Hello friends.
I just wanted to give you a heads up about a new blog that I have started for a class assignment in my Methods in Interactivity Class. In response to the limited spaces where artists at Elon can share their work, I have created a community arts blog dedicated to "short stories" that can be told through poems, narrative, photos, films, etc.
Please take some time and explore Salute These Shorts.
Many thanks.
27 February 2009
25 February 2009
sitting out.
I sat in the crowd of 20-somethings, who only a few years ago were teenagers with me, and watched Ben Folds hammer his piano with intensity. The seated concert was awkward and uncomfortable. My legs ached to stand, rush the stage and cheer, but the 20-somethings around me sat with their beers in their hands and their blackberry’s buzzing, craving attention, in their pockets. The music was amazing, as I have come to expect. But while sitting I wondered if my music taste has become antiquated enough that all my concerts will now be seated.
I remember back to my days at the Warped Tour, when I would dye my hair pink and wear my coolest ringer tee. Standing out in the sun for hours, my friends and I would watch bands play their 20 minute sets. We’d rush from stage to stage, jockeying for a position toward the front. As the hot North Carolina sun beat down on our golden skin, the dehydration sank deeper, touching our bones, until we conceded to pool our funds and spend $6 on a bottle of water.
Is it weird to rue the day that a painful, blistering, musical experience is permanently traded in for the luxuries and comforts of plush red velvet seating, $500,000 audio systems and expensive lighting?
I remember back to my days at the Warped Tour, when I would dye my hair pink and wear my coolest ringer tee. Standing out in the sun for hours, my friends and I would watch bands play their 20 minute sets. We’d rush from stage to stage, jockeying for a position toward the front. As the hot North Carolina sun beat down on our golden skin, the dehydration sank deeper, touching our bones, until we conceded to pool our funds and spend $6 on a bottle of water.
Is it weird to rue the day that a painful, blistering, musical experience is permanently traded in for the luxuries and comforts of plush red velvet seating, $500,000 audio systems and expensive lighting?
12 February 2009
curl genocide.
A dabble of serum (clear goo).
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.
It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.
For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.
Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.
Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.
All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.
A golf ball size squeeze of moose (fluffy goo).
A upside down fluff.
And off we go.
It seems simple enough, but my quick hair regimen took nearly 19 years to perfect. Nineteen years of combing (read: screaming in pain), no-more tangles spray, pony-tails and monster banana clips. For a girl raised by straight-haired parents, sometimes I think it’s a miracle I figured it out at all. I’ve had every haircut known to man in search of the perfect shape (yes, there was a mullet-like frock in the early 90s.) And still to this day I’m learning new things about my ever-evolving mane.
For years I tortured myself with flat irons and straightening goo, trying to get my hair to look like my parents – like everybody else’s. I hated my frizz and my dirty blonde color. I hated how any bit of rain or humidity would squelch any chance at a good hair day. I hated how my hair had to be difficult. I just wanted normal straight hair that I could comb, blow dry and style without an hour of effort and a clenched jaw in frustration.
Eventually I came to terms with my hair. I found the right products and techniques at the bible of curly hair’s Web site: www.naturallycurly.com. I stopped trying to control my hair and just let it go. The less I touched it or thought about it, the better it looked. Now, every day my hair is a surprise. Sometimes it’s more curly, sometimes it’s more wavy. Sometimes it’s got a round shape, sometimes more square. I’ve given up on dissecting the science behind it altogether, and couldn’t be more happy for it.
Perhaps it is my sense of personal triumph and acceptance with my hair that makes me overly sensitive to any twinge of anti-curl undertones in American culture. I frowned when the Anne Hathaway got made over in “The Princess Diaries.” Her wild, wavy hair was tamed to a pin-straight look instead of developed into something rich and beautiful. Just the other day on Bravo!’s show, “The Millionaire Matchmaker,” a woman was told that she needed to permanently straighten her hair because, “men don’t like straight hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through.”
Ugh.
All I can think of is the poor teenage girls, sitting at home with their straightener’s and chemical goo, planning a method of attack on their beautiful, but undeveloped, curls and waves. Please, America. Be accepting of us all. Stop the curl genocide.
06 February 2009
pleasing people.
What is the difference between a muffin and a cupcake?
Nothing, really.
A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.
There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.
Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.
No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.
My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.
I am addicted to pleasing people.
Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.
I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.
So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”
“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”
Nothing, really.
A muffin is a cupcake that we eat for breakfast. Sure, we may skip the icing so that we can feel like we are, in fact, doing something good for ourselves. We might also fool ourselves by thinking that replacing oil with milk in the ingredients makes much difference. But the cold hard truth of the matter is – muffins are just cupcakes that make you feel less guilty after you eat one.
There are a lot of things that we do so that we can feel better about ourselves. I was thinking earlier about the purpose behind actions we take – like buying new clothes even though our closets can suffice or adding a new gadget to our repertoire of techy-goods (yes, new iPod shuffle, I’m talking about you). But really, at the end of the day what really makes us feel good are things that are often beyond our control – the love from another or acknowledgement at work.
Lately, I’ve been trying to kick an addiction.
No, I’m not hooked on meth or throwing away thousands on a poker game. Fear not wary parents.
My addiction is much simpler, a little less devastating, but still quite destructive. It was born out of too many years in academia. Too many ups, and too few downs. The coddling of teachers, parents and peers. The unparalleled satisfaction.
I am addicted to pleasing people.
Lately it seems as if everything I do is not for myself. I’m so eager for the enthusiasm and appreciation of others, that my own interests get put on the back burner. Whether it’s spending a bit too much time on a class project, or doing favors that I really shouldn’t take on. Sometimes I look up and realize how cute and juvenile my desire for seeing happiness in others is. I know that wanting to please others isn’t a bad thing, but when their happiness trumps my own there is certainly an issue. Or even worse, on the occasion when my happiness depends on theirs. It’s just bad news bears.
I’ve kicked this addiction before, during my semester abroad in London where the only person I was able to please was myself. I came back to the states like I had just come out of rehab, all refreshed with my new healthy habits. But slowly, I have fallen back into the cadence that is so much a part of me I know it must originate in my heart and pump effortlessly through my veins.
So here I am again. Waking up in the mornings thinking, “Olivia, what do YOU want to do today?”
“Hmmm... eat a muffin.”
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