rather than just let the randomness that is humankind swoop over you. The label I've been struggling most with is age. I've been tempted to jump to conclusions that at age nineteen, I must act a certain way--that I must know by heart how to file taxes or talk about politics without sounding like a complete doofus. I'm silly and seemingly childish by nature, so this has been a real strugglebus. Yet through these past two years as an "adult," I've tried to convince myself that it is positively unacceptable to show enthusiasm for anything childish. I've tried diving into newspapers and classic novels, discussing the meaning of life, and throwing out all things glitter in my wardrobe, but it really doesn't do anything to the kid at heart. I mean, I've spent way more of my life as a child than someone who's supposed to be independent.

What does that even mean, supposed to be? I mean, we're all supposed to get eight hours of sleep per night and ace our classes with flying colors. Supposed to, unfortunately, isn't the majority.

So this age thing is even more prevalent when tradition comes into play. For as long as I can remember, my family has had a "Christmas tree sleepover" where my brother and I watched the Grinch, fed apples and cookies to Santa and his reindeer, and played an elaborate scenario in which feline political parties and Santa spying schemes are formed. It wasn't until age seventeen that I refused to take part in such endeavors, as I was "too old" to enjoy them. I missed out on a lot, and the pervading guilt overpowered a few hours of "holier than thou"-ness.

So this year, I decided to take part in the McKelvey Christmas tradition, minus the cat scenarios. We laughed about reality television and played an intense game of charades. M&Ms were eaten. Good times were had. At first, I could only think about that one question: At what age are you supposed to stop being silly?

Who knows?

  But as I relaxed and tried to win charades by flapping my "wings" and flexing my muscles for "Batman," I realized there isn't really a cutoff point for silliness. I mean, if there was an age when we're all supposed to start hemming and hawing and wearing fancy suits, this sure wouldn't have happened:

Labels matter sometimes--we'd be one giant blog of chaos if we didn't enforce some order in the world. But having fun with your family and friends on Christmas? There's never a cutoff point for that. It's nice to forget about the stress of finals and house-searching and just take silly pictures with your mother and introduce her to the wonders of Snapchat. It's worth it to act like a fool for a while--whether you're fifteen or fifty five.

Plus I got to do my model walk. Which is pretty darn sexy if I do say so myself.

Plus, I learned some pretty important life lessons this evening:
1) Red and green M&Ms magically taste better than any other kind.
2) Adults are not utterly shocked by Alex Day's "Stupid Stupid" video
3) My brother can jump freakishly high.

So I guess that was a fairly serious way to remind the world to be silly, but it's midnight, so I'm allowed to be ironic. 
Namaste.

App-lying oneself to life

I'm in the middle of a strange generation. I'm old enough to remember the times when Walkmen were the next big thing since Michael Jackson and when cassettes were so hip and high tech that anyone who had one practically shattered with coolness. Yet I'm young enough to be enthused by an app that allows a phone to feed you breakfast (which hasn't been invented yet but Apple I'm looking at you). I see the usefulness, however minute, in translating "hello, how are you?" Into cat meows and squeals. With the recent purchase of an iPhone, I can already further understand the obsession with all things technology and why teens scream "noooo, my life is ruined! Ruined, I tell you! I have to live in the dark ages!" And while I'm an appreciator of writing a blog post with one finger, I'm still aware that I'm getting sucked into the black hole of addiction. So I'm making a pact with my more nature-attuned self to not become completely reliant on apps and widgets and to instead work to keep books from going extinct. I enjoy a good game of draw something every now and again, but I also enjoy reading by a fire (presuming it's an intentional fire), sitting in nature and just...being. You don't need an app to be.
Namaste.

I can see the light...oh wait, it's a flash

I wouldn't consider myself an artist. My drawings have graduated from non-existent to stick figures (although I do have some kickass cartoon drawings from sixth grade to show for). I'd consider dance an art, but then people kinda give me that "you're trying to push the whole idea of finding meaning in contorting your body into different positions" look. Which looks a little something like this:

Minus all the fur. But the one thing that everybody agrees is an art that I've been involved in is photography. Every trip I go to, I have to take an insane number of pictures. Every school dance isn't just filled with flashes of strobe lights; it's filled with camera flash lights as well. But when you're so focused on retaining the beauty of the moment, you miss the fullness of that beauty the first time. In the insistence to create a memory, we reduce the strength of the moment.

Not to mention, pictures do a fantastic job skewing the perception of what went down. If you looked at a high school yearbook, you'd think we all had a fine time beating our heads against lockers and that homework was something to do this at:

I don't know why I'm using cat pics to illustrate my point...maybe I'm just preparing to be the crazy cat lady or something

I've gotten into the habit that thinking of a photograph doesn't document a certain moment, that moment ceases to exist.

Oh, you want an example, do you? I'm glad you asked.

When I went to Shoshoni, my camera was basically glued to my side. I looked like one of those tourists that everyone in Colorado gives a sad nod to, and says, "oh friend, you're still relying on technology...Shiva bless you." My first day I was so proud of myself for snapping a few pictures of moose, that I proceeded to do a little happy dance and send my camera smashing into smithereens.

That would have been a better moral to a story, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, it went something like me doing a little happy dance, going to dinner, and losing my camera. Slightly more anti-climactic. I eventually found the camera, did my best to capture the beautiful Rocky Mountains (it's very difficult to capture the integrity of a mountain on film), and the first thing that my family said when I returned home was, "wow, whipped cream lasts a lot longer when you're gone." But the second thing they said was "we'd love to see pictures of your trip!"

I think by now we know I'm completely jinxed with technology. So, like any technological incompetant, I froze when I saw this on my camera:

ERROR, ERROR! YOUR PICTURES REFUSE TO UPLOAD ONTO THE COMPUTER BECAUSE YOU'RE SUCH A DUMBASS YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO WORK A FIVE YEAR OLD CAMERA.

I may or may not have embellished a bit, but my point is (and I do have one) that all pictures from Shoshoni were completely kaput. And with nothing to show for my trip, it seemed like I hadn't even gone. I did my best to describe the personalities of my fellow yoga immersions and the staff, but it seemed like a block when I didn't have a picture to put alongside the description. A poem about the "sleeping giant" mountain seemed a sorry alternative to just showing my family the beauty of the mountain itself.

Which got me thinking, is a picture actually worth a thousand words? Is writing an inferior art to photography?

While looking through the photographs I do have, I've realized that while they legitimize a moment, they're also background for a story that follows. Sure, you could see a photograph of three friends, and think, "how nice; some friends went to Baby's."

Or, you could tell the story of how these friends befriended a construction worker that day and got him to take their picture. Then after chomping on delicious burgers and fries they holla'ed at some frat boys and proceeded to take a delightful yoga class that was challenging enough for you to feel some soreness, but not so difficult you were like "oh my goodness, MY LIMBS ARE FALLING OFF!"

Photography is an art, but oftentimes it acts as a vehicle for a story words can use to provide a deeper memory. They two bounce off each other, but standing alone, both writing and photography leave blank space of "hmm, maybe so and so looks like this...or said this to that Turkish Van cat."

So I think we should all breathe a sigh of relief when we realize we're not wasting our lives by posting school dance pictures on facebook. Commenting "ewwww I look awful" is wasting time, but the actual art of photography is quite powerful.

Namaste.

Crossing the line

If I had to narrow down what I've learned this semester to a few things, they would be 1) Group projects are basically the collegiate version of Survivor, 2) You should never ever shower without flip-flops on, and 3) You are encouraged, challenged even, to voice your opinion. If given the option between staying quiet and blabbing about some half-formed opinions, always take the blabbing route.

Or so says my English professor. A notoriously outspoken woman, she will never hold back her opinions, and she expects us to do the same. I'm not a confrontational person, but I can still respect someone who lets the world know how they view a situation--it takes less pressure off of the quiet sort to speak. I don't generally see a problem with people who are confident in what they have to say--in fact, I often respect them. The line gets blurry, however, when these people use others' personal lives to make a point.

During class, discussion arose about a film that showed the effects of post-war Europe. A certain student had a lot of intelligent opinions to share with the class about this; My teacher, in her agreement, stated that the student "is an Afghanistan war veteran--he's diffused bombs--so he knows what he's talking about."

The professor may have said this to give ethos to someone who was already handling the discussion quite well, but through this comment, she exposed this student in front of 20 people he didn't know very well, and he very clearly felt uncomfortable having this information out in the open. It was in this instant that I felt like a pawn of knowledge to our professor, rather than a human being with, you know, feelings. Some people may share what they eat for breakfast every day and how they're feeling a little more insecure that afternoon, but it is perfectly respectable to want to keep your private life (gasp!) private.

It is never okay to blab about someone's personal life without that person's consent--even if it's used to agree with them. I can only imagine the humiliation I would feel if the professor outed me to the entire class as a secret dragon slayer (oh no--my secret life has been revealed!). But seriously--there's a difference between not being afraid to speak out and being insensitive. Professors aren't immune to that sort of insensitivity--they are in no way entitled to take a student's life and turn it into a lesson. Yes, we are supposed to feel some discomfort in college. Yes, we are supposed to grow and learn from others' life experiences.

But we should never feel that it is the norm to be humiliated all for the sake of someone's opinion.

Namaste.

I had an emotion: The Twilight Epidemic

So I may have broken my promise to myself to quit feelings cold turkey. I had an emotion, a very strong emotion.

Was it about friends, family, or the fact that sleep seems a mere concept in my life?

Nope. I had an emotion about Twilight.

I'm not talking the new Breaking Dawn movie, either. That was pretty quality. It's always a good time when people's heads get chopped off  and babies turn into teenagers in the blink of an eye. That film, I admit, was a guilty pleasure, yet I fail to see any literary merit in a series that tries to make snow sound all mysterious by describing "swirling bits of white." However, my vampire class--a college class, mind you--has been assigned to watch Twilight. So while my homework is bearable, my hope for the classics of the future is slowly disintegrating.

First off, the running themes in our class are how vampires deal with the moral dilemma of having evil desires, and eroticism in vampire culture. Yes, there is quite a bit of sex in vampire literature, but it's not like, "oh, the reader is probably bored right about now, so I should probably throw some kinky stuff in." Vampires feel pleasure from drinking blood; it's in their nature. But Edward, oh Edward, has got to be the most human vampire on the face of the planet. He's all, "oh, I want to have sex with you, but, you know, morals and stuff." The whole movie is basically Edward being holier-than-thou because he hunts animals and then starts brooding about how he hasn't had human blood in over a century.

Obviously Stephanie Meyer tried to make it so that Bella's discovery about Edward's "true self" was the climax of Twilight, but it basically went something like:
"I look like a fifth grader's art project in the sun...I'M A KILLER!" Clearly Edward needs to take a course in logic, or something, because last I checked, glittery skin did not indicate a murderer of any sort. I mean, can we please have some burning going on in the sun? 'Cause sparkles on painted on abs aren't cause for a "woe is me" moment.

And yet, Bella still follows this melodramatic creature around, not because he's sexy (let's be real here--nothing can beat Jacob's abs), not because he's intelligent (I figure missing school any day it's sunny would give his GPA a real beating), but because he's all broody and mysterious. I'm not sure if broody is a word, but it perfectly describes Edward's persona throughout the entire film. He repeats this mantra of "I've got some shit to tell you, but I can't, because I'm Edward freaking Cullen." And obviously, what high school girl wants a stable relationship with a normal guy? Puh-lease. Forget that there's a freaking sexy werewolf who is kind and generous and has a sense of humor that wants to date Bella. Of course any girl would want someone that she has to play constant guessing games with and to overshadow her if he so much as breathes.

Not that vampires need to breathe. But that's beside the point.

But what really gets me is that after hundreds of years, Edward is still desperate to go to high school. He could probably get away with at least college, or moving far, far away to become a lumberjack or something. But no. It's cliques and droning teachers that remind Edward of "the good old days." You'd at least think that re-doing high school twelve million times over would teach Edward how to blend into the fashion world of teenagers. Maybe Edward enjoys being the sophisticated, wise sage of high school...or he just wants a bunch of hormonal teenage girls to be all over his sexy British accent...

..WHICH HE DOESN'T EVEN HAVE!! Come on. Twilight would at least be bearable if the producers let Robert Pattinson keep his British accent. I'm sure they could work it into the story that his family was originally from England. But no. They have to dull what could easily be the sexiest part of the film with an American accent. The only time we can even hear a hint of awesomeness is when Edward says "worry." Then it's back to "yeah, I kinda wanted to kill you all along, whoops, have I said too much?"

But apparently this series hasn't butchered vampires enough to hide from it in shame in a college class.

What is this world coming to?

Namaste.

In defense of puns

Friends, I have a problem. An addiction, really (besides the whole pudding addiction, which I am quitting cold turkey).

I am a punny person.

Now, normally I would be outraged at this title, mostly because it sounds like people are saying I'm puny. But it's come to my attention that most of the world thinks puns are ridiculous and stupid. I've seen many an eye roll at puns, and apparently it's not witty and clever to tell someone who's taking a class on Amish culture that "hmm, something is a-mish."

The quality of puns are sadly underestimated, perhaps it's because they're considered a terribly dad-like thing to do. But it's hard to think on your feet and give zingy one liners like that! A joke with a story line gives you time to think, to plan in what intonation you will deliver the punch line. Granted, it also gives you more room to go, "no wait, wait, that's not right, hold on, the chicken ate the duck, and then he threw up...no, that's not right either..."

But, let me tell you, a pun doesn't give you room to say "I will have something witty to say in response to that, just give me a minute." If someone says they wear shower shows to avoid fungi, you are allowed no lag time before saying, "I'd much rather shower alone, no matter how fun that guy is." 'Cause if you think that joke is stupid, try it with a pause in between.

Makes you shed a tear, doesn't it?

Many jokes are exclusive--you've got your inside jokes that "you've just had to be there for" (what is it about inside jokes that always end up being told in public?), the generational jokes, then those obscure jokes that all the intellectuals can snicker at. Puns are purely inclusive. Even that twelve year old you aren't sure how to talk to at the family reunion can laugh without feeling the horrid generational gap. I think everyone in the family would feel more relaxed and able to break the ice when Billy, Bob, or Joe asks Auntie Anne (who absolutely despises pretzels) to pass the cheese, and she replies, "no, because it's nacho cheese!"

It's not a sign of weakness to laugh at puns--unless you're perfecting the ultimate eye roll. In which case, you'll gain that skill at age thirteen, promptly forget it, then laugh at puns when you're supposed to be filing taxes and whatnot.

Namaste. 

Feelin' Groovy

As my teenage-hood comes to a close (gotta start working on that time machine, damnit!), I've been considering feelings, and if they are unequivocally adolescent. If a seventeen year old is suffering through a breakup with a pint of ice cream and watching Sleepless in Seattle on repeat, it's a healthy way of dealing with one's first heartbreak. If a thirty year old does the same thing, it's considered breaking the rules of a diet, and wallowing.

Wallowing, past age twenty, is a first degree crime. How can you bemoan that guy who went off with that girl when there are starving children in Africa? The world had just as many problems when you were a child; the difference is, it was cute for you to respond to everything with "me! My feelings! Mine!" as a kid. As an adult, that kind of behavior is selfish, offensive, and bad for the sake of that ten page paper that must be handed in to your professor by Monday, no exceptions.

So are adults bound to a life of neutrality? Are the glory days of angst and bouts of "nobody understands!" over? At times, I think those feelings should be buried in a grave along with the hot pink pants my teenage self thought were a good idea. As a person who has an emotion when there is no pudding left at the convenience store, it was difficult to come to terms with this fact of life. You mean I can't go cry in my dorm room and cry, "what is this world coming to?"? I have to shrug, say "oh, that's fine," and move on with my life? Or I could, perhaps, buy more pudding. Logic is a Godsend.

So anticlimactic. So...grownup.

But even though I've been an "adult" (I shudder at the word) for over a year, feelings haven't poof, gone away. If anything, the first year of being an adult brings the most feelings because you find yourself facing job interviews, professors that aren't interested in hearing that sob story about your dog, car payments, friends you've suddenly outgrown, and that weird flippy thing your hair decided to do. So what do you do? Tackle all these problems with a day planner and a fanny pack (because everyone knows a fanny pack is the sure sign of wise old-fart-dom)? Of course not. You have a little cry in your closet and try the sob story about your grandmother on your professor.

But as I've seen that feelings aren't magically disappearing from my life, I've also realized they're not  necessarily bad. Sure, there are plenty of "I'm mad, I'm sad, I'm annoyed," moments that make you want to run screaming around the block. But without emotions, we wouldn't have gratitude for those nights that you have crazy random happenstances with friends. Without feelings, we'd be without pride for our hard work, or our loved one's successes. I respect my friends' choices to go about life in a way that works for them, but if everyone were like that, we'd all be a bunch of robots that pump out productivity and synonyms for indifference.

You know that moment when you feel like joy is just emanating from your body, and you could run a hundred miles? Or when you're laughing so hard you can't breathe? Or when someone makes you smile when you've been crying? I wouldn't trade that for anything. Not even the stamp of adulthood.

Namaste.

The many faces of Scrabble

After a delightful Thanksgiving in which we all felt too full too, y'know, do that whole moving thing, my family and I decided to play an intense game of Scrabble. You'd think this was all fine and pleasant until you discovered that said Scrabble game was played with an English professor. Throughout this game, I discovered that one's true personality can come through in that "life or death" moment.

I present to you the many faces of Scrabble:

1) The sneak attacker.
This player claims she doesn't know what she's doing, then proceeds to screw everyone else in the game over. They preface each turn by saying "oh, I was taking too long to think of a good word", lays down two magic letters, then gets five hundred million points. They claim that someone else could think of a far better word, only to present zebraxylophone to all the other players, who are now drowning their sorrows in coffee and excess amounts of pumpkin pie. The game ends with the sneak attacker saying, "I would've gotten five hundred billion points if I weren't so tired."

2) The "double or nothing."
This player is so intent on getting thirty thousand points per turn, that if he can't create two words with a couple letters, he refuses to play anything at all. However, "double or nothing," is, as we guessed, the English professor, so the trouble of finding two words usually takes as much effort as the rest of us would to brush our teeth. And just as much gleeful humming takes place (yes, I've been known to hum while brushing my teeth. Don't judge). No matter that these words are painfully simple--they still rack up all the points in the world! No one in the universe, the galaxy, will never win another game of Scrabble ever again! 

3) The "aw, screw it."
This player, who sees Scrabble as woefully similar to a puzzle, or a strategist mastermind's heaven, will spend ages staring at her set of words, and when she discovers that "Zaaaaarmof" is not, in fact a word (though we all know it very accurately describes the emotion of having too much work to do), she freezes in that moment of panic and puts down "ear" or something equally ridiculous that will give her three points. Minus three for unoriginality, so she's back to where she started.

4) The "I know something you don't know."
This person has that sneaky little grin whenever you lay down a word, and is all, "oh hey, instead of having negative ten thousand points, you could make the golden word."
I always thought the golden word was "dountoothersasotherwoulddountoyou," and I certainly don't have that on my letter selection. But when I raise my eyebrows and say, "oh really?" like I'm in some bad mystery movie, this Scrabble personality will say, "yes, but I'm not going to tell you what it is." Then they watch you flail with words such as "la," "is," and "as," and then proceed to take the spot you had your eye on the entire turn and gain enough points he could win Scrabble ten times over. Plus two.

5) The "I don't know what this means, but surely it's a word."
This person takes two consonants and sticks a random vowel in between, hoping that "pof," or "ges," is a word. When someone challenges this person and asks what it means, she says, "look it up," like she's known it all along. And if it's not in the dictionary, then surely it means something in another language. For all we know, "pof," in French, means a turtle who lost his shell in battle.

Namaste.

Like my status?

One of the things about Shoshoni that really struck me was the guru Babajii's humility. Everyone at the ashram admired him and reminded him of his greatness, and even though he takes each person's opinions to heart, his ego doesn't grow into the size of a pumpkin because of it. I mean, people bow down to him and send him prayers every day for Krishna's sake! If that was me, I'd be sitting on that couch going, "bow, minions! Mwahahahaha!"Babajii attributed much of his knowledge to his teachers, and simply put a spin on the ideas that had been passed down to him. Yet you don't bow down to an idea--you bow to a person. Humans get uncomfortable when we can't put a face or name to an idea. Just yesterday, I told my dad about a joke on facebook I'd found: That the passing of gay marriage laws and marijuana legalization made perfect biblical sense because "every man who lays together must be stoned." To which my dad replied: "you're funny." I hadn't come up with joke, because I voiced it, the idea, and consequently the praise, was directed at me. I knew this, yet I still felt like a comical genius who should be standing alongside Eddie Izzard. Or something. So it surprised me when I found that the guru at Shoshoni had gotten 20+ years of direct worship and was seemingly unfazed by it. Babajii was one of the most down to earth, approachable gurus I have ever met. Not that I've met many a guru, but that's beside the point.

Sri Shambhavananda, or "Babajii"

In 4th grade, our class did a role play activity in which we were merchants on the Silk Road. Our "Calcutta Dogs" group won because the two other members were skilled artists and because we had some luck with gold, yet as a "winner," I felt more than entitled to our reward: At the sound of our authoritative "grunt," the rest of the class would have to bow down to us. As an objectifiable expert, I believed the grunting reward to be mine, all mine! Turns out, the grunting technique doesn't necessarily work on the bully who knocks you off the tire swing.

That got me thinking: Can anyone truly detach their achievements from themselves? The yogic guru may play it down, but we don't know his brain. He could be walking around, all enlightened and stuff, going, "yeah, I'm awesome!" The world will never know. He has a lot of sound advice to offer anyone hobbling down the yogic path, so he gets deserved attention, but how is it possible not to let the external assurance seep into your soul?

To me, status is something that becomes a part of me. And I don't mean "out with the girls, texttttt" (although facebook statuses have also become a part of me--more on that later). I mean that whenever I achieve something, that isn't just an action that my body did. It's a part of my memories, my emotion. When I (miracle of all miracles) got an A on my science blogs, I leaped around for the next two days feeling like I could do a happy dance, like a smart cool kid. Because I had success, I was successful. Because my teacher liked my blogs, I was liked. It's difficult to separate the person from the action.

But when can status take us too far? What if, for the rest of eternity, I thought I was fabulous at science, then walked into a chemistry class? What if the Shoshoni guru walked into a Catholic church? If people are treated a certain way because of certain audience, their entire lives turn over when they leave that safety net. I once met a woman who was so set in her authority because she had lived in the same community for twenty years, she was convinced she could criticize someone who had lived there for one day, and was so disoriented, she couldn't even tell someone her name. Now, obviously I'm not the best sweeper in the entire universe, but to go "I've lived here for twenty years, so I can tell you your sweeping technique is weird and inappropriate," is just flawed logic, that's coated in false confidence about status. Not to mention that her status was due to the fact that one of her family members had created the community she was living in. (I just realized I made it sound like I was dancing on tables or something whilst sweeping--I was doing nothing of the sort.)

Then again, status shouldn't be completely ignored. We're a culture that likes to see how things are progressing, to have something to show for our existence. To go from undergraduate, to masters, to PhD is rewarding because it shows you've worked hard. And just as it's exhausting to put a lot of effort into your achievements, it's even more tiresome to try to place the credit elsewhere, while others are trying to convince you that you're amazing, a genius, a Van Gogh of the generation, minus the ear bit. In the movie The Nun's Story, Sister Luke tries to disregard her genius because she thinks it selfish to revel in her accomplishments. She had a constant internal struggle with her ego and her desire to be pure because her surroundings told her achievements were never to be acknowledged. Now, I don't know much about the convent lifestyle, but in my view, if Sister Luke had just acknowledged her success and moved on with a bit more confidence, she could've gotten a lot more done, and more importantly, been happier.

So how can you be happy with your achievements without seeming like a cocky, pompous ass? For me, a lot of my pride is found in writing, and much of my deepest insecurities are exposed throughout my stories and poems. So if someone likes or dislikes my fiction or poetry, it's as if they're also deciding whether they like or dislike me. In that case, my ego can inflate or deflate in an instant. But with more factual writing, such as an analytical essay, I don't feel any personal connection to the work. For English class, I wrote an essay about the ideas portrayed in Lolita; my teacher was pleased with the essay, and obviously I was pleased with the grade, but it never occurred to me to link that grade to my worth. I saw it as taking ideas that Vladimir Nabokov had, and putting them into my own words. I attributed the ideas to the author, rather than myself. So perhaps Babajii gives his advice as though he's writing an analytical paper--he's adding in direct quotes from his teachers while offering his own spin on them.

It's possible to have un-biased status, but we shouldn't always ignore the ego. Sometimes it's worth it to do a little happy dance and revel in your awesomeness.

Namaste.

I suck at tetris, and other reasons I will be taking math next semester

Okay, so maybe I'm taking The Mathematics of Money next semester, in desperate hopes that my savings account won't look nearly as dismal come April, but it occurred to me yesterday that there are plenty of day to day activities that make me realize that I probably should have paid more attention in math class, and done more than this:

Hmm, this is actually one that I know. For some reason, finding the value of X brings the same sort of thrill to me as if I had a lifetime supply of coffee or glitter. Yet as a friend and I were playing tetris last night (somehow I avoided the stereotypical study hall activity by blogging and writing novels. NBD), I couldn't even get all the blocks to fit on the bottom row. Do you know how sad that is? Level one, and I was already dead by the first set. If the fate of the world were left in the hands of all tetris players, I'd destroy everything before we could even think about level two.

That awkward moment when all your hopes and dreams of world domination are brought to a screeching halt because you can't even arrange some blocks on a computer screen.

I ended up just making pretty designs with the blocks. One time I could've sworn I made a giant L, as though the flashing neon sign of "losing" wasn't clear enough.

The same goes with puzzles. Don't even let me think about those complex 2,000 million piece puzzles--I'm talking your basic 500 piece puzzle. All throughout elementary school, I avoided the issue by pretending I was too cool with my American Girl Dolls, or I was busy taking care of my Tamagotchi. But once you pass elementary school and the kids you're babysitting are better at puzzles than you, you know that spatial intelligence is not just something that is so last year. It haunts you forever, like a ghost, or the fact that Jersey Shore happened.

Yet the biggest slap in the face for being horrid at geometry is shown in my driving skills. Now, to be fair, I'm not dismal at the actual act of driving. Sure, I've had a freakout or two (or five) on the highway, but I mean, I can work those neighborhood roads like no other. What trips me up is those two lines that tell you "park here." And you have to turn at the exact right moment, because, as it turns out, a gold minivan doesn't want a lovely purple streak on the side, no matter how punk it looks. Hey, I could start a trend: highlights for cars. But since that probably won't be a thing for at least another year, I gotta face the facts that you must estimate the distance, angle, and length of the parking space, and that room for error only exists if you a thousand bucks to spare. And so, with the hopes of not being that person who takes the bus until they're 80 years old, I shall face my nemesis that is math class.

Also, that whole graduating thing is a good motivator for taking math.

Namaste.

Passively change?

I've heard a lot about "change" this past year--graduating high school is a change, as is starting college. Those are the kinds of changes that are easy to label, easy to see. Yet there are also differences in people that are harder to notice, that you can only subtly see. People are always changing, always forming into ways that will better themselves. But are these re-formations subconscious, or do humans actively decide to be different?

When I went to Shoshoni, I observed how everyone around me so easily let go of their emotions and attachments, that I felt like I would be horridly un-acceptable as a human being if I got excited over a new shade of lip gloss, or the millionth pair of jeans I just had to have (see previous post). As my surroundings meditated like a boss, I felt lost when I'd close my eyes and start thinking about coffee. As far as I could tell, my hip joints got more flexible, my wardrobe was significantly different, but my mind wasn't. So when I returned home, I pretended that I'd gained spirituality and that I'd "seen the light" (not like that), when really, all I saw was a 50% off sale at Kohl's that made me want to do a little happy dance. I told myself I'd be a failure if I had nothing to show for my month at Shoshoni, yet a month later, I was back to my same old emotion-holding, shopping fanatic self. Which made me believe I was doomed to never experience personal growth. Because if technology fasting and five A.M. meditations wouldn't change me, nothing would. 

So starting college as the only person in the world who feels like she's still fifteen years old (because obviously, every other nineteen year old is wise and has figured their entire life out), I got into an argument with my friend. It was about something stupid really--something like cheese, or politics. I can't remember--but we got plenty worked up about it, tangling ourselves into one giant spider web of conflict. I responded in a way I thought I always would: Trying to get out of a fight. But my other friend commented that "high school Kira never would've done that." Huh. I wasn't actively trying to respond differently, it just sorta happened.

It seems that when people are determined to change themselves, they act different for like, two seconds, then they revert back to old habits. It's like dieting: If you're consciously aware you're trying to make a difference, your brain goes something like "mwahahaha, I will make all the bad habits in the world come and bite you in the ass!" And then you cry over a few episodes of America's Next Top Model, which just makes you feel worse about yourself. But if you're just going about your daily routine, do do dee do, you may notice that something's different. And no, it's not the horrid brown paint they decided to slap onto Wal-Mart (why, I ask you?). It's you. Also, it's the fact that your fairy godmother is standing right behind you. Turn around. Damn, too slow. Ya' just missed her.

Namaste.

Jean-ius?

There's a phenomenon that many girls fall victim to, myself included. And I just don't get it. I don't. I mean, there's a lot of things about my fellow female species that I don't understand, but one thing that truly baffles me is why girls insist on having a million pairs of jeans. They all serve the same purpose of covering your legs and making your ass look good. They're made of the same material, and for the most part, they all look the same. So why is it that whenever we go to the mall and see that cute new pair of jeans that's basically the twin to whatever is hanging in the back of our closet, we just have to shell out twenty bucks for it?

I mean, let me paint a little picture for ya': There's light wash jeans, there's dark wash jeans. There's skinny, bootcut, and flare jeans. At most, that could make six different pairs of jeans. Yet there are at least twelve pairs in my closet. And you know what happens, I wear four of those pairs, do the laundry, and wear the same four pairs again. Even though they're all practically identical, I've chosen my favorites, and half of them don't even get used.

So even though I'm aware that I'm mindlessly throwing money away towards what I already have, I'm victim to the sneaky little tricks stores use to make their denim seem amazing and other-worldly:

1) Belts. Normally, I'm not a fan of belts. If I'm wearing a long shirt, I look like I have some weird tumor going on in my hips. Plus, they're just a pain in the ass (literally--almost) to have to un-do every time you have to pee. But if you see this adorable pair of jeans hanging up with a flashy belt, it just screams "buy me, buy me!" Seriously though--I'm surprised no one has tried to market talking belts. One time I was shopping for a Christmas gift for my ex (who wasn't my ex at the time, 'cause that's just freaking weird to buy gifts for exes...but more on that in a later post), and I found a super badass awesome belt for him. Not only is it embarrassing to buy anything of the clothing sort for a guy, but when I saw a pair of jeans with an identical belt, I almost bought it so that we could be matching.

Oh my god. Matching belts? Never has a couple had a cheesier idea. Fortunately, I got distracted by something shiny. But seriously, when you think it's cute to match anything with your boyfriend--even if it's something small like your dress and his tie--it's not.

2) "Boyfriend cut."
Call me blind to the world, but boyfriend cut jeans seem suspiciously similar to boot cut jeans. I don't know if this style is trying to sell the idea of having a boyfriend, or trying to match said boyfriend, but either way, it makes me want to cry into a bowl of cookie dough and not be able to fit into any of my jeans.

3) Glitter. I'm seriously addicted to all things sparkly. In fourth grade, my teacher coined me the "glitter princess." I would've been the glitter queen, if my teacher hadn't won the title already. But every time I see a pair of sparky jeans, I'm convinced they're different from the rest of the world of denim. The trouble with these pants, is that once you wash them, they're sad and faded ole' regular jeans. The glittery excitement happens through one or two cycles of wearing them, then you forget why you bought them in the first place.

Also, through all this "sameness," I fail to find a pair of jeans that prevents whale-tailing. Perhaps I need more belts.

The irony astounds me.

Namaste.

The product of academia

Hi, I'm Kira, and I have something to confess:

I am the child of two academics.

Henry David Thoreau is quoted at the dinner table, discussions about the word "relatable" are common in our household. Encyclopedias are our Bibles. We die a little on the inside every time someone says "these dishes need done." Because in this instance, friends, the answer to "to be or not to be?" is to be. It's always to be. On a wild Friday night, my parents will turn on the History Channel and if they're really feeling crazy, consume an extra dessert.

Shit happens when pumpkin pie is involved. Don't let its innocent shiny surface let you think otherwise.

So, as the child of two academics, I grew up to be bookish, to think that literary theory was something every family discussed at dinner, and to not even question if I was going to college. And in the midst of students who go to college simply to get that degree and score some memorable partying stories, I feel like some rare breed who must be kept in a cage to examine and mock. I've been called "lame," "no fun," and even "sheltered" because I choose to stray from the partying lifestyle. And thus, I question, if I had non-academic parents, would I be partying like it was 1999 right about now? Would I even have a love for books and writing? Would I even be in college?

I can tell you this much: I certainly wouldn't even be considering grad school. Which is, unfortunately, the new college.

Not to say that academics didn't have their fun in college; it's not like professors are one big cluster of lame. They still make choices on an individual level, I'm just saying that to stay in on Saturday night and write an essay that's due in a month is stereotypically "professor-ish." 

I guess this is just a product of the on-going nature/nurture debate. Clearly parents have a huge effect on their kids, but it's not like I'm a clone of my parents. I mean, none of them have an obsession with wearing fuzzy animal hats, nor did they have any interest in yoga. But in the general scheme of things, they've conditioned me to think, to question, to turn to books when I'm feeling lost about something. A child wouldn't think to find the answers in books if they'd never been introduced to them in the place where they spend the most time, or where they're most influenced.

Personally, I love having professors as parents, especially when the due date of that English paper rolls around. Though it can be intimidating to have three different sets of in-depth notes for my revisions, having those references helps me grow as a writer, as well as a person. I may have waved off intellectual conversations as "dorky" when I was a kid, but I'm now seeing how valuable they were to my success as a college student.

A fantastic professor, even more fantastic father

A goofy dad who's serious about teaching

Snugglefest ^_^

Couldn't imagine a better mom

I wasn't born with the brains of a professor, and I'm still far from being a genius. The difference is, I've always been told the reasons for going to college, what to get out of it. And it isn't just to party hardy, get a degree and run to the next high paying job. I've been taught to think critically, to dig deeper than the surface to get to the meaning of a challenging text/problem. Maybe it's enough for some to see a challenging text in "i like u, but i don't wanna date u," but to me, it's rewarding to work through Dickens and Shakespeare and to better understand the world from both a critical and personal perspective.

Also, it doesn't hurt to have connections within the university.

Namaste.

It started off as an innocent YA novel...

...Then turned into a vampire book. What?
If you're new to my blog, let me just start by giving you a crucial piece of information: Turtles are awesome.

Also, I'm weird.

And because I'm weird, I decided that on top of my course load...of erm...13 credits, I needed to assign myself extra work in the form of NanoWriMo. And that, friends, is not just a page or so of extra work. That's 50,000 freaking extra words of extra work.

So if I look at you with wild, crazy eyes and go "fjeioawjioawjfe0woiJFOIASJOWJF!" Now you know why.

It's turned into more of an endeavor than I thought it would. It's not that writing 1,667 words per day is impossible to do, but 1,667 good words per day?

Fogettaboutit.

So I started off this whole NanoWriMo thing, writing what I know: And what I know is about girls and their lives. I started off with strong character developments and progressive dialogue. Then something happened: one of my classes started to influence my outside work more than I thought it would. As my main character got a cut and started bleeding (a minor conflict, if you will), my thought process went something like: "oh blood...vampires like blood...ONE OF MY CHARACTERS IS A VAMPIRE!"

All of a sudden, my Young Adult fiction has turned into a vampire novel. And I'm just kinda sitting here, watching these characters take over my keyboard as I throw my hopeful outline out the window. An outline for NanoWriMo? Bah. Rookie mistake.

So now, I'm less the puppet master of this...uh...novel (if you're kind enough to call it that), and more of a puppet as my characters tell me what's going on. It's kind of a crazy ride, and my inner editor is screaming so loud, I can barely hear the pre-thanksgiving partiers out my window.

And that is how the cookie, or blood rather, crumbles.

Namaste.

P.S. Can blood crumble??

Things I want to do before I die

So I had this thought, right? And we all know what happens when I start thinking. Maria and I were discussing the presidential elections, and how Hillary Clinton might run in the 2016 election. I thought, "oh, so a woman will break the mold...I want to become the president of the United States before I die!"

...Just kidding.

I just gave you a little heart attack there, didn't I?

But seriously, I started thinking, "oh, I'll be 23 during the next election. Then I'll be 27. Then I'll be 80 someday and then I'll be dead." It's a lovely thought, isn't it? To think of your own mortality is just a pleasant walk in the mall. But I figured before I croak, I should, y'know, have some goals and whatnot.

So, without further ado KIRA'S AMAZING (AND SLIGHTLY RANDOM) LIST OF THINGS SHE WANTS TO DO BEFORE SHE DIES!

1) Write and publish a book.
2) Write a screenplay.
3) Go to France.
4) Meet Johnny Depp. Meet Johnny Depp. Meet Johnny Depp.
5) Laugh so hard, milk comes out of my nose (lemonade: Check. Not milk yet though).
6) Go back to Shoshoni.
7) Go backpacking (chyeah, I'm awesome!)
8) Participate in a flashmob
9) Take a class that is not required for my major, that I wouldn't think to take.
10) Become a certified yoga instructor.
11) Run a marathon
12) Make a friend at an unexpected place
13) Learn how to cook
14) Write a novel in a month (sigh....)
15) Eat something strange
16) Make a vlog that doesn't make me want to tear my hair out
17) Learn Guitar

...And that's all I can think of for now. Bucket lists are fun, even if they can be outrageous at times. And they make us at least feel more productive.

Namaste. 

Growing pains, or why I will in fact be reading Jane Eyre

So there was this time in my life when I didn't like books. Or rather, anything other than a specific genre of books. If the cover didn't have two people making lovestruck eyes at each other and the plot summary was anything other than a "girl and her life," I simply wasn't interested. I must've read Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants five times just to keep my parents off my back about my reading habits.

"Hold up right there," you say, "an English major who didn't like to read?? Why, that's preposterous!"

Yes, dear reader, preposterous indeed. I missed out on many references; I was blissfully unaware that almost half of what adults said at any given time was an allusion to Shakespeare, Dickens, or the Bronte sisters. My love of English came from my desire to write, rather than read.

Yeah, I know, reading makes you a better writer, trust me, I got that lecture twenty times before. But only now am I conceding that my parents didn't use that lecture just to talk at me. Branching out of your comfort zone through reading makes you more able to branch out and take risks as a writer. Even just playing around with other authors' voices has made me more comfortable in my own voice. I've found that Lemony Snicket's voice is freaking difficult to re-create, but that I'm naturally a Jodi Picoult-esque writer. It's comforting to put a label on something so vast as writing voice.

So. A challenge for myself: To read classic literature and not feel the need to writhe in pain as I do so. I remember having this challenge for myself earlier in high school, but I didn't get much out of my first pick, Jane Eyre, because I failed to understand both the language and the feminist connotations Charlotte Bronte was trying to get across. But then, miracle of miracles, we were assigned the same book for my English class, and I got something from it. I was turning the pages going, "yeah, Charlotte, I'm with ya'. Children should be heard. Getting locked up in red rooms kinda sucks. I understand." So even though that assigned book got taken off the syllabus, I shall continue to read Jane Eyre for the sake of my growth as a writer, and, more importantly, my growth as a person.

A good beach book, perhaps

But not worth undermining the classics for

Namaste.

Citizen Kane, AKA I re-discover my love for films

Back in 8th grade, I had a dream...That my best friend was trying to steal all the chocolate in my house. It was terrifying. But actually, I did have a dream of one day becoming a television screenwriter. My 14 year old self was convinced it was going to happen. I innocently wrote Monk and Psych scripts in my basement on some crappy '90's IBM computer, naively believing that any person who ever moved to LA in the history of the world didn't want the exact same thing. The thing about dreams is that you can convince yourself you're on a delightfully productive path to your ultimate goal, then realize that the thousands of people after that same goal are shoving you off the path. Because, unfortunately, oftentimes in the television world, the people who coast on that path aren't exceptional writers. They're good, and there are exceptions--like Tina Fey--but the people who can ride the path are excellent shmoozers.

So as I entered high school, I kind of did away with the dream. Sure, I still wrote scripts, but I wasn't fond of getting the awful rejection letters saying my "unsolicited material" wasn't good enough for network television. I continued writing for myself--a quiet hobby, if you will, but I didn't believe I'd ever have a chance at putting my writing out into the world, shoving the much more eloquent people out from the path.

But then 10th grade happened. And I took a film class which made me fall in love with movies. I couldn't believe I'd spent 16 years not knowing about Citizen Kane, Casablanca, or every Alfred Hitchcock film that was ever made. And I knew--that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to make people who already fell in love with movies maintain their faith in them, and anyone who'd only seen crappy movies to see the beauty in the film world. Then the idea got shattered by more statistics about people who move to NYC and LA with the same "dream."

Then tonight, for English class we had to watch Citizen Kane. And it's like my love of movies stopped getting put on hold and I re-discovered just what a huge impact a good film can make. Whether I was analyzing the different shots Orson Welles used, or the ethical connotations the movie gave about wealth and love, I was constantly immersed in the art, and even through knowing the sorry fact that it's EXTREMELY DIFFICULT to break into the film/television industry, it's my dream. I can't even describe the thrill I get when typing up a nice bout of dialogue, but my reaction goes something like: "kdjfaisdjfosiejfsdlajfls LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL." And I can't imagine doing anything else.

Sometimes, dreams aren't so silly. Unless they're about friends stealing chocolate.

Namaste.