We the time-travelers

As an artist, I crave all beautiful things. And as I try to recreate them, I can't help but think, nothing can match up to the imperfection that is the natural world. Even though I am a painter by nature, I have always been mystified by the pristine quality of a photograph. Nothing can capture the simple essence of a moment like a camera. The almost perfect replication of the world holds a supernatural quality, where we can relive moments that have passed or never even happened. Photographs make us time travelers, often transporting us to moments we need to remember. They help us heal. And while some like Sontag may not understand it, the job of a photograph is not to explain a process, it is to capture a fraction of time in hopes of preserving it. Like all powerful art forms, photographs cannot be read verbatim, they must be analyzed and interpreted. To take any information at its face-value is pure folly; it is the duty of mankind to decipher the world around them. It is not the photograph that misconstrues the information, but the human that views it. And in that manner, anything in the world can be twisted. We see the world as we want to see it. Photography is an art: another form of self expression.  The smile we wear upon our face or lack thereof is our badge to show the world. In that sense, photographs are no less construed than the clothes we wear everyday. While they may not be the perfect example of our personality, they are a part of the whole. The minute, trivial details of a whole city cannot be captured by a single snapshot: it is up to the human mind to know its own limits, to fill in the blanks that cannot be explained. The power of the naked lens is to display a moment of truth: nothing else can capture the human spirit in its hope and sadness.

 

Just a Trim

      Haircuts. They're never quite what you expect. Either you've been getting the same, boring cut for over a decade (in that case, boo you) or you like to change it up from time to time. As a member of the latter group, say that hair cutting in general is risky business. First and foremost, one has to find the right salon. Choosing a hair salon can be tricky, and it's usually a matter of personal preference, but I highly recommend one that is not located inside your local Wal-mart. One thing I've learned is that nothing good comes out of a haircut that costs $5.99. Next, find a hairdresser whom you trust. The right hairdresser for you will have a sixth sense about your desired length and the limited extent of your styling abilities. She will magically know that four inches off means a trim. These are a rare breed so if you find one, make sure to hold on tight. Good, now you have a 50% chance of being satisfied with your haircut.
     Sure you may walk out of there feeling great, until you realize that you can never make it look the way your hairdresser made it, because she obviously sold her soul to be able to work magic like that. Soon you're left with a limp and frizzy mess, praying for the day that your hair grows out so you can swing your lovely tresses in everyone's face. And after months of staring wistfully at images of long-haired goddesses, your hair finally inches to desired length. And after a week of peaceful hair bliss, you find the devilish split-ends. That is only the beginning of the problems. Showers end up taking over 45 minutes and you've got nothing to show for it except sore arms. Your hair starts pooling in your lap, getting caught in your backpack, or flying into your food. It would take too long to curl it or straighten it or do anything at all for that matter. At this point, you are completely fed up by your endless, damaged hair and you decide to go rogue. Just a trim, you think, just to change it up a bit. And you walk into the salon again, trying to describe to your hairdresser exactly what combination of new hair trends you think will look good based on blurry images found in obscure corners of the internet. The cycle repeats itself.
     Really, nothing can satisfy a woman's quench for perfect hair. The good hair days always die young, as they say. It could be the fault of hair salons everywhere, who capitalize on women's need to beautify their hair.But the quest for perfect hair is futile in itself, for no woman wants the hair she was given. Cursed with silky, straight, ebony locks, a girl wishes that her hair would hold the serpentine curls her friend has. The same friend, with spiraling golden tresses, yearns for the effortless brown waves her sister was blessed with. And the list goes on and on. The endless supply of chemical products promising to increase shine, or adjust hair color, or tame frizz, just cater to the growing number of girls who think that new spray will fix their self image issues. As Sedaris pointed out, we always want what we can't have, or in some cases, what we used to have. Maybe it would be better if we were all just bald.

Disclaimer: This is not about me: I would say my hair is too short, but I like to live my life without regrets. 

Sun-Chasers

We are born chasing the sun. We have crossed oceans, built pyramids, and conquered lands, all in the name of the golden orb. The British empire once boasted of an empire where the sun never sets. As humans, we crave the light: the real and tangible. And as we seek out new horizons, one can wonder, are running towards new beginnings or away from the shadows. 
     When we are children, we are taught to fear the dark. And taught to love the noble night-light that protects us from the monsters lurking deep beneath the shadowy recesses of the bed. We grow up learning to fear what we don't know or understand. That which cannot be conquered is avoided. There is a fear of the limitless, of empty space and no restraints. We grow accustomed to our allotted spaces, confined by our need of comfort and safety. 
  The halls of childhood ring with the words "Safety First!" And every time I snap the buckle of my seat belt, these words reverberate through my mind. And seat belts have inadvertently saved countless lives. But if ever there were a real accident, where the car flipped ten times over and is mangled beyond repair, would a seat belt save me? Let's not forget the classic irony of the protagonist trapped in a flaming vehicle by the very seat belt meant to save them: the instrument of protection becomes an instrument of death. Locking the door doesn't prevent a kleptomaniac from chucking a brick through the window, and obeying pedestrian signals doesn't stop a rampant alcoholic from running a person over. 
     Precautions can only deter a predator, so why do these simple, routine measures give us such a sound peace of mind? Night and day, what makes one environment more pleasing or perilous than another, other than the humans and minds that inhabit it. The Okefenokee Swamp is clear demonstrator of the human mind's ability to perceive the environment in different ways; While one passage described it as a sanctuary the other depicted it as the mother of all horror. Reality is that the mind chooses how it sees the environment: nothing but the mind can transform a tranquil forest clearing into a murderous, fog-filled wood. Our lives are dictated by our surroundings, yet our surroundings are dictated by our subconscious minds. When safety is an illusion, the environment we occupy shouldn't dictate the limits of human ambition. 

Jesus, Pink Elephants, and Puzzles

Today, childhoods are nostalgically reminisced as times of innocence, adventure, and pure fun. We began our nights with fantastical tales of pink elephants, chivalrous princes, and mean witches, and ended it peacefully, comforted by the knowledge of the famed happily-ever-after. But once upon a time, not even a century ago, children toiled night and day in an effort to help their struggling families. While everyone rested blissfully, thanking Jesus for their satin sheets, these children dragged their "midnight luncheons" to sweatshops to produce the most meager of wages. In her speech, Florence Kelley utilizes the conventions of ethos, pathos, and logos to advance her policy for child labor laws and female political action: her use of diction, keen rhetoric, and command over structure develop a compelling argument. Kelley cleverly appeals to her audience (Women's Suffrage Convention) and effectively combines the fight for enfranchisement with the fight for child labor laws. She begins by quoting the census and reciting testimonies, eventually using them to evoke guilt in her audience. Her effortless transition between fact and emotion make the logos appear like pathos. Her words are powerful; she calls the children, "little beasts of burden," showing that their conditions fare little better than that of animals. Kelley's urgent, exclamatory tone serves as a call to action, as she enlists women across America to join her cause.

The Ambivert

      In respect to introverts and extroverts, most humans are like batteries. An introvert is one who needs down time to recharge, especially after spending time with a large amount of people. An extrovert is like a solar powered battery: it draws energy from being in the spotlight and feeds off the companionship of other people. What are you? http://funtestiq.com/personality/personalitytest39.shtml
      Congratulations! Common stereotypes find that extroverts are outgoing, loud, friendly, talkative, and more successful, while introverts are shy, reclusive, removed, private, and independent. If only personality could actually be measured in black and white.What many amateur online psychology tests fail to recognize is that the extrovert-introvert measure is actually a spectrum: 50 shades of ambivert. An ambivert is someone who is socially comfortable and interactive, but also someone who enjoys his or her down time (Mountjoy). Other common misconceptions include the fact that behaviors such as shyness are not an inherent part of personality. Both extroverts and introverts can be shy, but one is eager to be around people while the other is not. These tests cannot be accurate because people's personalities don't fit into one of two boxes (Sol). New research shows that most people are actually ambiverts. Quite frankly, your location on the personality spectrum depends on how comfortable you are in a particular situation (Sol).  So whether a person leans towards being an extrovert or introvert is simply based on different cultural, religious, and developed behaviors (Mountjoy). What are you really?http://lonerwolf.com/introvert-or-extrovert-test/
      While it is interesting to see how much environments and cultural dispositions can affect our personalities, it is not surprising. Our preference for public or private spaces can be traced to our varying experiences. In his essay, Staples shows how negative experiences eventually triggered different natural responses in public spaces. Staples' level of comfort in public spaces diminished, naturally affecting both his psyche and his confidence. In response, Staples deliberately changed the way he acted in order to display a different persona. If our personality is indeed shaped by the situations we experience, then negative experiences in public may make private spaces more appealing (i.e. an introvert) At the same time positive experiences would make public spaces and strangers more inviting (i.e. an extrovert). Ultimately, we are the culmination of our experiences. This goes to show that, often times, society molds us more than we care to realize.

Works Cited
Sol, Matthew. "Ambiversion: The Lost Personality Type." LonerWolf. N.p., n.d. Web. 02 Mar. 2014
Mountjoy, Paul. "Introvert or Extrovert? Most of Us Are Ambiverts." Washington Times Communities.          Washington Times, 14 Sept. 2013. Web. 02 Mar. 2014.

Vis Mea

      My mother has this uncanny knack of being right. Unless she's wrong. See, my mother and I don't always see eye to eye on things. Sometimes I think one of her favorite pastimes is criticizing me. Whether it's my art, my grades, or the state of my room, I can always "do better." To make matters more difficult, she is also my dance teacher. How's that for a plot twist. Our dance relationship is not one that can be called productive or even remotely cohesive. In fact, most of the time it ends in a lot of tears and shouting matches. At the very least, one of us is grumbling about the innate incompetence of the other. Somehow we manage to actually pull off performances and recitals; trust me, that's the real miracle. But other than the occasional, rare compliment, I spend most of the time being lectured on how I have "talent" and I'm "wasting" it. In her defense, I'm not the best student around. I tend to be the most serious one in most situations, but in dance, I find freedom: it is my relief. But for her, dance is serious: it is her entire world. Like I said, we don't see eye to eye. I guess being the dance teacher's daughter isn't the easiest title to live up to; it may have its perks, but that benefit is canceled out by the weight of the expectations everyone holds. And if any of you have had a parent as a teacher, then you feel my pain. My mom used to say to me, "In dance class, I'm not your mom, I'm your teacher." But the truth is its hard to see your parent as anything other than exactly that, a parent. It's even harder to believe that they can be competent at anything other than parenting. If mom is so good at being mom, how could she possibly be sufficient at anything else? Technically you know that your parents have real jobs and lives, but actually witnessing them doing those jobs is a bit shocking and a little hard to swallow. It's easy to forget that my mom still has her own dreams, and that her sole purpose in life is not to help me through my (petty) teenage problems. For what it's worth, she's not that bad. (She's yelling at me right now.) She let's me go out to parties (what parties?) she lets me hang out with my friends (we don't get out much), and she lets me take the car (within the allotted five mile radius). But all in all she stands by me. She may be my harshest critic, but she is also my most devoted supporter. Myself excluded, no one else has ever fought that hard for my dreams, and I don't think anyone else ever will. Now that I'm older, I feel like I have to take care of her, but I forget how strong she really is. She may need me to life a heavy box, but she is no means frail or fragile. In fact, she is incredibly strong willed and brutally honest. She says that she criticizes me because if she doesn't, who will. I think she does it because, when it comes down to it, I am exactly like her (give or take a little work ethic). She sees her own mistakes and tries to make sure that I don't repeat them. But she is passionate, smart, quick-tempered, and talented. Flaws and strengths, there's honestly no one I'd rather be like. We don't see eye to eye, but I think it's the universe keeping everything in balance. Because if my mom and I were on the same side, watch out, we might just take over the world.

Yin and Yang

anonymous



Everything was still but the dust particles drifting lazily through the air, tangled in the last golden rays of light. All was silent, and the silence was extremely loud. They would not speak. They would not break the sacred temple of pure, unabashed nothingness. They would not disturb the air which grew heavy with sweet expectations and anticipation. Only their breath stirred the dense, chalky air. Even now, before the performance, every move was carefully calculated, with a precision that wouldn't interrupt the syrupy-sweet atmosphere.

And as she stretched her foot up into the air, she focused on the wooden floor, eyes intent on the floor's fine grain. It was well-worn, but its wear only made it more resilient. Like a fine wine, the floor had only gotten better with age and use. Like the floor, she was matured. Over a decade of training and practice had brought her to this moment, this culmination of effort and success. She would waltz onto that stage and execute every move perfectly. She tried to convince herself of what everyone knew was true, her technique was the best. She tried harder than everybody else. Like her practice tape at home she chanted to herself: hard work will get you where you want to go. Hard work is enough. It is enough to mend the slumped posture and two left feet. But it did not make up for her shattered confidence. She stretched the foot higher, pushing it past the realm of possibility. The muscles at the nape of her neck grew taut as her ears caught the withering applause that wound its way past the thin walls of the warm up room. It was almost time.

She sat on the ground amid a cloud of tulle. The fine, delicate fabric splayed across her thighs and knees was a true testament to beauty and form and function. The dress was not made for comfort, it was made for beauty. And like the dress, she was born to perform. She could dance before she could crawl, and when she finally learned to walk, her first steps held the promised grace of a child bred from a line of dancers. It was not the skill, mastered from years of training, that made her the best dancer. It was the ease, the air of confidence that permeated the air and drew all wandering eyes to her perfect form. It was the challenge in her eyes and the playful arrogance in her smile that seemed pull the audience towards the edge of their plush red-velvet seats. It was pure, raw talent that helped her give a performance that would leave the audience breathless in wonder. They wouldn't notice that she had missed the first beat; it wouldn't matter. As long as it looked good, nothing mattered. And she always looked good. All at once, it was time. She pushed down the sudden quell of butterflies that erupted at the base of her stomach. Talent was enough.