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.