The Story of Souvenir Shopping

You see this? This is the entrance to Izmaylovo Market, possibly the best souvenir market in Moscow.

Or at least, my favorite.

Souvenir shopping has been an interesting experience. Initially, I was actually dreading shopping in Russia. The reason? Before I went to Russia, I went to China. And in China, shopping is a battle. You avoid eye contact at all costs - unless you're really, really sure you want something, you don't say anything - and you keep about five feet away from any stalls. Because the salesmen will mob you. And then you're trapped.

Not being much of a 'people person', this was a very uncomfortable and overall really annoying experience for me. I hate being mobbed. I hate having people shadow me while I shop. I like to be left alone, so I can go in quietly, make my purchase, and then leave. That's how it's done in the U.S, and that's how I like it. Some people enjoy meeting new people and getting into the culture of bargaining and whatnot, but for me, I just want to buy something and go. That's it. I'll pay the ridiculous price, even, if it means I'll get out of there faster. Which, of course, has proven to be very unkind to my wallet. Not to mention my pride, when my roommates and I regroup and they talk excitedly about how they five matryushka dolls for only 300 rubles, and I avoid looking at the poster that cost me 400 rubles.

Fortunately, for me and for my wallet, Russia is much more low-key. The salesmen will shadow you, yes, but they don't say anything. Not for at least 3 minutes. It's during this short period of time that they're examining you, making sure that you're actually looking to buy, and not just to browse. Then they step forward, and ask, either in Russian or English, what you're looking at. If you tell/show them, they'll take it out and demonstrate its uses, or show off its pattern, and then they'll show different versions or patterns they have of it. If you're still interested, but still hesitating, they'll either take something out that's similar/cheaper, or they'll ask what it is that you're looking for. And they take it gracefully when you politely decline and go your merry way. No chasing or shouting after you, offering a better deal. Well, most of the time, anyway.

The Story of Kindergarten

This is a short one.

But it involves talking about the kindergarteners that I teach, so that instantly makes it feel a lot longer than it should be.

I remember one of the things I was most afraid of when I came to Russia was that the kids wouldn't like me. This haunted both my nightmares and my day-to-day routine, following me everywhere. I was going to be the worst, most hated, most awful teacher EVER. I just knew it.

So, thinking thus, it would only make sense that my fears would turn out to be unfounded, and I would be the best teacher EVER, and everything would be perfect.

Sadly, real life isn't like that, and my first day of teaching, I found myself facing a classroom of 20 kids (our teaching limit is 8, by the way) who had never had ILP before and didn't speak a lick of English, with no teachers (American or Russian) to help me.

Suffice it to say....not such a warm welcome to teaching.

I was just thinking about this today, setting up chairs for opening for my kindergarten class. The kids we teach in our class are pretty young - no older than 5. And oh boy, do they show it.

At first, I wondered if there was something wrong with the way I was teaching. Was I doing something wrong? Was I not interesting enough? Maybe I should use more objects...make bigger, more exciting lessons.....make them WANT to sit down and listen to the lesson.

Now, I know it isn't that simple. I realized, partway through, that I wasn't doing anything wrong - I was doing the best I could. And that's all I could keep doing. As long as I did that - wasn't lazy, planned my lessons, and did my best at teaching, no matter how bad the kids were being - then I would have no reason to beat myself up about it.

And honestly, taking that approach has made me a better teacher. Sure, I won't be winning any awards anytime soon, but I know how to deal with my kids.

More importantly, I know my kids. As bad as they are, I know how special each and every one is - their personalities, behaviors, likes and dislikes. As incredibly frustrating as it can be to teach these kids, I still love them.

And then there are little, rare moments that I just cherish.

Like that day, only last week, where Mischa, one of our most badly behaved kids, was the only kid left at the end of the day, as everyone else had been picked up early. We wound up pretending to be airplanes, flying around the room, arms outstretched, making wooshing noises. He has the most adorable crinkly-eyed smile, and the tiniest, highest-pitched little boy's voice. He rolls his r's all over the place when he talks - listening to him is sort of mesmerizing.

A few days ago, I brought a plastic yellow barrel for a class. I had put a pom-pom inside it, primarily for transportation purposes. When I took it out, I handed it around for the kids to look at. When Mischa got it, he immediately noticed the pom-pom. He showed me the pom-pom inside the barrel, closed it, and then hid it under the table. At first, I was the verge of stopping him - he has a habit of taking things or knocking things over just to be annoying - when he whipped it out again, dramatically displayed the now-empty barrel, and loudly proclaimed, "ABERRRRA-CADABERRRRRAH!"

I nearly lost it. It was a good thing that we rotated right after that, because I don't think I could have kept the laughter in for much longer.

As bad as Mischa is, I am going to miss that kid.

I'm going to miss Kirill, who can't ever stop talking, and always wants to tell me everything (even though I have no idea what he's saying), and has that huge, bright, ear-to-ear smile. He always speaks so earnestly, and always waves to us when we leave, or shouts "HELLO! HELLO!" when he sees us coming. I'm even going to miss how he always tries to explain his way out of trouble, when it's obvious that he's the one that hit that kid or stole that marker. It's also made me glad that I don't speak Russian.

I'm going to miss Sonya, who always comes to class with a new stuffed animal (which she proudly shows off to us at opening) and is the most princess-like little girl I have ever met. And she knows it. Long, gorgeous hair, bright green eyes, and that exasperating penchant for refusing to do something while giving me that sweet, oh-so-pretty smile.

I'm going to miss Vova, and the strange little world he always seems to be living in. Sometimes paying attention, but mostly staring off into space, making loud explosion noises, or wandering around the room, off in his own amazing, explosion-filled story. When he speaks in Russian, he puts such quirky expression into his speech that I genuinely wonder what on earth he's saying - mostly because I have a feeling that it's something incredibly interesting....or hilarious.

I'm also going to miss Dasha, for being the sweet little angel that she is. She always speaks in class, always tries to help keep the other kids in line, always does the right thing. Her large brown eyes shine and sparkle all the time, and she is one of the most kind-hearted little girls I've ever met.

I'm going to miss Velizar, for his garbled way of speaking, and his cute little boy mullet, and his absolute OBSESSION with dinosaurs. Seriously, other little boys only wish they could be this devoted. He always brings a new dinosaur toy to class, always wears dinosaur clothes, and always notices whenever we have dinosaurs in our lesson - even when it's just a tiny little picture in a newspaper someone is reading in a scene in a picture book.

I'm going to miss Polina, for her bright, chubby little face, and the way she sulks so melodramatically. I love making her laugh, and seeing her bright smile.

I'm going to miss Gardei, and his fast-paced way of talking (both in Russian and in English), and the way he says, "Please sit down!" and "Fold your arms!" whenever he wants me to calm down or leave him alone. I'm even going to miss the way he just randomly tries to grab things from my lesson - no matter how many times we explain the rules to him, both in English and in Russian (with help from the teachers), he just keeps doing it. It's like it's an impulse - he just can't help it. The little kleptomaniac.

Heck, I'm even going to miss Nikita - big, burly, blonde-haired, brown-eyed little boy with the need to hit and kick just about everything, and make mocking garble-garble noises when we're trying to get him to repeat. Yes, even you. Because you know what? I know you're a fun kid. I've played ball with you - you like copying me when I make fancy tosses. I remember our first day, how Nikita was the last kid to be picked up, and he was so shy and quiet, and I had no idea what to do with him. So I just took out a ball and tossed it. A few minutes later, he was happy and smiling, having so much fun just throwing a ball back and forth. I had a ton of fun myself.

So, I'll remember the bad stuff, certainly - but at least by the time I get back home, it will be funny, and I'll have all sorts of stories to tell my family. But I'll also have good things to remember, and talk about.

I'm glad I didn't flake out and go home early. Because this, as frustrating as it has been, was worth it.

The Story of 2 Thanksgivings

Russians do not know how to stand in line.

This fact came to my attention when we were on vacation, waiting for our turn to have our passports stamped at the port in Helsinki, Finland. Now, I'm not saying that Americans are experts in organization - but one thing we do know is that lines make things quicker. Or if not quicker, at least more bearable. You can estimate how long it'll take by how many people are ahead of you; no one's crowding; no one cuts ahead; things progress in a decent, orderly fashion.

Not so in this situation.

We were standing in a large, packed room, hot and stuffy (despite the icy temperature outside), with people going shoulder-to-shoulder, shuffling forward a few inches every now and again. There was seriously no way of knowing just when your turn would be - it was pretty much every man/woman for him/herself. Either you shoved your way forward, or waited in vain at the back of room with the rest of the spineless weaklings with un-sharp elbows.

Now, you might be thinking, 'What on earth do Russian lines and sharp elbows have to do with Thanksgiving?'. The answer to that is: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to talk about Russian lines. Fun, isn't it? I thought so. Now I bet you're all a little more thankful for those oh-so-dreadful holiday lines at all those ritzy American grocery stores and supermarkets. Because, trust me, you have nothing to whine about.

Speaking of thanks, I had the privilege of celebrating Thanksgiving twice this year. There's irony for you - I celebrated Thanksgiving way more here, in Russia, where they don't celebrate it, than back home in the good ol' U.S of A. I find it funny mostly because all I was expecting was one small, personal little celebration with my roommates. Which I did have, mind you. But that comes later.

So, we were making plans for Thanksgiving. We knew that we would have to teach that day and so couldn't do anything too elaborate. This was a somewhat sobering thought to me, if only because I was starting to feel the painful little nigglings of homesickness creep up at the memory of the veritable feast we had back home in California every year, with all the delicious food and all my family there, talking and watching movies and just enjoying each other's company. That was my favorite part of Thanksgiving - and while we were still getting some good food, I knew that my favorite part wouldn't be there this year. So, my enthusiasm for the holiday was just a bit diminished when we went to the grocery store by the metro station to get our pie and ice cream.

In the end, we bought a pie-like blueberry pastry that I was a little apprehensive about trying (it was in a box. On a shelf. And the picture on the front looked waaaay too pristine. I just knew it was going to taste like sugar with a bit of artificial fruit flavoring mixed in.)

On Thanksgiving day, we gathered in one of the dorm rooms, with the heated up blueberry cookie-pie thing on the table and the ice cream in the freezer. We had a paper bag on the table as well - it was full of little bits of paper, onto which everyone had written one thing they were thankful for. I suddenly realized that I hadn't put any in myself. So, I borrowed a pen and quickly scribbled down the one thing that stuck in my head when I thought of what I was thankful for, and threw it into the bag.

We started eating, and the pie- thing actually turned out to be pretty decent. As one of my roommates observed, it tasted like a blueberry Pop Tart. Which was only a few steps above my sugar-and-flavoring analysis, but hey, it was still good.

While we ate, each of us took a turn reading one of the slips of paper from the bag. There were normal like shower curtains, clean laundry, and not having to cook. There were funny things, most of them in-jokes, such as BRAINS!, farting, and other various things that I will not mention to save breaking the Code of Girls Everywhere. And then there were the more personal ones - saying what we were thankful for in each other, in Russia, in our classes, and back home.

This one was mine:

I am thankful for mischievous little blonde boys with big smiles and way too much charm.

Just for you, Kirill. Just for you.

It was a good night.

The Saturday afterward, we were invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with a family in our ward. I wasn't quite sure what to expect, as I didn't know this family very well. Well, actually, I didn't know anyone in my ward very well. But that was beside the point.

We waited for someone to come pick us up and lead us to their apartment. While we were waiting, the snowglobe I had bought earlier at the souvenir market somehow broke inside my bag. The fluid got all over my winter hat (stowed inside the bag in order to cushion the snowglobe, mind you), and nearly ruined the rest of what I had bought in the bag.

Suffice it to say, I was not very happy.

So when a Russian guy walked up to us and said, "Excuse me, ladies, you look a little lost," I was ready to kick some butt. No guy was going to get away with trying to flirt me, man. No way. I was done. Bring on the butt-kicking.

Then we noticed that he was wearing a BYU jacket, and my butt-kicking urges went out the window. Maybe it was for the best - kicking anyones' butt for any reason is a bad idea. I should learn to be more civil.

Anyways, it turned out that he was Brother...um.....well, his last name is Russian, and Russian surnames are really hard to remember. Keep that in mind. He was the man of the family we were going to be visiting. Let's just leave it at that. His wife was American, and they had moved to Moscow not long ago from Las Vegas. They had three kids, who some of my roommates knew because they help in Primary.

So, we were led from the mall down a few streets to their apartment. Walking inside was like walking into a dream. Yes, that is a cliche. But whatever. Every time we have visited someone's house, I've found myself unable to get over the homey-ness of it. Our dorms are okay, but they certainly aren't a home. They're a place to sleep, and to talk, and use the computer. The school as a whole, I guess, is our home - the place we eat, sleep, work, etc. But it doesn't have the feeling of home.

We all sat down in the kitchen, smelling the familiar smells of mashed potatoes and turkey. Eating the food was amazing. It was just like it was back home.....well, almost. The olives still had pits. But oh well. It was all still delicious.

But the best part was talking. There was another group of ILP teachers there, and this combined to make something almost exactly like my favorite part of Thanksgiving. I felt almost like I was in California again, talking and laughing and listening while I ate, hearing the chatter and clutter the kids made in the background......it was wonderful.

Afterward, we all sat in the living room and played games. I sat on the sofa, and had a deep discussion with the family's little toddler about a shoelace underneath the couch that looked like a bug. In the end, I still believed that it was definitely a shoelace, but she was convinced that it was a bug. Well, I tried.

In the end, overall, it was worth the globe fluid all over my hat.

Which, really, is all that matters.

Traveling

It's been an interesting few months.

For those unaware, I have been living in Moscow, Russia for the past 3 months, as a volunteer for the International Language Program.

Now, I know that I'm terrible at blogging, but even I must acknowledge that having this blog and not updating it while I was in Russia is kind of ridiculous. I can't say that I didn't have time, because I did, and I can't say that the thought never occurred to me, because it did, and I ignored it.

So now, with only one month left in Russia, I have come to a decision: twice a week, I will write a post, complete with stories, pictures, and otherwise. Most likely, this will be on Tuesday and Thursday nights - maybe Saturday if I forget one day. I am committing myself to this, because I feel that it's the best way to tell the world what I've been up to (not that the world especially wants to know....but whatever).

So here it is: my commitment. I will begin on Thursday.

So.....come again then. Hopefully, I will have remembered.

And so, with that said -

Da svedanya, and onwards.

I have metal implanted.....IN MY FACE

Not even a year ago, I had a surgery. And not just any surgery.

I had a surgery.......on my FACE.

Yep. That's right. My face was just so ugly, that in order to preserve the peace in our society, I had to have it restructured to look normal.

Or, if you prefer the REAL, BORING story, I am a descendant of a European people who considered a square jaw and pronounced underbite a mark of royalty. Let's just say that before this surgery, I would have been a queen back then. The highest, richest, most important queen ever. That was how square and underbite-ish my jaw was. I was freakin' JOAN OF ARC.

Except she was French, and I am decidedly Scandinavian. Not just Scandinavian, but British. My family tree is weighed down with the abundance of British people that adorn it. So maybe that was a terrible and politically incorrect comparison that we shall never mention again.

Anyways....what was I saying?

Oh, right. My jaw.

First, there were the braces. My orthodontist promised me that the worst pain I would feel would be on the first appointment, when they strapped on those metal rings around my molars, glued the brackets to my teeth, and set in the wires and rubber bands. I believed them, thinking that nothing could be worse than getting my wisdom teeth out (which, as I remember it, was something like the most physically painful dream I have ever had. Luckily, I was the silent drugged type, so there were no embarrassing videos of me talking about riding on the back of a unicorn to the Land of Blueberries.) At any rate, I underwent the implementation of braces, and for the next few weeks endured the experience of feeling like my teeth were being pulled out of my gums with every movement my mouth made. To top it all off, I had a Sean Connery lisp. And that was just embarrassing.

We didn't realize that something was just a little bit off about this whole situation until the next appointment. My orthodontist, wrenching away at my wires, was mildly disturbed by the fact that I was writhing in pain the whole time. "People usually feel a little better by this point - it shouldn't be hurting this much," he said, brow furrowed. Over the next few appointments, we came to the discovery that I have an abnormally low threshold for pain - and since orthodontics don't generally use painkillers or anesthetic, like dentistry, I was in for a long, painful 18 months.

I can honestly say that this was the most potent physical pain I have ever been in at any time in my life - including the time I chipped a tooth (and, incidentally, caused a mild fracture along my jawbone) when I bonked my chin on the top of my brother's head that one time on the trampoline, and both times that I sprained both ankles. No, that pain was temporary. This pain, tight and aching, was constant, and even as it started to go away, another orthodontist appointment would come up and I would be in horrible pain again. Some of you might be saying that I was being dramatic, that it can't have been that painful. To that, all I can say is that you have clearly never had braces. And if you have, then you clearly have the pain threshold of Conan the Barbarian.

What made it all worse was that I felt sorry for being such a pill to my incredibly nice and patient orthodontist (whose name shall forthwith be Mr. U, because no one uses U). I mean, he was trying so hard to help me, and there I was, lying in the chair, with thick tears streaming down my face and a constant moan escaping my crammed mouth. I was embarrassed about it, I tried not to let it show, but I couldn't help it - I was in real, serious pain.

And THEN, of course, there was the food aspect. I do not consider myself much of a sweet tooth, and candy made up about 85% of the banned foods list they handed me at the beginning. The other things they had listed were things I was not normally interested in eating, like corn on the cob or a whole apple. No, it wasn't the banned foods that troubled me - it was everything that had a consistency that was tougher than a marshmallow. I practically lived on yogurt and pudding, and I found my desire to eat slowly dwindling as time went on. My teeth were just so incredibly, pathetically wimpy. I lost almost 20 pounds while I had braces - and while it was not a serious loss, since I was slightly overweight to begin with, I don't think it would have been very healthy if I had continued with this diet for any longer than I had to.

So, as you can imagine, I was actually happy to finally get my surgery that summer. I was almost done! In a few months, my teeth would be normal! No more appointments, no more braces, and I would look less like a Neanderthal!

Thankfully, the surgery was a success, I recovered fairly quickly, and I got my braces off right before Christmas - just in time to eat all those delicious Christmas treats, without having to worry that they would be caught in my wires and having to clean them out later. All in all, it was pretty much the best Christmas present ever.

So, to all the people who have ever had braces or have braces at this time - I have been there. I feel your pain - and then some. But it isn't the end of the world! Wear your wires with PRIDE! When people call you 'Braceface', grin extra widely and say "I earned these, man." And when you get them off, you'll certainly have earned that straight, beautiful smile of yours. Now all those fashion models on those Photoshopped magazine covers look so fake and weak by comparison - because your smile really is beautiful and perfect, and you earned the right to have it.

So, give yourself a pat on the back.

You are a trooper. With a perfect smile. Be proud.

And love it.

The Thoughts of an 18-year-old on September 11, 2011

Well, today marks the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in New York.

I wasn't there, at the time of the attacks - in fact, I was all the way across the country, living in a small town in northern California. I was in 2nd grade. I was 8 years old.

Looking back on it now, it strikes me, how vividly I remember it. I remember waking up, on a Tuesday morning, hearing that the TV was on in the next room. I knew then that something was up - we only watched TV on the weekends. The only reason my mother would be watching TV in the morning on a Tuesday was if it was important - like, an election, or the Olympics, or something.

I got out of bed, and walked out to the living room. My mom was sitting on the couch, watching the news. They showed the same clip over and over again - a man was standing by a car, and the camera was looking up, with one of the towers looming overhead. Suddenly, there's screaming, and a plane rams into the tower. I don't remember what the newscasters said - all I remember is that same clip, over and over and over again.

At the time, I didn't really understand what had happened. I didn't know what it meant. All I knew was that everyone was so panicked - even people on my side of the country.

I was only 8 years old, and far far away. But the images I was given, of people jumping out of windows, walking out of the dust, coated with white and looking like ghosts, firefighters and policemen running through the street.......and a huge pile of rubble, as tall as my house, filling the street.

No, I wasn't there.....and it wouldn't be until much later that I would come to fully understand what had happened, and what it meant. When it happened, though, it didn't just affect the people of New York. It affected all of us. It made us realize that we weren't safe from war, from people who hated us so much that they were willing to give up their lives - and take the lives of the others - to make us afraid.

Now, so many years later, the man who was responsible for the attacks has met his sentence, and quite frankly, I believe that justice was done. I don't rejoice at this death, but I don't feel sad for it, either. No matter how much you justify it, murder is murder. Because of him, and because of so many others who followed him, so many lives were destroyed, in more ways than one.

What I take away from this tragedy - so many years later, at age 18 - is not a lesson of revenge or spite. It's a testament to how hate can destroy people, how it can make them less than human and view other people as obstacles rather than human beings. I think that hate is born out of disconnection - when we separate ourselves from other people. Would the terrorists have done this, if they had personally known every single one of the people in those towers, in the planes they crashed? Would they have done it if they had walked with us, talked with us? Perhaps. But I wouldn't think so.

This should teach us that we shouldn't meet hate with hate - all hate does is make things worse. It eats away at us, until there is very little of us left. We shouldn't let it take over our lives.

So today, I am making a promise: I am not going to hate. I am going to forgive. I know that's kind of strange, but I am being honest.

I will not let myself hate someone so much that I would want to hurt them. I will never hurt anyone. I will not hurt them emotionally or physically. I will not hold prejudice against someone because of their skin color, sexual orientation, religion, country of origin, or any other reason.

If someone should hurt me, or try to hurt me, I will forgive them. I will not try to get back at them, because they aren't worth acknowledging. I will pray for them - I will want them to become better people.

Most importantly, I will try to help someone who needs my help. I will try to walk in that person's shoes. I will try to empathize and have compassion for my fellow human beings. Even if they don't return the favor, I will continue to do this.

I doubt that I will fulfill this promise perfectly, as I am human, and humans aren't perfect. But I will try, to the best of my ability, to fulfill it. Every minute, of every day, I will be trying - and hopefully succeeding.

I think that this is the least I could do, in memory of the people who died that day, and for those who gave their lives trying to help those people. I am not an adult, but that doesn't mean that there is nothing I can do.

It is my hope that this is what we take away from September 11 - the promise to forgive, and love one another more than ever.

The world has enough anger and hatred in it.

We would not be helping anyone by adding to it.

So let's go against the current, and do the opposite.

Alice in Wonderlad: A Rambling Literary Retro/Introspective....actually, no, I just talk about Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

One thing I remember vividly from my childhood is a certain Disney cartoon....A whimsical, jolly, rambling little animated adventure known as Alice in Wonderland.

I did not like this movie.

No, wait. Let me rephrase.

I hated this movie.

I'm not entirely sure why I didn't like it. I mean, so many other kids my age absolutely loved it. For some reason, though, it never really sat well with me. Maybe it was the annoyingly bright artistic style, maybe it was the random pace of the story, maybe it was simply the fact that I never found it especially interesting. When other kids were freaked out by the Cheshire Cat, I - the kid with the anxiety problem - was thoroughly unimpressed. I actually found him more annoying that frightening.

Maybe that's what the whole deal with this movie is for me - I just found it incredibly annoying. And thus, I tried to avoid watching it whenever I could. The VHS tape of it that we had has since mysteriously disappeared, so I have fortunately been spared watching it for the past decade.

As you can imagine, since this was pretty much my first exposure to the story of Alice in Wonderland, I was never especially inclined to go and read the real story. I tried to start it when I was about ten or eleven, but the story made so little sense that I just couldn't get into it. I think the problem I had then was that I had developed a rigid idea of how a book was supposed to be structured - you know, with strong characters and a good plot. Alice in Wonderland, as those who have read it will know, does not have much in the way of story. Alice is a strong enough character, I suppose, but she is the only one who serves any kind of constant role. For the most part, the book consists of random encounters, none of which really serve to propel the story. In fact....does this book even have a story?

It wasn't until later, at the mature age of 17, that I read the book all the way through. The reason for this was a rather strange one - I was excited about seeing Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, and while I certainly wasn't expecting the movie to follow the book (even I knew that Alice isn't a 20 years old and going around slaying things in the book), I was curious enough to want to try it.

So I did.

And it was.....okay.

Well, I mean, it was a good book. I can see why it has become a classic of children's literature. Much of what the characters say is quotable GOLD. Alice is a quirky, yet proper little girl, which I liked. It's just a matter of personal opinion, I guess. I like books with a coherent and interesting plot, and again, Alice in Wonderland does not have that. So while I liked it somewhat, I found it overall rather dull.

What? Don't give me that look. That's just my personal opinion. I suck. That's the way of things.

Just to make this all the more awkward, I will out and say that I definitely prefer Alice in Wonderland in movie form. I mean, aside from the Disney cartoon.

More specifically, I love Alice in Wonderland in Tim Burton movie form.

What? I shouldn't love it? It was a stupid and overrated movie?

Well, let me tell you something, kiddo - I was hyped up for MONTHS to watch this movie. It had pretty much every single one of my favorite actors/actresses in it - Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter, Stephen Fry, Anne Hathaway, Alan Rickman, etc. - it was directed by one of my favorite directors, Tim Burton, and it had a soundtrack composed by Danny Elfman. All this, coupled with the fact that it looked awesome in the trailer, got me more excited for a movie than I have been in a long, loooong time. I wasn't the only one, either - when I went to see it on opening day, there were kids lined up to the end of the block. Dude, this movie was gonna RULE. I had BETTER like it, for all the hope I had for it.

And you know what? I actually thought it was a pretty darn good movie. I mean, yeah, the story is rather formulaic, but I hesitate to criticize it too harshly. I actually really like this movie. Is it genuine pleasure, or rigid loyalty?

Heck if I know.

I will defend it, though. With great passion and enthusiasm, I will defend it. Just watch.

Some say that the movie really strays from its intended structure by having a plot - not just that, but a very overdone plot at that. To this, my argument is this: the reason that the original story was so random was because it was being told from the point of view of a child. It was, in essence, something that could very easily have been invented by a seven-year-old girl. I like to think that Wonderland is some sort of manifestation of Alice's own imagination. Following this, I believe that in this movie, Alice has grown older and therefore has a different, more mature way of seeing things. At the age of 19, things are darker, more adult. Things also have a different and, very likely, more structured way of working. We see at the beginning that she has a great and vivid imagination, but things also have a place and a plot. When you're a kid, you don't know how things work, and so you make stuff up. When you're older, you know more about how the world rolls. Your imagination is less rambling and more structured. So, in Alice's new Wonderland (or, um, Underland), things would follow this new structure.

"But it clearly establishes that Underland is supposed to be real, and NOT just a figment of Alice's imagination!" you say. Well, in my delusion, I will reply by saying that while the world may be real, it's influenced by Alice's imagination. Duh. I'd like to say that it's a half-dream, half-reality - a magical world that exists in a sort of alternate universe, perhaps quite literally underneath our own. A sort of parallel dimension.

Of course, more than likely, I am giving this movie waaaay too much credit for its complexity. But, you know, that's another good thing about this movie - it gives you room to come up with your own ideas of how things work in this crazy, twisted world Alice finds herself in. And it's intriguing enough that you'd actually want to.

I love Tim Burton's dark, twisted fairy-tale style. It's so cool, to see an idyllic childhood fantasy transformed into something darker, more sinister-looking. But Burton rarely steps over the line with his style - the spirit that belongs to a childhood fairy-tale is still there. In many of his movies, Burton touches on the subject of appearance and character - how you can see someone and think one thing, and then come to know them and discover something entirely different.

Like the tall, eerie figure of Jack Skellington, lamenting the emptiness he feels in scaring people, even though he's very good at it and it's the center of his existence; the frightening visage of Edward Scissorhands, contrasting with the innocent and earnest expression he wears on his face and with which he conducts all of his behavior; the strange and twisted-looking Mad Hatter standing beside Alice on the battlefield, hearing Alice saying, "This is impossible!" Turning to her, he replies, "Only if you believe it is."

And then there's Alice herself, who, while pretty and plain on the outside, stalwartly states, "I believe five impossible things before breakfast!" and takes her strange surroundings in with a calm, childlike sensibility.

You can say what you like about cliches and dialogue and formula, but personally I find this movie endearing, lovely, and thoughtful. Alice in Wonderland is NOT an easy story to re-invent, but I think that Tim Burton did a pretty darn good job, considering. I love this movie, and am very, very glad that I own it - so I can bring it out on rainy days, and smile to myself at the specialness of it.

Tips for You in Art

I was thinking about this for a long time. Art, for me, has been something of an anchor when I've been stressed or worried or sad or...whatever. And I want other people to experience it, too. I don't pretend to be an expert on art - heck, I'm not even in college yet! - but there are things that I know. Again, I'm not an expert - but here is what I have learned:

Be Loose, Be Relaxed

One of the problems I had (and still have) with my art is that I am too much of a perfectionist. I am told that a lot of artists are this way, but while it's handy when you're adding the finishing touches to a piece, it's a real problem when you're just starting out. I would have this image of what I wanted to draw in my head, but when it came to putting in on paper, more often than not I would starting by carefully outlining my image, and then erase, and then start again, and then erase. An hour later, my paper would be covered in faint graphite smears with a vague outline of my drawing in the middle. I rarely finished anything, which drove me nuts.

It wasn't until I was in high school that I learned how to fix this. In my art class, we are required to do a good chunk of our work in our sketchbooks - something I was not accustomed to. I was in the habit of just drawing - not planning, not sketching, not doodling. Just DRAWING. For a long time, I was lazy and didn't pay too much attention to sketching. Whatever drawings I had in my sketchbook were NOT sketches.

It wasn't until my junior year that I started to see the value of my sketchbook. I had a different art teacher that year, and at the start of class he explained the value of a sketchbook - "It's a place to play, practice, experiment, do whatever you want. It's not meant to be a display of your best work. It's your playground for art."

This explanation made sense to me. Over the next two years, while I was in his classroom, I did more and more sketching, experimenting and playing around. As I did this, I noticed a significant improvement - not just in my drawing skills, but also in my creative skills. It's gotten so EASY to put down my ideas quickly and legibly.

So, what this all comes down to is: don't be meticulous. At least at the start. Be loose and relaxed. Trust the connection between your brain and your hand - your brain knows what you want to draw. So when you're sketching, don't even think about it - just scribble the form down! It shouldn't be good-looking. It's just an outline of what you're going for. Trust your brain - it knows what it's doing. Even if you don't think you're a good enough artist to draw what you're picturing in your head - go for it anyway! Don't let your inhibitions get in the way. Just do it, and don't agonize over it. Relax! Just let it come out naturally. And if it doesn't look the way you want it - well, that doesn't matter, keep going! Keep scribbling. It's good practice. When you see something - a pose you like, a face you find interesting - scribble it!

Don't Chicken Out

I have a lot of people say they wish they could draw well. I want to tell those people that THEY CAN. It's not a matter of talent. It's a matter of practice - which anybody can do!

Allow me to explain:

When I was a little kid, I wasn't that much of a better artist than anyone else. In fact, once when I was in kindergarten, we were drawing a picture of what we wanted to be when we grew up. My drawing (of me at an easel, being an artist) looked so bad that my teacher thought I had just scribbled all over the page - and asked me to start over again. I was crushed. The memory still haunts me to this day. (Why, Teacher? Whyyyyy?)

When I was in first grade, we were supposed to draw in these special journals every morning. If you look at my journal, you will notice that my drawings comprised mostly of flowers, hills, and rainbows - with a house and maybe my mom and dad and me showing up occasionally. The reason for this was that I was too scared to draw anything else. I didn't think anything else I drew besides hills and flowers and whatnot looked like they were supposed to. So I chickened out, and stuck to what I knew.

It wasn't until I was a little older that I started getting 'good' at drawing. I was a shy kid, and spent a lot of time by myself. I daydreamed a lot, and my daydreams found their way through my pencil onto my paper. I started drawing more and more, and everyone else began to notice. I soon gained the reputation of being the 'good draw-er' of the class. Later on, I would be humbled by the amazing artists I met in my fellow students in high school - but instead of making me feel like I couldn't ever draw or paint nearly as well as they could, I became determined to get better, and (most importantly) to develop me OWN style.

It's a work in progress.

Here's a secret: there is no such thing as a 'talented' artist. Skilled, yes, but not talented. The ability to draw and paint well comes not from inner intuition, but from practice and observation.

Even prodigies aren't 'talented' - they simply have a very heightened sense of observation, excellent memory, and perhaps a greater sense of creativity (that is, the ability to think 'outside the box'). When I look at the child prodigy Akiane's paintings (artakiane.com), I see that she has an astounding ability - not in simply painting, but in watching. She has paid very close attention to the human form, and what it looks like. She has watched her surroundings carefully, and stored them in her memory. She has interpreted it, and brought it to form. This is an amazing gift, to be sure - but we shouldn't let ourselves think that only she, a prodigy, can do it.

I was blessed with two gifts - my own sense of observation, and a vivid imagination. I am not a prodigy. I still have a lot to learn about art. But I can tell you that it isn't as difficult as you might think.

When you see an amazing painting, admire it. Let it inspire you. Don't wish that you could paint like that. Remember that drawing and painting and sculpting is a skill, one that you can learn if you practice. Don't ever doubt your capabilities. Give yourself time, and keep practicing. Don't give up. Don't be down on yourself. You're a human being, just like anyone else, and all human beings have the ability to learn. You might not learn as quickly as some other people seem to, but don't let that discourage you. Just keep drawing, and you'll improve. Trust me.

Yessss.....

Well. It's...been a while.

Lately, I've been focusing on publishing and expanding my webcomic, Nevertheless (www.nevertheless.smackjeeves.com). It has been both a great and frustrating experience, what with planning it and writing it and drawing it and putting it up on my hideously ugly website (I, um, need to fix that....). It's been big, and it's been.....well, it's hard to explain.

At any rate, I don't know how often I'll update this blog (not that anyone will read it), but I still stand by my goal to at least try to update it as frequently as I can.

Which will not be often. (Cough.)

At any rate, thank you and all that. Tootles!