i'm so in love with this video... her raw expression juxtaposes lady gaga's artifice so beautifully.[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWe07krS8_E[/youtube]
i miss-issippi
As I walked out of my apartment, suitcase in tow, purse fit for Mary Poppins, I realized I hadn’t yet packed a book for the plane. Since I wasn’t engaged in any particular story, I hastily grabbed a trusty travel companion: “Thunder and Lightning: Cracking Open the Writer’s Craft” by Natalie Goldberg. The short, concise, and heartfelt chapters in her meditation on the writing process are perfect for inspiration on the go. I can stop and start without having to reread and it’s a great catalyst for my own creative endeavors. On this day, I was on my way to Biloxi, Mississippi. I’d never been to the South before so my canvas of pre-conceived notions was completely blank. I was excited. As I settled into the seat of my first flight, I weighed sleep against study and, sleepily, opened my book. It was marked with notepaper from the Buckminster Hotel in Boston - my mom had bought me the book on our visit there. Since then I had read only a few chapters here and there, but hadn’t nearly digested the depth of her words. To my surprise, I opened to a chapter entitled, “Didn’t Elvis and Oprah Also Come From Mississippi?” I couldn’t believe it! How did she know I was going to Mississippi? How cool. Delighted by the uncanny coincidence, I smiled and read on. I ended up being incredibly moved by what I read; the chapter recounted the author’s search for that secret ingredient of the South, that intangible quality captured only by its inhabitants in their literature, poetry, art and country songs. I wanted to share one passage in particular:“If people are sensitive they recognize a great split between what they were taught in school about the grand South and how the place was actually built. They can feel great human suffering in the fields and in the earth. This urges a person to speak, to utter the raw reality of a place. It’s almost as if by being from the South, if a writer is willing to contact its pain, the land gives the writer a voice, hands it to her. ”Speak,“ it says, ”uncover what’s real, reclaim the real story.“ Even if a southern writer never writes about slavery, it is a backdrop of knowledge, of injustice, a wound one carries. And the South, unlike the rest of the country, knows defeat. It makes people vulnerable, fearful underneath, as though the foundation of what they’ve built rests on moving sand. All this is fertile territory for a writer.” Despite the mystery still contained in my idea of Mississippi, I started to feel connected in a small way, and I was ready for that “raw reality” to take hold of me. I can’t say whether it was an effect of my exhaustion (after missing two flights and having to rebook and reschedule, I was feeling a little frazzled) or simply the gentle hospitality people in the South are known for, but I felt right at home as soon as I arrived. I felt a familiar and sincere quality from the people I met; not just friendliness, it was more than mere manners. I felt a genuine care and acceptance expressed in the gestures I received; from the vegan baked goods made especially for my dietary needs to the overly warm welcome I received from the manager of the Super 8. My Q & A sessions were small and intimate, creating more of a casual dinner party vibe than the typical formal separation between audience and speaker. It was one of those things I think I could have easily missed. If I wasn’t open and curious, I could have missed the barren beaches and their haunting whispers of what once was. I could have not heard the humble and hopeful words of the residents who lived through a horrible disaster and stuck around to rebuild and remember. It was a beautiful and unexpectedly impressive experience and I’m grateful to everyone who was a part of it. I hope to visit that part of the country again, this time perhaps even venturing past the perimeter of a convention center and a motel - though i find the vastness of an experience comes from the internal more than the external anyway.
autographed photos!
howdy folks! so since I receive numerous emails weekly requesting autographed photos, i decided to set up a little shop on my site where people can purchase them. you'll have the option of getting it personalized or just a signature, and i'm hoping it'll be pretty easy to pay for it through paypal. the cart should show up in the sidebar with whatever photos you add, and there's a spot to write your name if you'd like it personalized. the price includes shipping, so you won't be penalized for living in some far away land. i'm basically trying to bridge the gap for people who can't make it out to conventions, but who want to make sure they're getting the real deal. besides, i kind of like the idea of being a shopkeeper, so depending on how it goes, i may be swayed to sell other things in the future. can you say cally swag? haha. please let me know if you notices any bugs or have any suggestions on how to make it as smooth as possible.
petty in pink
When I was six years old, my mom signed me up for a ballet class. I don’t think it was my first foray into ballet. I think another girl I knew had joined so I decided I wanted to go too. I remember being filled with trepidation and excitement. I had donned my pink leotard and placed each bobby pin just so. I was a very meticulous child. I learned to dress myself before I could walk and I French braided my own hair in primary school. I think I learned things quickly so I felt like I could control them; as long as I knew the rules, life was safe and predictable. Or so I thought. The first day of dance class brought with it one of life’s hard lessons, one I’ll never forget. Apparently my attention to detail was nothing more than a misguided attempt at fitting in, so you can imagine my dismay when I showed up to a class full of Chinese girls in blue leotards. They were tall, lean and graceful; I was short, pink and far too focused on what I looked like to pay any attention to what I was supposed to be doing. You see, the lesson I learned was not that one must phone ahead to get the dress code (though it might be recommended), it’s that fitting in is an effect of showing up, not the other way around. Often we’re so scared of not fitting in, that we avoid or even stay away from situations we’d really like to be. Unfortunately, had I known ahead of time that I was going to be the pink flamingo flailing around in a sea of swans, I probably wouldn’t have shown up at all. Sometimes it’s better not to do too much research. You run the risk of scaring yourself out of doing it altogether or building enough intellectual knowledge that you tell yourself you don’t need the actual experience because you already know it.
Despite how traumatized I was showing up to a ballet class in pink, and despite developing an oversensitivity to wearing the right outfit, I’m happy I can look back on those experiences and see how much I’ve grown. How could I have known better? How can we ever truly know? It’s what makes life interesting and exciting; it’s what allows us to see ourselves – who we are and who we are not. When I was little, I didn’t know I was separate from my pink tutu, that I wasn’t defined by my pink tutu, that it wasn’t my identity. Now I can see very clearly, it was just a pink tutu, and I feel compassion for those moments of distress. It’s funny actually, I also remember making paper mache pigs in first grade. We covered balloons in newspaper and glue, used egg cartons for ears and pipe cleaner for a tail. I remember taking great pains to evenly paint a thick pink coat, to get the ears perfectly glued, and his eyes looking in the right direction. At one point during this process, I looked over, probably remembering I hadn’t recently absorbed oxygen, and saw that one of my classmates had painted her pig blue. BLUE! I experienced the same shock and horror as I did that first day of ballet, only this day it was projectively through my friend. Didn’t she know pigs were supposed to be pink? I hadn’t even considered venturing beyond my experience of what I knew to be true. I had been afraid of what might happen if I didn’t color inside the lines, it was unknown territory, but after looking at her bright blue creation, I was envious. I, too, would like to have painted a pig blue. Probably that particular friend would have shown up to ballet in her underwear and been fine with it, that was just how she was. Being older now, I have different rules and hopefully have grown out of the most limiting of perceptual boundaries. But the reality is, I wouldn’t know. I still color in the lines as I perceive them and anything outside is slightly dim in comparison, yet to be illuminated. In many ways, that’s how I see the world. Like a coloring book where I create the lines and I fill in the colors – using as many or as few as I want, as vibrant or as dull. I can either remain inside, or I can step over the line to see what’s on the other side. Perhaps in doing so, I will see there is a bigger picture to be filled.
Fly Like An Eagle
Growing up, my mom, my brother and I took many a road trip to visit family in the mystical mountains of British Columbia. My mom was raised in a tiny, Bavarian-themed ski town about ten or eleven hours east of Vancouver, and it served as our holiday destination during nearly every school break. It’s where I first learned to snowboard, first learned how to play drinking games at the local pub, and where I watched my cousins be born, become kids, and grow into little adults. It’s a special place for me, with special people, but just as the destination holds a treasured place in my heart, so does the journey. I still relish in the memories I created on those drives, stopping at fresh fruit stands, playing word games, trying to memorize the towns along the way, and even sometimes stopping half way to stay in a humid hotel room with a rattling air conditioner. There was rarely a trip when we didn’t spot a soaring bald eagle overheard, or a regal hawk watching over us. We saw deer and other wildlife as well, but the birds were especially precious to me. Somewhere in her life, my mom developed a special appreciation and affection for Native American culture; in Canada, the First Nations. I’m not sure exactly why, perhaps it was the time she spent teaching school children on a Native Reserve, maybe some past life connection, or simply her love of humanity and nature that brought her close to their ancient spiritual beliefs. Regardless, it was a reverence she instilled in us, and an experience of awe we share. By the time I was born, my mother’s brother and father had both passed away, my only relationship with them consisting of familiar stories and photographs. But whenever we saw an eagle soaring proudly over our puttering sedan, my mom would sigh, teary eyed. She would share her thoughts through an emotional smile, “There’s my dad, looking after us.” I believed her every time. To this day, I think of her every time I see an eagle, and I feel safe, connected. I think of her long lost relatives watching over me, protecting me. When I was seven, my grandmother passed away. Since then, every hawk I see evokes the same feeling of interconnectedness. I don’t know why my mom shared this with us; if she hoped to inspire awe or simply share her own experience. I don’t even know if it comes from any Native tradition. But after all these years, it is a gift for which I am eternally grateful. It’s a reminder that we’re connected to everything, that freedom lives within us, as does the history of every being that came before. Life is full of these experiences, if we choose to see them. Sometimes it just helps to have a little reminder. Thanks mom.
To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn
there is a time, and the time is now. i'm back on track and excited to share my thoughts. a few months ago, i set a plan for myself to write for at least 20 minutes every day. the hope was that i'd be posting consistently, only i failed at the posting part. luckily, i have a library of writings and explorations that i'm going to sort through and share with you lovely peeps. my hope is to inspire thoughts, stories, feelings, and more sharings... love nicki
Happiness in the New Year
"Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
On some level, I find New Year's resolutions, and even some celebrations, to be somewhat irrelevant. I think introspection, reflection and evaluation are practices that ought to be part of daily living. However, there is symbolic value to starting the year anew, with a renewed vitality and outlook. The trick is to not give up when you hit bumps in the road. Don't wait until next year to get back on your workout program, to reconnect with old friends, to eat less, love more, whatever it may be. I think being realistic is the best thing you can do for yourself when looking to "resolve" old habits that no longer serve you. I mean, we created them for a reason, as illogical as they may seem. In keeping with that gesture, my one New Year's resolution is to be kinder - to myself and to others; to allow myself to fail, to make mistakes, to not know the answer, to forget things, to be human, but most importantly, a joyful human.
I don't know what you're looking for in your life, but I hope you find joy and happiness as much in the search as the destination.
Okay that's enough pontificating. I had an awesome holiday and here are some of the highlights:
- surprising my mom on Christmas eve - she had no idea i was coming home. in fact, she was probably in the middle of telling the neighbors how "okay" she was with my not coming home for christmas, when i burst in and surprised her. she could barely speak. it was awesome.
- going boxing day shopping with my bro and him finding me a super warm winter coat sans duck feathers for half price. thanks addie!
- hot yoga every day... beautiful space, inspiring teachers, and challenging classes. i highly recommend yyoga. namaste.
- having deep, philosophical conversations with my dad and learning more and more how alike we are.
- seeing my old best friend from high school and picking up just where we left off.
- discovering Vancouver's newest raw food cafe and creation factory "Organic Lives." Keep up the awesomeness Preet!
- having a girls night with raw treats and chai, post yoga and infrared sauna. seriously, my girlfriends are intense and i love them for it. next year i'm anticipating doing yoga inside the infrared sauna while conference calling new york making business deals and changing the world.
hope you had a wonderful holiday too and c0ntinue to celebrate life in the new year!!!
Wtf Santa?!?
poster / art
i tried to pick only a few of my favorites, but there are so many good ones... austrian designer Albert Exergian presents his humorous view on television culture with the minimalist sensibility of someone who doesn't own a television. very well done in my opinion. to see all forty posters, go here. you can also purchase them here.
no words
for how cute this is... thanks olivia! [youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErMWX--UJZ4&feature=player_embedded[/youtube]
happy thanksgiving!!!
just wanting to wish you all a wonderful holiday. in answer to the question i get asked the most: yes, Canadians celebrate thanksgiving, but it happens on the second monday in october and it's to give thanks at the close of the harvest season. everything else is pretty similar to american thanksgiving, except that it's not really such a big deal. it typically involves a nice dinner with the family and getting a day off work or school. none of this black friday business... but boxing day, don't get me started!
eating animals
The subject of eating animals has often been a topic of heavy debate in this little mind of mine. Not so much whether to eat them or not – I’ve been a vegetarian since I was twelve – but what it means to treat a living thing as an object or a vehicle for satiation; also, how to be ethical in a system that uses animal products for so many things. I thought it would be pertinent to write about this since I just read an article in the New Yorker about Jonathan Safran Foer’s new book (non-fiction this time) named, aptly, “Eating Animals.” Well, and with it being Thanksgiving and all, I suppose it's somewhat relevant. I have yet to finish the 352 page foray into the well-traveled world of omnivorous ethical dilemmas, but I already have the sense he takes a slightly different approach than most. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed his previous novels, “Everything is Illuminated” and “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” The latter of which I devoured audiobook-style during my first drive/move to LA from Vancouver; I made it all the way to Sacramento, compelled by the humble and engaging characters, unable to put them to rest. This time, his characters are living, both internally and externally, sharing both insightful investigations and factual fodder. Inspired by the birth of his son, and the desire for a consistent and informed moral foundation, his journey takes him far beyond the reaches of a writer’s study, into factory farms, slaughter houses, and even the sensual smells of his Grandmother’s kitchen. Despite the obvious soapbox trap, his voice remains, like his fiction, compelling, humble, insightful and humorous. Since I was 9 years old, when I realized the stuff inside my McDonald’s hamburger was the same stuff that amounted to my hamster, guinea pig, and rabbit, I felt conflicted about ingesting this mysterious, yet delicious, substance. For a few years, I went back and forth, often swayed by my school's “hamburger day” or an exciting Thanksgiving feast; following the norm was also just easier. Eating the lasagna my friend’s mom made for dinner, shoving the pangs of guilt into the pocket of my Guess jeans, was much easier to swallow than thought of causing trouble with my pickiness. But after a particular, some might say spiritual, experience when I was twelve, I never (knowingly) ate another animal. One misty autumn afternoon I was running along the dyke near my house and stopped at the one farm left in our newly developed neighborhood. By the fence, solemnly, stood a lone cow - not eating, not mooing not even walking, just staring... at me. I stared back, and with the earnestness and intensity only a twelve year old can come by honestly, said simply, “I can’t eat you.” As sentimental as it may seem, my decision grew more from the discomfort with my logical inconsistency than a heartfelt emotional reaction, however that was probably what pushed me over the edge. For as long as I can remember I’ve loved animals, even my stuffed ones were deserving of my affection at one time. Growing up, our house was rarely rendered petless. So I asked myself, how could I love and nurture animals of all shapes and sizes, and yet support their slaughter and consumption for nothing more than human enjoyment. (I say enjoyment because I don’t believe humans need to eat meat to survive, at least not in our technologically advanced society.) I could possibly produce a similarly sized publication as Foer’s if I were to knead out the complexities of my ongoing internal struggle, the issue is far from black or white, but overall I’ve come to terms with the fact that it involves a constant evaluation and re-evaluation of my values. I’ve never been one to preach about my choices and for some reason this particular one is something I've felt solid about ever since I made the decision to stop eating meat, but I do think it’s important for people to at least ask themselves how they feel about it and why. Aside from the effects on the earth and the animals themselves, I think by the worst effect is the destruction of our own humanity that results from objectifying living beings. The disconnect between our actions and our values, when left unexplored, leaves an ever-widening gap in our experience of ourselves.
I encourage you to explore your own feelings on the subject, or even check out Foer’s if it interests you. Here are what some other reviewers and essayists have to say...
‘You Know That Chicken Is Chicken, Right?’ by Michiko Kakutani
'Mau-Mauing the Flesh Eaters' By Jennifer Schuessler