tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7980072130309070812024-03-05T12:29:05.016-08:00FantasyworldA Blog of Strange ProportionsGerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-87126593697842403982014-07-19T11:52:00.003-07:002014-07-19T11:52:45.203-07:00Rambling Thoughts Of A Tired RM <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Once upon a time on my mission, I went through a brief phase where I would write a new quote every week on a whiteboard over my desk. I'm not sure why I did this, except that it just seemed cool to see a new quote there every so often, like I was actually thinking about something outside of my mission and the people I was teaching and so on (don't get me wrong, that was all good as well).<br />
<br />
I usually got all my quotes from a little book I had had since I was.....what, 12? It was a pretty little notebook my older sister Cailtin brought home from her mission in Taiwan, and she had instructed me to write at least one sentence in it every day. While I haven't been so diligent about that over the past few years, I have been unusually faithful in keeping it updated at least on a monthly basis. I decided that, since I usually didn't have anything to say about myself, I would just "collect" quotes and put them in there. I love quotes. I don't really know why - part of it may come from the feeling that quotes are basically advice, sometimes poetry, given to me, or anyone else who wants to hear it. Like, the human race is a community, and these are people passing on their wisdom to us. I don't know, it's weird. I've never been very good with words.<br />
<br />
<i>Anyway. </i>Quote on my whiteboard. One week, during some downtime, I was browsing through my little quote book, trying to find something that stuck out to me so that I could put it on my wall. I came across a quote I had written in there not too long ago, maybe a few months before I left on my mission:<br />
<br />
<b><i>Not all those who wander are lost. </i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
This was apparently said by J.R.R. Tolkien, the person whom everyone knows wrote the Lord of the Rings series, not to mention a few other lesser-known but still very good books (<i>Farmer Giles of Ham</i>, etc.) I immediately decided, for reasons I could not discern right then, that this would be my wall quote that week. I erased the past one - don't even remember what it was now - and wrote JRR Tolkien's words in its place. As I stood there, reading those words on my wall, I suddenly felt something very strong. I can't really describe it in words, but suffice it to say that right then, I felt this overpowering connection to that quote. I don't know why I felt that connection so strongly then, as opposed to when I first read it and wrote it down in my book or prepared to write it on the wall. I just felt it then. And it was....well, I'd never felt quite that way before, about anything.<br />
<br />
I guess, right then, it applied to me more than anything else.<br />
<br />
I've always been a bit of a 'wanderer' - my parents can tell you a ton of stories about me as a little kid who liked to unlock the front door and go wandering outside, who liked to climb on top of things and get into things she generally wasn't supposed to. As I grew up, I became more 'tame', and spent more and more of my time inside, reading or drawing or playing games on the computer. I was a quiet, shy kid, and as I approached adolescence and then forced my way through it, I became more isolated and withdrawn. The world had changed, or at least my view of it had. It was a considerably more frightening place. Social anxiety and an extreme lack of confidence kept me in a safe little 'shell' that I was content to stay in. I had some friends, people I trusted and had fun with, who pulled me out occasionally, and my family always managed to get me to poke my head out, but for the most part I was by myself, safely armored and oblivious to what was going on 'outside'. At least that was what I told myself. Anyway.<br />
<br />
Wow, I am good at getting myself off track, aren't I? I guess this all ties in somehow, though. Let's see....<br />
<br />
I grew up a little more. I graduated from high school (a HUGE load off my mind) and determined that it was time for me to fight my social anxiety, rather than embrace it. So I decided to go on the other side of the world and teach English in Russia for 4 months, not knowing a word of Russian and not knowing anyone who came on the trip with me.<br />
<br />
Hey, it was an awesome idea at the <i>time</i>.<br />
<br />
That's kind of where it started. Making that decision to challenge myself right off the bat, rather than continue to live in my little shell.<br />
<br />
It makes me feel so sad sometimes, how hard I try and how it sometimes doesn't work. I am very good at feeling sorry for myself, I have discovered. And I like making other people feel sorry for me, too. It's disturbing, but I guess we all have our faults. That's just one of mine. Other people have worse. Some have better. How do you determine that a fault is 'better' or 'worse'? Eh, who knows. I won't bother myself about it.<br />
<br />
Let's skip forward in time so that I can actually get back to what I was talking about.<br />
<br />
After coming back from Russia, I went to college outside of my home state, building myself up bit by bit. It was great, having independence. I realized that I had more control over myself than I thought. It's a very liberating thing, you know? Anxiety has the effect of making you feel very powerless. It often goes hand-in-hand with depression because of that. But I was beginning to see that I didn't have to let my feelings decide me. I decide me.<br />
<br />
Mostly.<br />
<br />
Skip forward: 2012. Thomas S. Monson, President of the LDS Church, makes the announcement that boys can now serve missions at age 18 rather than 19, and girls can serve at 19 rather than 21. We are all very excited and very conflicted. I think about it, and see a chance to build myself up a bit more. Maybe kick this whole anxiety thing once and for all.<br />
<br />
(Anxiety doesn't work that way, just so you know. But that wasn't going to stop me from trying.)<br />
<br />
So I send my papers in, get my call, and go on my mission. Arizona, Tucson. It's nothing like anywhere I've been - California, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Russia. Nothing like it at all. Tucson is HOT, and full of cactus and questionable plants and animals that look like they're the result of some wacked out science experiment. (Which, considering the reputation of Arizona's neighbor New Mexico, is not so surprising.) I feel like I'm on an alien planet and it SUCKS for the first few months. But then I get used to it. I grow up a bit more. Learn a few things about myself, and other people. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. But it's probably best thing I could have done. Whether or not I was a great benefit to the mission is up for debate, but I genuinely feel that the mission was at least a great benefit to me.<br />
<br />
And then it all ends, and now I'm here, sitting in my chair, remembering the time I wrote a quote on the wall. Wait. I should be talking about that. Wups.<br />
<br />
So I read that quote on my computer screen now, and really think about why I felt such a connection to it. Right then, I definitely was 'wandering'. I still am. I think I kind of always will. I like it that way. But I'm not lost.<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe I'm a little lost. But that doesn't bother me too much.<br />
<br />
I like not knowing what's around the next corner. I mean, I like trying to plan a head a little, but I'm not too unhappy if something else comes along that's better. Even if I don't see that it's better at the time. In my religion, we firmly believe that God has a plan for everyone. Sometimes, we have to let go of our plan and follow His. Even if it sucks. Even it's hard, and scary. Because He knows what's best for you. You just have to let Him take over and lead you along to where you need to go.<br />
<br />
Right now, I'm recovering from a deep hurt that I got on my mission. It's horrible, not going to lie. But it's opening my eyes. I see more of myself than I ever did before. I see what I can do, if I let myself. I'm not grateful for what happened, for having such a huge trial, but I am grateful for what I got out of it. The good things, anyway. Sooner or later, maybe that's all I'll be able to see, and the hurt will be gone. Maybe not. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Looking at the quote, remembering how I felt about it then and how I feel about it now, I feel like life is a great map that we're wandering around. It's huge, difficult, and intimidating. But it's also good, and wonderful, and amazing. And best of all, unexpected. That's my favorite part. Life would be so boring without it.<br />
<br />
I was just now listening to a favorite song of mine, by Florence and the Machine. I'm going to test your knowledge here and leave out the title. See if you can guess with song it is.<br />
<br />
It's from the point of view of someone in the dark. They can't see light or anything ahead, but they hear their companion's heartbeat, and they know that they're not alone. So they go ahead, still in the dark but knowing that they're not alone. I like that. It may not be the precisely correct interpretation, but that's how I see it.<br />
<br />
I don't feel lost. And even if I did, that's not a bad thing. At least, every once in a while.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-33951190327397978932013-03-30T18:55:00.002-07:002013-03-30T18:55:58.928-07:00In Which I Talk About Things I Probably Don't Really Understand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
So, I had a rather disturbing experience at the park today.<br />
<br />
See, sometimes I like to go to the park and swing on the swings for a bit, when there aren't a lot of kids around. It's a sort of calming, meditative activity for me. Today, since it was warm and sunny out, there were more kids than usual, so I was being a bit more careful as the littler ones sometimes run into my swinging trajectory, and I need to be ready to perform evasive maneuvers in case that happens. Of course, about 99% of the time their parents are watching and they grab them before anything terrible happens. Either way, I have never, ever hit a kid, and have taken great care to maintain that record.<br />
<br />
Today, though, as I was swinging, this little boy (about 7 years old, I'd guess) came and stood RIGHT next to my swing. Just to be careful, I slowed down and sort of drifted back and forth, ready to stop. He just stared at me for a few more seconds and then left. A few minutes later, I was swinging full-force (there weren't a lot of kids around at this point) when his little boy suddenly appears again, and this time he stands right in front of me. I'm caught off guard and frantically start dragging my feet through the woodchips, which has the desired effect and slows me down. As I slow down, he steps forward bit by bit, getting closer to me. My foot nearly hits him a couple times, but he doesn't move. When I finally stop, he halts, and then walks past me.<br />
<br />
As you can imagine, I am very shaken by this and decide to call it a day. As I walk back, I (with my overactive imagination) can't stop thinking about the little boy. He had purposefully stepped in my path, and I couldn't decide if he was playing a game of chicken (not likely - he didn't even move when I almost hit him) or if he was curious to see if I wouldn't hit him or if<i> </i>he <i>wanted </i>me to hit him or what. I mean, looking at it from this perspective (sitting safely in my living room), it seems like a pretty typical little-boy thing to do, but it still bothers me. And as usual, I'm overthinking it. But I think there's some importance in this, so I'll just keep rolling. I apologize in advance.<br />
<br />
Anyways, that happened. And now I am overcome with feelings of potential guilt and (most of all) incredulity. I mean, what if I <i>had </i>hit him? Where were his parents? Did it matter if his parents were there or not? Would someone have yelled at me if I had hit him? Would he have deserved it (which sounds cold and awful, I know), or would I be the one at fault? Was I being stupid for even being on the swings in the first place, while there were little kids around?<br />
<br />
Probably. Who knows? I imagine there are many opinions on the subject, which I would love to hear. I am not a parent and have had limited contact with little kids (apart from Russia), and so it would be nice to get a more informed opinion.<br />
<br />
At any rate, this got me thinking about other things - like, say, what happens in car accidents. I was nearly hit by a car a few weeks ago, and the experience (of course) really shook me. Much like this recent experience with the swing, it made me re-think what my place was in the world and how important or unimportant I was to other people, what my life/comfort was worth and how small and fragile my life really is. Although the swing experience wasn't quite as potentially fatal as nearly being hit by a car, it still made me think of those same things (albeit within a different sort of context).<br />
<br />
The car that nearly hit me was driven by a guy my own age, maybe a few years older. The car was really nice, one of the nicest I've seen around Rexburg. And as anyone who has ever driven a car knows, it's usually the people with the nicest cars that are the most likely to show off their speed and generally act like idiots on the road. I had encountered this in my own driving experiences, but it hadn't really affected me all that much - primarily because I was driving a car and thus felt protected and isolated from my surroundings. In this most recent case, however, I wasn't in a car. I was on my own, out in the open. While I might have stood a chance had I been in a car, I would probably have died in this particular case.<br />
<br />
Thinking about this, I think the guy driving the nice car had the same level of understanding and awareness as that little boy did - he could see me clearly in front of him, could see how close I was going to be, probably knew his chances of hitting me, and yet he drove on anyway. Why? Well, he wanted to get somewhere quickly, and he was confident enough in his abilities and in his car that the potential result didn't seem all that likely or important. I don't think he was <i>trying </i>to hit me - the experience would probably have been just as horrible for him, if not more so, since it would have been his fault. For his sake, as well as my own, I am glad that he didn't hit me.<br />
<br />
The point is, on some level, he <i>didn't </i>understand what he was doing.<i> </i>And once you think about that, it's kind of terrifying.<br />
<br />
I mean, when do we achieve that awareness? I know that it took me a long time to really understand how to relate to people and understand how I affected them, even on the smallest level. And for others, it takes hitting someone with a car or getting hurt themselves to achieve this understanding. I don't know why this is, and I'm not accusing anyone of being neglectful of this part of themselves or, heck, neglecting to teach this to their own kids. It's just fascinating, in a way, what it might take for us to become aware of other people and how our actions might affect them. Empathy is something that we aren't exactly born with (I mean, as cute as they are, babies aren't really capable of comprehending other peoples' needs and feelings), as I have stated, but when <i>should </i>we develop it? Preferably before we hurt anyone else, right?<br />
<br />
Then again, how do you <i>teach </i>empathy?<br />
<br />
In my own experience, it's not a matter of teaching but of wanting - and <i>deciding </i>- to learn. I didn't really start learning about empathy until I was about twelve or thirteen, having just undergone a few horrible experiences in my life and coming out of an emotional phase where I was moody and short-tempered all the time. By that point, I was well aware of how miserable I could make other people if I chose, and I found that doing that just made <i>me</i> miserable, too. This was a conscious decision on my part, and it took me a while to really live up to it. Heck, I'm still struggling to live up to it.<br />
<br />
But that's the thing - you can do your best to teach someone to be aware of the people around them and consider their needs, but in the end it's up to them to decide whether or not they're going to listen. That little boy I nearly hit is young enough that it's understandable for him not to have learned about that yet, but that young man in the fancy car was around my own age and had control of a heavy motorized hunk of metal. If he hasn't learned it already, he'd better learn it soon. Otherwise, the consequences could be tragic.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-29432954992535135382013-02-13T23:03:00.000-08:002013-02-13T23:07:43.292-08:00A Few Remarks About Valentine's Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, it's Valentine's Day tomorrow. Also, this is the first post I have written in a few months, but whatever. I am talking about other things.<br />
<br />
Valentine's Day. I never really enjoyed it all that much. I can't really think of anyone who has who isn't in a relationship. When I think of this holiday, most of my memories consist of sickly-sweet fruit candies I'd get in my valentines box at school. Man, I hated those candies. Also, being something of an unapologetic tomboy, I found the copious amounts of pink and roses and hearts and general frilly, glittery things that seemed to be vomited up everywhere around this time of year pretty repulsive. And of course, the custom of handing out valentines to your classmates in elementary was never really all that big a deal - there wasn't any drama involved because everyone had to give everyone one else one valentine, and the only ones we really paid any attention to anyway were the ones that had candy attached to them. And then, I only ate the chocolates.<br />
<br />
Within my family, we were never that much into the holiday. We weren't really into anything beyond the standard Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, and even then in our own, quiet sort of way. We preferred celebrating things privately with our family to throwing big parties and strewing decorations everywhere. Which is exactly why we never gave Val's Day much thought. (Yes, I called it Val's Day. Because I am tired of writing the whole thing.) My dad would bring my mom flowers, they'd exchange some small gifts, and then they'd go out to dinner, and that was it. There was one particularly exciting Val's Day where someone (can't remember if it was Mom or Dad) brought home a chocolate, heart-shaped cake, which my parents allowed me and my little sister to eat while they went out to dinner. It was pretty much the most exciting Valentine's Day I'd ever had. And have had since, come to think of it.<br />
<br />
Anyways, my point is, since then Valentine's Day has come to represent all that I find annoying about the stereotypical aspects of my gender. For girls in relationships, it's a Big Deal. For girls not in relationships, it is also a Big Deal, but in a very different way. Like, in the way of taking the opportunity to moan about how alone they are and how they will never find love and they might as well just go live in a cave and so on and so forth. (not to say that everyone who has this problem is like this. But you know what I mean.)<br />
<br />
Okay, so I do recognize the struggle these girls (and guys) are having. I do understand how frustrating and sad it can be when everyone around you is getting chocolates. flowers. jewelry, romantic dinners and so on you aren't. It can make one feel very isolated and lonely. It can make you like there's something wrong with you because you aren't in a relationship. And the way some girls act certainly doesn't help - I remember in high school, some of the clubs would sell carnations on Valentine's Day, and the carnations (while a sweet gesture, don't get me wrong) were often viewed as sort of status symbols. Girls who got carnations obviously had boyfriends, or at least boys who were interested in them. And even beyond high school, this sort of thing is often held up as a kind of status symbol. I won't say that the girls who had carnations shoved it in everyone's face or anything, but it was definitely important. That's the thing in our society: unless you're in a relationship, you're not <i>quite </i>as interesting.<br />
<br />
Half of what girls talk about (at least in high school) is guys. Heck, in most movies, any girl that appears is guaranteed to either acquire a love interest at some point in the movie (if they're the protagonist) or be the love interest to the protagonist (if they aren't) or at least to one of the supporting cast. I'm not saying the same doesn't go for guys, but....let's face it. Guys are valued more for their characters when it comes to movies, or books, or really any form of popular media. Girls aren't so much. It's just a fact. A girl is given a bit more flack for their appearance if, say, they're overweight, or have a big nose, or whatever. Put an "ugly" girl in a movie, and I can promise that they will have a makeover by the end that will make them stunning and the guy stares at her in rapture and yeah. Again, not saying guys don't have the same problem, buuuut....yeah, guys don't get a lot of makeover movies. The only movies I can think of that brings up this problem is <i>Real Women Have Curves </i>(duh) and <i>Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants</i>. Obviously, these are just the movies I have <i>seen</i>, so if you have any others you can think of, throw them at me. I will gladly watch them.<br />
<br />
Anyways, my point is, when you're single on Valentine's Day, you are morally obligated to be depressed. That just seems to be the messages that the grocery stores and TV shows seem to be throwing at me. And you know what? That's pretty darn stupid.<br />
<br />
Here's a Personal Fact about me: I am 20 years old, and I have been on exactly 1 date. <i>1</i>. And you know what? It doesn't bother me. I have never really felt 'attracted' to a guy, at least not one that wasn't fictional (I am such a nerd :3), and this rarely serves to make me feel bad. I mean, yeah, I have moments where I feel insecure and lonely, but who doesn't? The thing is, I have never really wanted to have a boyfriend. I never really saw it as a big deal. I'm not saying it isn't, I'm just saying you shouldn't feel like you're more important because you're in a relationship. You, girls AND guys, shouldn't hold yourself to that standard. Some people don't find a companion until much later in life. Some don't find one at all. It's not unnatural. While finding a companion is a precious and important thing, you shouldn't make yourself feel bad because you haven't found him/her yet. You are important because you are YOU, and while it is a good thing to find a companion, it isn't everything.<br />
<br />
So, on this Valentine's Day, take advantage of the discount on chocolate if you are so inclined (as I am), but otherwise, remember that this is a silly holiday that means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things, and if you looked at its roots in history you would find that it actually isn't all that meaningful to begin with.<br />
<br />
(Seriously, it isn't.)<br />
<br />
(Look it up.)<br />
<br />
So enjoy the cheap chocolate and go on with your day. Happy Valentine's!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-15282370876331706802012-11-13T23:14:00.001-08:002012-11-13T23:14:10.402-08:00Dr. Who, Etc. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I'm sitting here, watching Dr. Who.<br />
<br />
I've been catching up on the classic series (should take me a couple years or so....yay!) and currently, I am on Season 6, in the Second Doctor's era.<br />
<br />
As I'm sitting here, watching Patrick Troughton hop about avoiding explosions through the streets of Cyberman-infested London, I am suddenly struck by how much I've come to love this strange, yet undeniably unique British show that I had not too long ago stumbled into. It gave me cause to reflect on how I came to love it, and the factors leading up to it, which I am now going to submit you to, whether you like it or not, because this is my blog and I'll write whatever I want so HA.<br />
<br />
Anyways.<br />
<br />
British television isn't exactly an anomaly in my household. We pretty much grew up with BBC, watching Mr. Bean and Blackadder and Are You Being Served? and Keeping Up Appearances and the like. I remember watching an episode of Keeping Up Appearances as a little kid and thinking that it was about these crazy people whose steering wheels were on the wrong side of the car (I literally thought that was supposed to be part of the joke. Literally.) and who talked really funny and kept running away from this jolly old grandma lady for some reason. Also, steering wheels.<br />
<br />
It's actually kind of strange that I didn't encounter Dr. Who until I was in my teens. Actually, no, that's a lie: when I was in my tweens (yes, I said 'tweens'. Bring on the groans.) or somewhere thereabouts, we bought three DVDS: Dr. Who and the Daleks, Dr. Who: Invasion Earth, 2150 AD, and some documentary thing about the Daleks (it wasn't all that interesting, sadly.) I think we watched those movies maybe once, and I had pretty much no knowledge of the series going into them. All I knew is that Dr. Who was this classic sci-fi show that was classic and amazing and stuff. So, total newbie.<br />
<br />
Now, strictly speaking, I think that this was actually a pretty fun way of being introduced to the series, even if I didn't actually like the movies. Well, okay, I sort of liked the first movie, with the Daleks. I had no idea why these things were supposed to be scary. They looked like giant salt shakers. With toilet plungers for arms. But I liked the idea of them being this race of aliens stuck in these metal robotic shells. And I also liked the character of the Doctor (whose name was literally Dr. Who in these movies, if I recall correctly), this sort of jolly grandpa who had a time machine and did awesome things like being Peter Cushing. I only ever watched the movies once, but I still remember him quite fondly.<br />
<br />
Apart from that, though, I wasn't impressed. As far as I could tell, it was standard 1960s science fiction stuff, with the weird robots and goofy-looking gizmos and ridiculous outfits. (I have always wondered what those people all the way back in those funky times would have thought of the world in 2012. I think they would be disappointed by the lack of spaceships and aliens. I know I am.) The reason I say it's a fun way to be introduced to the series, however, is because encountering the series itself afterwards is one of the weirdest and most awesome things ever.<br />
<br />
I remember totally forgetting about Dr. Who until a few years later, when I think I saw the first episode of Dr. Who on YouTube (An Unearthly Child). Seeing the little icon that preceded the video, I was a little confused. Wasn't Dr. Who that 1960's sci-fi movie with the guy with the mustache and the time machine and the salt shaker aliens? This didn't look anything like the movie - a black and white TV episode with this old guy who was definitely NOT Peter Cushing as the Doctor. As I continued to watch, I grew more and more confused. Wait, wasn't Susan supposed to be a little girl? Wasn't Barbara the Doctor's granddaughter or something? Where were the Daleks? Why did the Tardis look like that?<br />
<br />
I decided to do a little research, and was even more confused. Primarily by the fact that <i>there was more than one freaking Doctor</i>. I had no idea what to make of it. I didn't know anything about the whole regeneration thing back then, and the idea of this guy actually being 10 guys (at the time) made my brain hurt a little. What kind weird show was this? It was certainly nothing like the movies I'd seen. Or <i>anything </i>I'd seen, for that matter. Say what you will about Dr. Who, you cannot deny how unique it is. At least, in terms of universe and setting. Sort of. Point is, <i>this was a really weird show</i>. And weird things <i>freak me out</i>. So I moved on to other things and forgot all about it.<br />
<br />
Of course, that wasn't the end of it.<br />
<br />
After I graduated from high school, I decided to be crazy and went to Russia for 4 months. While I was there, I talked a lot with my older brother via Skype. John had become a big fan of Dr. Who, and kept pestering me to try the episodes. By then, I understood about how the Doctor regenerates and becomes a new person every time he dies and how he's an alien who travels through time and stuff. I was still stubbornly unimpressed. And it was for a completely stupid reason: I really hated how the actors they got to play the Doctor were so young and handsome and pretty much (from what I surmised) like every other pretty-boy male protagonist in every other modern TV show I'd seen. I have a thing about characters: I like them to be different. I like them to stand out. Even if it means they're ugly as sin, I'll go for it. I'm weird like that.<br />
<br />
The longer John kept poking me to try it, though, the more I kind of wanted to. I mean, it was supposed to be really amazing, right? And I had grown a strong love for weird things like Dr. Who since my first year of high school. Plus, I was homesick, and this felt like it could be a connection to my family back in the USA. John and I are the Gigantic Fantasy/Sci-Fi nerds of our family (not that everyone else isn't, of course. We're all just nerds in our own different ways.) and I missed having nerdy things to talk about, and nerdy people to talk about them to.<br />
<br />
So I gave in, and watched my first official episode of Dr. Who.<br />
<br />
(The Eleventh Hour, if you're curious.)<br />
<br />
And thus, I spent the next week obsessively watching episode after episode, squeezing every little second of downtime I had for this series. I was caught up on the most recent season by Saturday, and spent the next week staring glumly at my wall, pondering the meaning of life without Dr. Who.<br />
<br />
I fell in love with this show, guys. I became a bona fide Whovian after the first episode.<br />
<br />
And now, here I am, laptop in...um....lap, going back to those old black and white episodes that so weirded me out all those years ago. And I think I'm in love all over again. Oh, dear.<br />
<br />
We all grow into our hobbies, I suppose. I sort of stumbled and tripped over this one. And you know what? I'm GLAD I did. Because now I have so many lovely episodes to watch and so many Doctors to get to know. It's going to be AWESOME.<br />
<br />
So that's the story of how I came to love Dr. Who. How about you? Is there a TV show, movie, book series, clothing line, whatever, that you didn't come to love until much later in life? And it was really weird but kind of awesome when you did?<br />
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GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-2023554172837690872012-10-27T16:10:00.001-07:002012-10-27T16:10:32.501-07:00Saga of the Hair, Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>Saga of the Hair, Part 2</b><br />
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So....I did it.<br />
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I cut my hair.<br />
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It feels really weird. Like, my head is lighter. I don't have all that hair falling down my back. And my neck itches.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfIe7zl4XKmN5pQ9acGVj13KZTVf9FyCRMlLDN8KsHMmJ6A0aPxFaMdYYrBpU3WQlnaxs3-R93smmDHBbGQ60JU4ZTkhoJb20g6SwomLatxYJ7l2Fb0cbj7mGnczYnRorbM8zicaASD8F/s1600/shortleft.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwfIe7zl4XKmN5pQ9acGVj13KZTVf9FyCRMlLDN8KsHMmJ6A0aPxFaMdYYrBpU3WQlnaxs3-R93smmDHBbGQ60JU4ZTkhoJb20g6SwomLatxYJ7l2Fb0cbj7mGnczYnRorbM8zicaASD8F/s320/shortleft.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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But....I.....actually.....really really really like it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dmN_x_8zL1E3tf_eZvjtTNLZxbgiq-bV78JkCryHluHPAAh7yyxiN8Ykq9yOuWXF5x5HUEC94V2nvs8nqRXsg6dJso5vyOVjbf_ck5irLylfB5t9_PA-2we6cVbITRjBGflE21lz5xpZ/s1600/shortright.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dmN_x_8zL1E3tf_eZvjtTNLZxbgiq-bV78JkCryHluHPAAh7yyxiN8Ykq9yOuWXF5x5HUEC94V2nvs8nqRXsg6dJso5vyOVjbf_ck5irLylfB5t9_PA-2we6cVbITRjBGflE21lz5xpZ/s320/shortright.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's like, I look in the mirror, and I have a double-take, because I don't even recognize the person there.</div>
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But in a good way. </div>
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Of course, there's some sadness and bewilderment swimming around there, too. I miss my hair already. I miss having it just sprawled across my shoulders. I miss its weight. I'm going to miss braiding it, and running my fingers through it when I'm bored (yes, I did that. Shush.) I'm just....really going to miss.</div>
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Well, hair holds a strange sentimental value for us, I guess. From what I have seen, it is not uncommon for girls (and even guys...but we don't mention that) to cry when they get their hair cut. The longer you've had it, I guess, the more you're attached to it. Even when you don't think you are. Why is this, I wonder? Is it simply vanity? The feeling of leaving behind the person you used to be? </div>
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Who knows. </div>
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There's also the bewildering feeling of, "Um...okay, it's pretty now, but how do I keep it that way?" </div>
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Well, that's easily remedied. You just practice and use what you are given. Learn as you go along. I am very optimistic about this. Excited, even. I've always wanted to do more with my hair. This is definitely one way to do it. </div>
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When I was thinking about doing this, I had no idea what to expect. Well, I sort of did, but it was kind of negative. My sisters' experience cutting their hair didn't pan out so well. And my mother wasn't too keen on it, having had bad hair experiences of their own. I guess the females in my family just aren't inclined to look good with short hair. Which, considering our heritage, is no surprise. </div>
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But, you know what? I think it came out looking pretty darn good. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1IS8Yz6Lg_C9r28nulBjUiGTfiMmeIoQh2LsAE3UaW8Jtb_KYFOaN6iYzTRz-cT86rCQu5wbJ7h8bdYbSHJZ_CE1w7NqT8hj62dJ3qYY6mKOlYJpBweXudGKLXNrrgmIZ-mbRsf5HYgTt/s1600/shortwhooo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1IS8Yz6Lg_C9r28nulBjUiGTfiMmeIoQh2LsAE3UaW8Jtb_KYFOaN6iYzTRz-cT86rCQu5wbJ7h8bdYbSHJZ_CE1w7NqT8hj62dJ3qYY6mKOlYJpBweXudGKLXNrrgmIZ-mbRsf5HYgTt/s320/shortwhooo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feel the power. </td></tr>
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And I think it's a testament to a good haircut when you feel sad about cutting your hair, but you like the haircut so much that it overrides the sadness. </div>
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From the outset, this didn't seem like a big deal. And it probably really isn't. But, man, I feel so incredibly giddy about this that I had to share it. Shallow girly feelings for the WIN! </div>
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And now I am done talking about hair. </div>
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Thank you for indulging me and listening. </div>
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GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-412453368106330652012-10-27T00:01:00.003-07:002012-10-27T00:01:37.006-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Saga of the Hair: Part 1<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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So. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have long hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1U18trjh0FtWCT4n-hDvWpmO2PgLTCn709jo7otkkkHWIZdURj1Jqp9bUwU1TsUO-zn1X0nyBpt0kK7hvNXuQGQiE7LabUc6gwkjTCAp_cv1x6L-5Z2AQjLu_wWsJ9fRzSxhhTDtUK2T/s1600/Snapshot_20121023_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1U18trjh0FtWCT4n-hDvWpmO2PgLTCn709jo7otkkkHWIZdURj1Jqp9bUwU1TsUO-zn1X0nyBpt0kK7hvNXuQGQiE7LabUc6gwkjTCAp_cv1x6L-5Z2AQjLu_wWsJ9fRzSxhhTDtUK2T/s320/Snapshot_20121023_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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More specifically, I have long, thick, wavy blonde hair that is an obvious inheritance from my hairy Viking ancestors. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am very proud of my hair. It
is one of the few things about myself that I consider to actually be pretty, and that I
don’t mind showing off. I think everyone
has that – a sort of vanity that they can’t suppress. I think it’s healthy, to
have something like that. As long as you don’t go overboard and brag about it
to everyone you meet and hold parties in its honor, it’s healthy. Somewhat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PRENzKlcYCVEFG8GfTWmTph4FrFyyxJlnlAqqOGImP1Vd_jb5SCS-eorRiof56KNA3GLxr8YoFJttSYu9BF9OkUryl7Pwu316Jk25AMv9DfXSBa9K5fN36njcjzJtXrOSnDQGbxJRUM1/s1600/Snapshot_20121023_5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7PRENzKlcYCVEFG8GfTWmTph4FrFyyxJlnlAqqOGImP1Vd_jb5SCS-eorRiof56KNA3GLxr8YoFJttSYu9BF9OkUryl7Pwu316Jk25AMv9DfXSBa9K5fN36njcjzJtXrOSnDQGbxJRUM1/s320/Snapshot_20121023_5.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, why am I now being a hypocrite and talking about my
amazingly luscious and beautiful golden locks? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, there’s something a story to that. Not much of one,
but still.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I recently witnessed two of my roommates dyeing purplish-red
streaks into their hair. They tried to get me to do it, too, but I cheerfully
declined. “I’m sorry,” I said, “But I kind of decided that I am never going to
dye or cut my hair ever again.” With looks of astonishment, they said,
“Seriously? You’re never cutting your hair again?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Um….Well, I mean, unless I suddenly develop dreadlocks or
something, yeah,” I answered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They looked thoughtful, and then continued with their hair
dyeing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And I suddenly started thinking about my hair. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, as much as I’ve bragged about it in this post, I really
don’t think about or do much with my hair at all. The fanciest thing I ever did
with it was get it braided in a fancy Celtic style at a booth at the Celtic
Festival that my hometown holds every year (think ‘Renaissance Faire’, but with
more claymores and kilts and bagpipes and dancing. It’s kind of
the most awesome thing ever.) I think that’s actually the only time I felt
comfortable being girly, with my big medieval-era dress and my hair all
prettied up with braids and ribbons and little flower buds……<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yeah, I think it was then that I decided that that was how I
wanted to look when I got married. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But that’s beside the point. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What I mean to say is, I didn’t really think about my hair
until that moment. And it didn’t occur to me that I maybe I wanted to do
something different with my hair until that moment. Like, you know how you tell
your mom you like something, and only a little afterwards discover you don’t
actually like it anymore? Well, something like that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, the long and short of it is……I have decided to get my
hair cut. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yeah, kind of sudden. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But quite honestly, I think it’s important. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Why? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, because I’ve looked almost the exact same way since I
was 13. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And for an almost-20 year old….well, that’s kind of
sobering. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And also because I need - NEED - to know how it looks short. Properly short. Actually styled and all. Just to see if I like it. See if it works. </div>
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Also, up until I stopped having it cut, my mother took
responsibility for all of the hair-cutting in our household. I think I went to
a salon maybe once. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother takes our hair very seriously.</div>
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Okay, I will admit that my mother isn’t bad at cutting hair.
Years of practice from cutting my dad’s and my siblings’ hair, she has a
developed a brisk, practical sort of technique. For years and years, my mother
stuck to the same haircut when she cut mine and my little sister’s hair: chin-length
with bangs. It didn’t really matter to me when I was a little kid. So long as
the hair was out of my face and didn’t hinder my tomboy activities, I was fine.
It wasn’t until I was older and far more uncomfortably aware of myself that I
looked in the mirror and thought, <i>I hate
this haircut</i>. It was definitely time for something new, and I figured I was
old enough to decide what my hair should look like. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Also, the bangs gave me horrible forehead acne, so I had a
medical excuse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So, my mother allowed me to grow out my hair, and I haven’t
cut it ever since. And let me tell you, it’s kind of one of the best decisions
I’ve ever made. Seriously.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The biggest change I have made to it since then was bleaching streaks into it that one
time when my older brother was going through a bleach phase. BHe had extra. I said
“Okay, let’s try it.” And there you go. It’s been about six years since then,
and the streaks are now long gone. So….not really a big change at all, I guess.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, I feel the time has come for another change. But a big
one, this time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So….I am going to CUT MY HAIR. This Saturday. </div>
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It's happening, man. </div>
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I wonder how it'll all pan out. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKuUfhq7S65hWkMIC6fX3FxUU_kAP_AOjQg8GCTfqUbwlyjO0EOWE6oTfvUQKJ97tKsZ7yElndbOqex88XgFgkugVke5bDWk3z5bJimMAM3zKe9thlT4iAIrJIY2nZtm6QFNVLEvWHoCH/s1600/Snapshot_20121023_3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKuUfhq7S65hWkMIC6fX3FxUU_kAP_AOjQg8GCTfqUbwlyjO0EOWE6oTfvUQKJ97tKsZ7yElndbOqex88XgFgkugVke5bDWk3z5bJimMAM3zKe9thlT4iAIrJIY2nZtm6QFNVLEvWHoCH/s320/Snapshot_20121023_3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's probably already beginning to plot its revenge. </td></tr>
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GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-36477227982731909132012-07-25T23:30:00.003-07:002012-07-26T00:01:13.050-07:00Guilt, Regret, Pain and Forgiveness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.lds.org/media-library/video/mormon-messages?lang=eng&start=1&end=12&order=alpha#2010-07-14-forgiveness-my-burden-was-made-light" style="background-color: white;">http://www.lds.org/media-library/video/mormon-messages?lang=eng&start=1&end=12&order=alpha#2010-07-14-forgiveness-my-burden-was-made-light</a><br />
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This link goes to a video on lds.org. It addresses forgiveness, in its most purest form. Even in the face of tragedy.<br />
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I have had many times in my life where forgiveness has been a hard, hard lesson for me to learn. Not just towards other people, but especially towards myself.<br />
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I have never done anything as awful as harm other people through my mistakes. At least, I hope I haven't. No, the person who was harmed the most was me.<br />
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You see, I once had a problem, a problem I still struggle with from time to time - a problem with viewing certain content on the Internet. Within the webcomics community, of which I am an active reader and hopeful member, such content is the norm, and encountering it is far too easy. What makes it worse is that when you stumble over it, you can rationalize that it's just a part of the story and you can easily flip through it quickly. You convince yourself it's not a big deal, that so long as you just went to the next page, you were okay.<br />
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That's about as rational as saying that song lyrics from suggestive songs have no impact on you. In fact, it's even less rational, because it's through images. Images are much harder to tune out, and thus harder to ignore. You absorb it, whether you want to or not. The temptation comes bit by bit, and if you're not careful, you soon find yourself giving in. You don't know true, awful temptation until you have experienced this. It's so very easy to give in. It's so incredibly hard to resist.<br />
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What makes it all worse for me, personally, is that within my family we have had traumatic experiences as a result of pornography. I won't say that I am addicted to it - far from it. I struggle with temptation because of the websites I frequent - some of my favorite webcomics link to other, less savory websites that I've checked out, not knowing what they contained. I have seen things I literally can't un-see. You see now why my family's past experiences makes this so much more awful to deal with. I feel like such a traitor, a horrible person who learned nothing from past experience and just causes more pain for her loved ones. I feel like the most awful, most unforgivable, unlovable, undeserving person in existence. I disappoint myself to the point of physical illness. There are times where I was so ashamed that I almost didn't tell my parents. I couldn't bear the thought of disappointing them, have them think so much less of me. My family has often been all I have, the only people in the world I felt appreciated and loved me for who I am.<br />
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And then there's not just that, but then there's what happens afterwards. After I've gotten over my impulses, and I find that I didn't do the right thing and I can't get rid of the images in my head, I feel sick. Literally sick to my stomach. There is no satisfaction, no peace, no hope. You feel empty. And then you feel filthy. You can't look anyone in the eye. For me, my anxiety kicks into gear. It's always the worst anxiety attack I've had in a while. In my religion, we believe that the Holy Ghost is with us always - that is, if we keep the commandments and are clean. I think that emptiness, that anxiety, is the feeling of the absence of the Spirit. It's terrifying. It's lonely. It's the worst feeling the world, when you become aware of it. The fact that you know you made a mistake, and now you're facing the consequences, is the only thing that provides some relief.<br />
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I don't frequent those websites anymore. At least, I try not to. There are artists that I like, who have blogs and Tumblrs that I enjoy reading. And these artists sometimes work in erotic fiction. For the most part, they don't show anything 'unsafe' out in the open, but there are some that don't. These are the ones that I sometimes stumble over, that I walk right into. These are the ones I have to remember, and walk around.<br />
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As sad as it makes me, I need to stop reading these blogs. I need to avoid a place I usually enjoy being in, which usually offers encouragement and advice. It's sad, that a place that is usually so good could result in something so awful. But, no matter how good it is normally.....I don't want to have that feeling. I don't want to deal with that horrible, horrible guilt. It's not worth it.<br />
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I went to lds.org to read about forgiveness, to try and make myself feel better about my past actions. This video was the first thing I found. As I watched, I cried harder than I have in a long, long time.<br />
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This boy - hardly older than I am - did something far worse than I did. It was not something that could be kept secret. It was not something you could ignore, or gloss over. I can't even begin to imagine what sort of guilt he must feel, what horrible images he can't get rid of. That someone - and not just anyone, but someone who suffered as a result of his mistake - could forgive him, help him through it.....for me, it's almost incomprehensible.<br />
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It made me realize something: that if he can be forgiven, so can I. I need to forgive myself, for the sake of my own happiness. I think that's something all of us forget, not just me. When we do something wrong, really really wrong, the hardest part isn't earning other people's forgiveness. You don't feel like you deserve any happiness, that the only sentence you're worthy of is continual suffering. The shame and the guilt are overwhelming. It never really ends. But it can fade. You can let it fade. The feelings will remain, in a small way, to remind you of your mistakes. But that's so you can move on, and <i>not make them again</i>. That's the whole point of our humanity.<br />
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I don't know if I am going to post this to anyone - I will admit to being scared of what people might think. I have family members who read my blog, who have no idea that I've had this problem. I don't want them to think less of me.<br />
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But I guess that's a part of the repentance process - admitting you've done something wrong, regardless of what others might think of you. All I can say is, I'm sorry I wasn't a better person. I'm sorry for making mistakes. I wish I had never made them. I can only hope that someone will benefit from reading this. That is the reason I wrote this. If someone can read this and feel some measure of hope for themselves, then that is all I could ask for.<br />
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So....I hope you still love me, Family. :) But this is something I needed to get out.<br />
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(Note: No, this is no longer a great trial in my life. I have overcome it. Just to clarify.)</div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-85198462046421681532012-04-01T19:58:00.000-07:002012-04-01T20:18:21.625-07:00The Phantom of the Opera: A Rambling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>So....this is actually an essay I wrote for my music appreciation class. I was supposed to walk about the play and its historical value, but I wound up comparing the movie and the play instead. Ah, well. I do love both. But anyways, when I finished this, I liked it well enough to post it here. So here it is. </i><br />
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Historical Video: The 25th Anniversary Stage Production of The Phantom of the Opera<br />
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I was introduced to The Phantom of the Opera pretty early on in my childhood. Believe it or not, I actually discovered it through the book rather than the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. After a fashion. My brother, who I believe was in 8th grade at the time, was reading the book for an English class. And he loved it. And when my brother loves something, he has to tell everyone about it - in this case, me, his easily impressed little sister. Although I don't really remember everything he told me, one conversation sticks in my mind: he was describing the "phantom" (whose name I knew long before any fans of the movie did: Erik) to me, saying that the skin of his face was stretched tightly over his bones, making him look like a living skeleton.<br />
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Yeah, you would not be wrong in assuming that that gave me nightmares as a kid. Fortunately, I was also a fan of the book-oriented TV show Wishbone, which happened to do a program focusing on Phantom of the Opera (yes....for a kid's show, they covered some some heavy stuff). They gave a somewhat more child-friendly play of the book, and it presented the Phantom as more sympathetic and pathetic figure, rather than simply the murderous, demonic monster I had originally envisioned.<br />
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I have always loved stories with anti-heroes and complex villains, and this story is a superb example. I think that this plot, combined with the ominous and epic sounds of Andrew Lloyd Webber's compositions, is what made the musical such a hit. It's so fascinating, and so suspensful, it's really difficult not to find <i>something </i>to like about this musical.<br />
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But I digress - I'm supposed to talking strictly about the musical.<br />
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Well, I suppose I better start off by saying that throughout the production, I couldn't help but draw comparisons between the 2004 movie and the play. As much as everyone else dislikes the movie, I actually think it's rather good, and watching it in 2004 was actually my first true encounter with the musical itself. My brother, of course, made sure that I also heard the soundtrack from the original Broadway play (with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman), and so I became well acquainted with both versions. And yes, I also saw the Lon Chaney film, and I have to say.....Lon Chaney was the only awesome thing about it.<br />
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But I digress again.<br />
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I have always wanted to see the original stage play, and so when I heard about the filmed stage production at Royal Albert Hall....well, if I hadn't been too poor, I would have gone out and bought the DVD right then. As it was, all I could do was rent it from Amazon, and watched it over the course of two days.<br />
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And...well, it was good. In fact, it was excellent. For the most part.<br />
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Yes. For the most part.<br />
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As I said, as I was watching, I couldn't help but compare certain things between the movie and the play. Take the orchestra, for instance - the orchestra is considerably larger than the one for the play, and so when you hear it blasting out the main theme in the beginning of the movie, it sounds mighty and impressive. It always gives me chills when I see that scene, where they light up the chandelier and the music suddenly starts.<br />
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That being said, the orchestra for the play was also very, very good. But it sounded considerably less impressive compared to the movie. Now, I know that it's a matter of limitations in stage as compared to those in movies, but still. I wasn't feeling that chill.<br />
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Then there is, of course, the main actors. It's absolutely impossible not to compare them. Gerard Butler's Phantom is more suave, handsome, and seductive; Ramin Karimloo's Phantom is more deformed, more passionate, and considerably more insane. Therein lies the Big Difference, and as far as acting goes....well, I have to go with Mr. Butler on this one. While he didn't look the part, he acted it extremely well. You can see why Christine feels compelled to follow him. Not to put down Karimloo's performance, but when I was watching him, I could not see that magnetic charisma the Phantom is meant to emanate. He's supposed to be genius, a person you can't help but feel drawn to, despite his frightening appearance. It's what makes him so compelling as a character. With Karimloo....he puts more emphasis on the insane part of his persona than the seductive part. And that just didn't sit well with me.<br />
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Of course, Michael Crawford comes out on top of both, since he combined the best parts of each performance (even if he wasn't the best singer), but as I have only listened to him as the Phantom rather than seen him, I have no real proof of this.<br />
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And then, there's Christine. And again....yes, I am going to go with the movie again on this one. My basis for this is the song Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again - in the play, Sierra Boggess's version of the song was a lot more...over the top. She was louder, and more passionate, and more, well, operatic. It wasn't bad, but I couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable as I was watching her. I mean, when I picture myself singing a sad song at my father's grave, I think I would be more morose, more quiet, and less inclined to cry to the heavens in anguish. I wouldn't be shouting to the air, declaring my sorrow to the world. That's just not the appropriate tone. Emmy Rossum's performance was more on par with my expectations - she was very quiet and slow, and obviously shaken from her ongoing ordeal. You can really feel her pain as she mourns her lost father. It's a quiet pain, something she's been dealing with for years. She's desperate for guidance, trying to make sense of the frightening situation she finds herself in. It's all in her face, and in her slow movements and soft voice.<br />
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Say what you will - Emmy Rossum portrayed it beautifully. I even prefer her over Sarah Brightman, who was certainly better than Sierra Boggess, but still a little too operatic and dramatic. I know that it's supposed to be operatic, but keep in mind that there are subtle moments in opera, too.<br />
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And now this essay has turned into a long-winded comparison between the movie and the play. I'll break away from that now and simply address the play from here on out.
The play is currently one of the longest-running productions on Broadway. And when you see it, well, it's not hard to see why. The music is wonderfully composed (with certain "inspiration" taken from certain other songs but cough cough we won't mention that) and is well placed, capturing the suspensful atmosphere perfectly. The best of these, in my opinion, would have to be Past the Point of No Return. Yes, it's not exactly the, um, purest song of the bunch, but when I heard it for the first time (yes, at the movie) I was on the edge of my seat, absolutely rigid and staring at the screen. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I knew where it was going, but right then I might as well have been a newcomer. The play also executed this beautifully, and I still felt the same suspense. Which, considering my lack of chills earlier, is a grand accomplishment in my book.<br />
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My absolute favorite scene, however, has to be the one in the Phantom's lair towards the end, where Christine is pleading with the Phantom while he threatens to kill her lover Raoul (who I honestly could not bring myself to like, but whatever, he's the helpless love interest) if she refuses to stay with him. Here we come to the climax, and here we see some true suspense and emotion. This was where Karimloo shined (and Boggess as well, although she still manages to be a tad over the top), and where you could feel the heightened emotions running rampant.<br />
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And then.....it descends gracefully, slowly, as the heated music slows down and returns to a dark, rumbling tone. And then it rises again, magnificently, when Christine takes pity on the Phantom and gives him a strong, solid kiss. This completely disarms him, and touches that one remaining shred of humanity he still possesses.<br />
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Now, somewhere (most likely the book), it's better explained why he reacted the way he does to the kiss: throughout his entire life, no one, not even his mother, ever kissed him. In other words, no one has ever shown him any compassion or kindness. This one small act reminds him of his humanity, which in turn compels him to set Christine and Raoul free.
Personally, I think it's this scene that makes the play, and the story in general, the most memorable for me. You sympathize with both the Phantom and with Christine (Raoul is pretty much a convenient plot device at this point), and see clearly the entire theme of the story. It's moments like this that are so very rare in modern stage as well as cinema. And it's why I, personally, adore this play, and this story.</div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-1607627227205844692012-01-22T22:25:00.001-08:002012-02-06T18:14:58.776-08:00Coming HomeHey, guys. <br /><br />I'm home.<br /><br />Man....that sounds so weird. <br /><br />And you know what's weirder? I have been home for over a month. But it doesn't feel like it. <br /><br />If there's one thing I've learned over the past few months, though, it's that home can mean a lot of things. There's the physical definition of 'home' - the house you grew up in, the state you lived in, the country you were born in. <br /><br />Then there's the....less physical definition. <br /><br />When I first came to Russia, I was scared. Not just scared - I was terrified. As anyone who has read my letters will know, I had a rather colossal anxiety attack upon arriving at the Moscow airport, which lasted for about a week. I wouldn't eat, I wouldn't unpack, I wouldn't even shower - I wouldn't do anything that would mean I was accepting the fact that I was going to be staying there for a while. <br /><br />Anyone who has lived in a foreign country - or heck, moved to a new home - will know what I'm talking about. It's that rejection of change - that scared reaction that comes with not knowing what comes next, and not wanting to find out. As a shy kid who has lived in one place her entire life (a great blessing in its own way, just as moving from place to place is), suddenly going from my hometown to Moscow, Russia, and then on to college, felt like the end of the world. <br /><br />My parents kept telling me that it wasn't permanent, that I'd be coming home for Christmas, and then after that I'd be home all summer, but that wasn't enough. I knew very well that going to Russia meant that I would be passing one of the biggest milestones in my life - leaving home. And not just for four months - for forever. Because, while it's still my home, and I will always think of it that way, I won't be living there 24/7 anymore. Sooner or later, Christmas and Thanksgiving and summer vacation will end, and I'll be going back to what is now my 'normal' life - college. And somewhere along that road, I'll meet someone (and I know this is going to happen, whether I want it to or not) with whom I KNOW I will want to spend eternity with. Eventually, I'll have a family of my own, and building a home of my own. And from there.....well, I sure as heck don't know. <br /><br />But even so....that's a lot to take in. <br /><br />For a 19-year-old girl, it's almost impossible to even take all of it into serious consideration. I mean, come on! I'm not old enough to get married. Yeah, sure, I'm Mormon. Yeah, sure, I want to get married in the temple. But that's all SOMEDAY. Some 19-year-old girls are ready to get married - heck, I know some of them. But one truth of the human race is that we're all different. And for me, personally, I don't envision passing that particular milestone anytime soon. <br /><br />One great thing I was taught growing up, though, is that in order for me to develop naturally and comfortably, I have to learn things at my own pace. Some things come slower to me than to others - some things come more quickly. It took me a little longer to learn how to speak correctly - but I was way ahead of everyone else when I learned how to read. Everything balances out in the end. Everything turns out for the best, one way or another. <br /><br />In Russia, I eventually came to realize something - that 'home', for what it's worth, is not just the place I grew up. It's not just where my family's living, or where I was born. Home is - to put it bluntly - me. My personality, my mind, my heart, my thoughts - all of that is home. So (as corny as it sounds) wherever I go, I'm not a stranger, because I carry my home with me always. It took me a while to figure out, but it was worth the fear I had to feel in order to reach it. <br /><br />And it's certainly a good thing I did, because a lot changed while I was away. The biggest blow was my grandpa getting sick. I think this, more than anything, cemented the fact that the childhood home I had always known wouldn't be the same when I got back. <br /><br />And that's how it is. After four months, things AREN'T the same. But you know what - out of all the living things on the earth, human beings are by far the most adaptable. It might take us a while, but no matter what horrible things happen, we are capable of storming on through it. I mean, just think of all the different places we live - everywhere from dry, blazing hot deserts to dark, icy tundras. We may not like the idea of change, but we eventually come to accept it. And that's a comforting fact to know, even when you sure aren't feeling it. <br /><br />It's funny - when I first came to Moscow, there was nothing I wanted more than to go home. Now, though, there are times when I'm sitting down, feeling lonely and out of place, where I miss it. I miss the beautiful forests, and the irrepressible babushkas, and the icy roads, and the quiet little towns, and the big, beautiful, almost impossibly colorful cathedrals.....but most of all, the gruff, incredibly blunt, world-weary, kind-hearted people who lived there. Right this minute, I'm missing it so much it almost hurts.<br /><br />But, you know what...I didn't leave that behind. I took it home with me. And it's never going to go away. Just as my hometown is, and my college years are going to be. <br /><br />Because, baby, that's how the human race rolls.GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-56369436220961018522011-12-13T00:05:00.000-08:002011-12-15T21:58:41.009-08:00The Story of Souvenir Shopping<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxCfL8LDO9s8br98JxL0y_BaUMVIjRuQsk9HsjEA6RLw5OL5ig_xj1hY5YPniWiWwUw7PvEjCV9O1Bg9EWOcfq9F-NFuiQVQkVD4hVFau5pikWVa9veVKue1IUQqYZBPGBbWyOXJYqZdO/s1600/DSC00610.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkxCfL8LDO9s8br98JxL0y_BaUMVIjRuQsk9HsjEA6RLw5OL5ig_xj1hY5YPniWiWwUw7PvEjCV9O1Bg9EWOcfq9F-NFuiQVQkVD4hVFau5pikWVa9veVKue1IUQqYZBPGBbWyOXJYqZdO/s320/DSC00610.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685521294443260002"></a>You see this? This is the entrance to Izmaylovo Market, possibly the best souvenir market in Moscow. <div><br /></div><div>Or at least, my favorite. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>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. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>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. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-88576079725900366792011-12-05T21:55:00.000-08:002011-12-06T08:06:37.556-08:00The Story of Kindergarten<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlp8ILp0s6yXtYmIOfpmSv-QseMw-_FP38sVOrQg-jitTVODh7zcddTfYym3pyX4EAji0xcQrs0_yyBirRWHs2GxZ1MbNLritAp_YYP7-qKPKak37yuSzAuRCNWYYei4Ostwp8bZao8nbo/s1600/DSC00527.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlp8ILp0s6yXtYmIOfpmSv-QseMw-_FP38sVOrQg-jitTVODh7zcddTfYym3pyX4EAji0xcQrs0_yyBirRWHs2GxZ1MbNLritAp_YYP7-qKPKak37yuSzAuRCNWYYei4Ostwp8bZao8nbo/s320/DSC00527.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683031851186714626" /></a><br />This is a short one. <div><br /></div><div>But it involves talking about the kindergarteners that I teach, so that instantly makes it feel a lot longer than it should be.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice it to say....not such a warm welcome to teaching. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>More importantly, I <i>know </i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then there are little, rare moments that I just cherish.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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!" </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>As bad as Mischa is, I am going to miss that kid. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>wish</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm glad I didn't flake out and go home early. Because this, as frustrating as it has been, was worth it. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-89198741994947237712011-11-26T12:17:00.000-08:002011-11-29T00:29:10.770-08:00The Story of 2 Thanksgivings<div>Russians do not know how to stand in line.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not so in this situation. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>when</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.) </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>While we ate, each of us took a turn reading one of the slips of paper from the bag. There were normal like <i>shower curtains</i>, <i>clean laundry, </i>and<i> not having to cook. </i>There were funny things, most of them in-jokes, such as <i>BRAINS!, farting, </i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>This one was mine: </div><div><br /></div><div> <i>I am thankful for mischievous little blonde boys with big smiles and way too much charm. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Just for you, Kirill. Just for you. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was a good night. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice it to say, I was not very happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, overall, it was worth the globe fluid all over my hat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which, really, is all that matters. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-78694127793017385312011-11-20T11:02:00.001-08:002011-11-21T08:34:37.631-08:00TravelingIt's been an interesting few months. <div><br /></div><div>For those unaware, I have been living in Moscow, Russia for the past 3 months, as a volunteer for the International Language Program. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>So here it is: my commitment. I will begin on Thursday. </div><div><br /></div><div>So.....come again then. Hopefully, I will have remembered. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so, with that said - </div><div><br /></div><div>Da svedanya, and onwards. </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-42429145988033788372011-10-28T11:59:00.000-07:002011-10-28T01:03:55.631-07:00I have metal implanted.....IN MY FACENot even a year ago, I had a surgery. And not just any surgery. <div><br /></div><div>I had a surgery.......on my FACE. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>queen</i> back then. The highest, richest, most important queen <i>ever</i>. That was how square and underbite-ish my jaw was. I was freakin' JOAN OF ARC. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyways....what was I saying? </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, right. My jaw. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>that </i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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! </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, give yourself a pat on the back. </div><div><br /></div><div>You are a trooper. With a perfect smile. Be proud.</div><div><br /></div><div>And love it. </div><div> </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-14768513464263914882011-09-11T08:39:00.000-07:002011-09-11T09:38:27.668-07:00The Thoughts of an 18-year-old on September 11, 2011Well, today marks the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in New York. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>The world has enough anger and hatred in it.</div><div><br /></div><div>We would not be helping anyone by adding to it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So let's go against the current, and do the opposite. </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-30461534437611933572011-07-17T17:20:00.001-07:002011-10-02T04:32:06.339-07:00Alice in Wonderlad: A Rambling Literary Retro/Introspective....actually, no, I just talk about Tim Burton's Alice in WonderlandOne thing I remember vividly from my childhood is a certain Disney cartoon....A whimsical, jolly, rambling little animated adventure known as Alice in Wonderland. <div><br /></div><div>I did not like this movie.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, wait. Let me rephrase. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hated this movie. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>have </i>a story? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>And it was.....okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>What? Don't give me that look. That's just my personal opinion. I suck. That's the way of things.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>More specifically, I love Alice in Wonderland in Tim Burton movie form.</div><div><br /></div><div>What? I shouldn't love it? It was a stupid and overrated movie? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>Heck if I know. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will defend it, though. With great passion and enthusiasm, I will defend it. Just watch.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>"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. <i>Duh</i>. 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 <i>underneath </i> our own. A sort of parallel dimension. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-10654547148878062302011-02-24T12:53:00.000-08:002011-04-27T19:02:11.593-07:00Tips for You in Art<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>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:</div><div style="font-weight: bold; "><b><br /></b></div><b>Be Loose, Be Relaxed</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>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!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcak8TM-X9rPYQd_x4ECd0YBB7NTrisuskq5WJ34oiqzsLhWdwTUcML4Lwe7ntB4Ov2S0PefxeHrhwR1Kub75myqNvJ54pardplDBUl1gJrAYA_6kJ7j7NfbR6lNWbV48BOIZt1ohb94i/s320/scribble+blog.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577371890512441442" /></div><div><br /></div><div><b> Don't Chicken Out</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>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! </div><div><br /></div><div>Allow me to explain:</div><div><br /></div><div>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?) </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a work in progress.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was blessed with two gifts - my own sense of observation, and a vivid imagination. I am <i>not</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you see an amazing painting, admire it. Let it inspire you. <i>Don't wish that you could paint like that</i>. Remember that drawing and painting and sculpting is a skill, one that you can learn if you practice. <i>Don't ever doubt your capabilities. </i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-75909022534477001632011-01-24T19:46:00.000-08:002011-01-24T19:49:44.220-08:00Yessss.....Well. It's...been a while.<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which will not be often. (Cough.)</div><div><br /></div><div>At any rate, thank you and all that. Tootles! </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-43272903604843295402010-12-24T15:17:00.000-08:002010-12-24T15:40:27.092-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVE1TRkQN3jByXqA7lCcYEqxuJxSlshNRdfCeFMHMQuTz5aw4qvVkwinLBE33Et7pi7ITzu3T8wkORHAE0CnRHGPHe1ltQNYfBpfBXDfCIm8OPDlWsSLlqC7OsjlkSU4lfB7SfC0ldpt4/s1600/Gehnn+lounge+shading+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOVE1TRkQN3jByXqA7lCcYEqxuJxSlshNRdfCeFMHMQuTz5aw4qvVkwinLBE33Et7pi7ITzu3T8wkORHAE0CnRHGPHe1ltQNYfBpfBXDfCIm8OPDlWsSLlqC7OsjlkSU4lfB7SfC0ldpt4/s320/Gehnn+lounge+shading+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554392477898314434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeWO3ltZxnkjJtMLosZbeb9aaUOGyygm3wnfIpFOZ8LS-ugGqy8gGLCO4FvT453qcHN5tuDOa_0qFRAXOLDsOUehh3kywHBIacUFmrQzHwviDLhUMwnPXj07DoxMTlOMn6BjMQPuNhqsG/s1600/Gehnn+lounge+color.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeWO3ltZxnkjJtMLosZbeb9aaUOGyygm3wnfIpFOZ8LS-ugGqy8gGLCO4FvT453qcHN5tuDOa_0qFRAXOLDsOUehh3kywHBIacUFmrQzHwviDLhUMwnPXj07DoxMTlOMn6BjMQPuNhqsG/s320/Gehnn+lounge+color.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554392398336170994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdFCaDsM4jTYHUibBVeZtz3mJ8seg4mrLLa9D2-cbTvQaVuvu4FfLanFxTzETYH5R6QI60Rh7OtaxBrW5g3eWuH-ElXvZ1k_vr589Ma7pNhvaUtoDzGGvktOteUWpekOnMfr5tMeOcO8K/s1600/Gehnn+lounge+ink.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdFCaDsM4jTYHUibBVeZtz3mJ8seg4mrLLa9D2-cbTvQaVuvu4FfLanFxTzETYH5R6QI60Rh7OtaxBrW5g3eWuH-ElXvZ1k_vr589Ma7pNhvaUtoDzGGvktOteUWpekOnMfr5tMeOcO8K/s320/Gehnn+lounge+ink.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554392327333436786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugHeb8H2skb3a4T9U3kIYnta-s91deSGQFFMC-i9EvEwtytifLOTSNV7BI0JhzjorDGS6-B2mhqOtErJGF_favzDZ1FVd2ra_UEOfYaEehshl3Ouv8L6dpOaZkcHvvyVL_TlNrMTkjSGq/s1600/Gehnn+lounge+inksketch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugHeb8H2skb3a4T9U3kIYnta-s91deSGQFFMC-i9EvEwtytifLOTSNV7BI0JhzjorDGS6-B2mhqOtErJGF_favzDZ1FVd2ra_UEOfYaEehshl3Ouv8L6dpOaZkcHvvyVL_TlNrMTkjSGq/s320/Gehnn+lounge+inksketch.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554392202698411186" /></a><br />Taking a look at my process here. This took about 3 1/2 hours to complete. All done on PhotoShop with my Wacom tablet. If the layout is backwards, it's because of my depressingly bad computer skills. And the fact that I am too lazy to go back and fix it. Sorry about that. I fail!<div><br /></div><div>The picture on the bottom is the original sketch. I'm not sure what I was really thinking of in terms of background. Looking at it again makes me think 'absolutely nothing at all'. In my head, I had only envisioned the girl posed in a sort of lounging position. When it came to sketching it, I hurriedly added the window-ledge-whatever around her so that I could get my bearings on how she would be leaning. Or something like that. As you can see, the window mysteriously disappeared after the second stage. </div><div><br /></div><div>The second stage was polishing the lines a little bit - lowering the opacity on the first sketch, adding another layer, and then going over the lines again. Sort of fine-tuning it, getting a better idea of the pose. I then lowered the opacity on the second layer, making it so that the lines were slightly darker than the original sketch's. </div><div><br /></div><div>Third stage - added another layer, and then did the polished inkwork. Smoothing out the lines and whatnot. Most annoying part of the process. At least, it is for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>In stage 4, I create yet another layer, and then place it below the final ink layer. I erase the two earlier sketch layers, and then decide on colors. Gehnn (the character pictured here) has a sort of plain, muted look, so I keep it relatively simple. Her wardrobe goes more for function and comfort than fashion. Am now enjoying myself immensely. </div><div><br /></div><div>LAST STAGE is shading 'n shining. Well, more shading than shining. Shining comes later, when I have time. Anyways, imagining where the light source is, and outlining and filling the shadows accordingly. Adding a shiny silver sheen to the metal parts of her boots. Finishing up, and yes! I am done! </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, almost. There's still the shining to do. And a background, I suppose. But for now that's good enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now I must go watch White Christmas with my mother. Tootle pip! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHw6Y7ygxrVh8DUSOxjZSMxW0secIVnIjpHUnqGHep-J5SBexW4oi9nCErJ3hPZbyg7sAy2I7TjOGRU0huzbKjIqXPGhamNmCF80Eu0EptjCmsNQKZbAlBK31Dm0KOYxnKzvCieLxVddD4/s1600/Gehnn+lounge+sketch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHw6Y7ygxrVh8DUSOxjZSMxW0secIVnIjpHUnqGHep-J5SBexW4oi9nCErJ3hPZbyg7sAy2I7TjOGRU0huzbKjIqXPGhamNmCF80Eu0EptjCmsNQKZbAlBK31Dm0KOYxnKzvCieLxVddD4/s320/Gehnn+lounge+sketch.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554392095926155522" /></a><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-57030251779895423562010-12-13T15:36:00.001-08:002010-12-13T16:12:17.585-08:00MOOVAAAYSHere is something about me that not many people know (oh, no, wait...): I. LOVE. MOVIES.<div><br /></div><div>As long as I can remember, one of the most exciting and nostalgic parts of my childhood was going to the movie theater. There are three in my hometown - the Del Oro Theater, Sierra Cinemas, and Sutton Cinemas. My favorite was, and still is, Del Oro. Sierra Cinemas is perhaps the most modern(ish) of the three, and has the most screens. Sutton is....well....it's tiny, and not very high quality, but by gum they show some good movies. Sometimes. Usually, you only go there if the movie you want to see is playing there (I think there's an agreement among the theaters that no one movie will be played in any of the theaters at the same time). But ANYWAY - they just can't compare to Del Oro. It's the oldest, the prettiest, and by far the most atmospheric. Walking into the main theater, you really feel like you're going to see something amazing. Not just walking in and sitting down in front of a huge screen, but as if you are actually going to <i>see </i>something. Does that make sense? Probably not. You'll just have to go there and see for yourself. Meh. </div><div><br /></div><div>At any rate, speaking of movies, I went to see Voyage of the Dawn Treader this weekend with some friends at Sierra Cinemas. I had seen the trailer, and thought that it looked like it might be decent. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe had been really good, and Prince Caspian was okay, verging on pretty good. I was hoping for some of the fantasy elements of the books being more present in the movie this time. Boy, was I disappointed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, it wasn't a bad movie. My philosophy about movies based off of books is to mentally separate them, so that when I go to see the movie, I won't be biased based on how accurate it was to the book, or based on the fact that it IS based on the book and thus must be worth seeing (Harry Potter, anyone?). So I see the movie as a completely different story, a different media. Which is exactly what it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>Watching Dawn Treader, I was impressed with the special effects, and the way they were presented. Most of it was absolutely beautiful - my favorite scene was at the end, with the sea of white flowers floating in the water. Gorgeous. </div><div><br /></div><div>That said, the CGI was also a problem. As cool as it was, it was just....EVERYWHERE. The entire film was just smothered in it. There are some movies that can maybe make this work (ahem Avatar cough cough), but in others it's just a distraction, and can grow to be very annoying. </div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, the movie was just way too flashy and not very subtle. And not just the CGI, but the plot and the writing. No, the movie does not follow the book, in case you're wondering. I mean, it had the essential bits (the painting with the ship, Eustace being turned into a dragon, etc.), but mostly it was all from the writer's imaginations. But, as I've said, I don't really like to involve that in my movie viewing, so that's just an aside for easily infuriated movie-goers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Again, nothing was very subtle. In a good movie - in a good <i>story, </i>just in general - much of what the characters are thinking is left up to the reader's/viewers interpretation. The actors won't give long monologues about how depressing their life is, they won't even openly talk about their feelings. When they do, it's sort of (inadvertently) condescending to the audience. If you're too oblivious to figure out what's going one without a long explanation, then why the heck are you watching this movie? I like to be treated like I can understand the course of events without having every plot point explained to me. That's closer to real life - no one walks up to you when you're confused and explains what you should do next. You have to figure it out on your own. And that's that. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, Dawn Treader certainly was not made up of monologues or anything. But it doesn't leave much to your imagination. The story the writers give you is just very tired out - you've heard or read something like it many times before. And that sort of makes it a bit dull. Halfway through the movie, you're thinking "Come on, I know how this is going to end. Why are they stretching it out?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, well. Let's hope the next movie is better. What IS the next book anyway? Let me check.....</div><div><br /></div><div>The Silver Chair. Aye yi yi YI. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, one can only hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will say this - the actor who played Eustace was awesome. At least in the beginning. He's excellent at portraying an obnoxious schoolboy who thinks he's a genius. It was sort of weird when he started behaving nicely. I mean, that's not bad, it's just - </div><div><br /></div><div>(slip BANG)</div><div><br /></div><div>Ouch. </div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-61520705807148928752010-11-30T18:57:00.001-08:002010-11-30T19:09:17.275-08:00Cartoons Are Wonderful<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVsSoLI51_GjPkK8G7CN_-tEl4v7kMgfKWt-RNnE_8R5vO0ZXlgAsYns1QD2tVyL-h_0pxpuxOPb6lu5_BWwn3uvlGtb9kmMfRlwZj7zCAcAdMDNEFwyUnMH3vp6S545m9AIIElV-yMTx/s1600/BLOGGGERcopy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVsSoLI51_GjPkK8G7CN_-tEl4v7kMgfKWt-RNnE_8R5vO0ZXlgAsYns1QD2tVyL-h_0pxpuxOPb6lu5_BWwn3uvlGtb9kmMfRlwZj7zCAcAdMDNEFwyUnMH3vp6S545m9AIIElV-yMTx/s320/BLOGGGERcopy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545543023476844626" /></a><br />Just finished this today! Took me about 45 minutes. (does it show? :3)<div><br /></div><div>Ahh. Drawing cartoons is very relaxing. It really takes the pressure off on you to make something look as realistic and awesome as possible (not that cartoons aren't awesome!). It gives you a chance to just fool around, have fun, draw something absolutely ridiculous. You can also use it to experiment with your style a bit. Very fun! </div><div><br /></div><div>And of course, some cartoonists have a gorgeous way of drawing, as is evidenced by the style of Yuko Ota in the webcomic Johnny Wander (check out johnnywander.com - it'll be worth your while), or the style of Lucy Knisley (um....well, she wrote a book called 'French Milk' and has a website somewhere...meh, just Google it. You'll find her.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe someday I'll write a highly detailed blogpost about the amazingness of cartoon drawing, but right now I am lazy and tired. Yawn. Away with ye.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-3181470045736691102010-11-15T11:39:00.000-08:002010-11-16T20:51:13.265-08:00SenioritisBeen thinking about a few things recently. <div><br /></div><div>You know, it's only the beginning of the year and I've already got what is called "senioritis". For those few weird people who don't know, "senioritis" is this condition that high school seniors develop, usually towards the end of the year, where they just stop caring about EVERYTHING and ANYTHING. Basically, you just want the school year to end so that you can grab your high school diploma and get <i>on </i>with your life. You're sick and tired of sitting in the classroom counting the minutes until the class is over, you're sick and tired of looking at colleges and getting good grades (or not, in some cases), you're sick and tired of worrying about everything from where you're going to live next year to how you did on that stupid English test - after four years you just want it to END.<div><br /></div><div>Sound familiar? <i>No</i>? Oh, you poor, sorry excuse for a human being. </div><div><br /></div><div>As you might imagine, this is a very unhealthy condition to be developing this early in the year. But the thing is, I don't care about anything anymore, so I can't really bring myself to be concerned about it. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>However, in the attempt to <i>make </i>myself concerned about it, I did a lot of thinking. You know, about the future. And stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I <i>realized....</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i></i>This is a very....trying step in my life, to say in the least. This is practically my last year living at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>But....to tell the truth? I'm not entirely unhappy about it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not that I won't miss my parents, or living at home. When I leave this house, I am going to be shouldering the responsibilities of being independent - I will be, in essence, an adult. Well, sort of. My parents will help pay for my tuition and stuff, but that's beside the point.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I mean is, I am moving on with my life. Which is both absolutely terrifying and quite possibly the most exciting thing I have ever done. Sort of a conflicting that way. So I am both terrified and excited. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I went into high school, and while I was IN high school, I have had people tell me:</div><div><br /></div><div>"<i>You know, these are the best years of your life. High school is the best time you'll ever have. It doesn't get much better than that.</i>"</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Well</i>, I thought reflectively to myself, <i>if this is as good as my life will ever get, my life is totally going to suck. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>My entire life, school and I have had something of a hate/hate relationship. I hated it, It (in all its sentient glory) hated me. And despite many attempts (and believe me, there <i>were </i>many), there was no reconciling this. I tried having a positive attitude, smiling at everything (didn't work - only increased my reputation as some sort of crazy hermit person, only in the form of a teenage girl), trying to get good grades (I am such a skillful procrastinator that this never worked), trying to take an interest in my subjects, etc. Nothing worked. And so, somewhere in my elementary school years, I gave up. And so when people told me that these are the best years of my life (they STILL tell me this - they actually seem to tell me a lot more often, now that I'm a senior), I felt a deep pit of depression sink through my chest and give me a horrible stomachache.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the middle of my junior year, though, I decided something: that whole 'high school is the best' thing is crap. Maybe they're the best times for the popular kids who've got it made in high school, but let's face it - that's just sad. I've known people who just never got their heads out of their high school years, and look back on them with wistful regret, never getting on with their lives because they're convinced that the climax of their lives has already passed. That's not going to be me, no sir. As far as I'm concerned, the day I finally take that high school diploma and do a little victory dance on the stage (probably involving the worm), my life will finally BEGIN. I mean, not that my life isn't going on right now, but that's when I'll be OUT and into THE WORLD.</div><div><br /></div><div>My lands, what a frightening thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>Recently, one of my teachers made a surprisingly wise statement: "Here's the facts, kids: high school is weird. It's full of all this stupid drama and adjustment and all this other crap. Life outside of high school is not like that. High school isn't what life really is. Life is different, and it's a whole lot better, if you ask me." </div><div><br /></div><div>Well said. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's not a word-for-word quote, of course, but that's the gist of it. And it's true. High school IS weird. It's full of a bunch of kids who are doing a lot of growing in a very short amount of time. They aren't adults, they aren't children, they're somewhere in between. And it's a tough adjustment, one that is full of, yes, drama and all this other crap. So it really isn't logical to assume that life in the outside world is like that, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I like that. If there is one thing that I have absolutely no qualms about, it's leaving high school behind me. And you can be sure that I will only look back when I'm having troubles with my life, and need to remember that although my life isn't easy, it could be a heckuva lot worse.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because the truth is, life gets better after high school. And that's a <i>fact</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-5436332354294234062010-11-01T17:25:00.000-07:002010-11-01T17:34:52.614-07:00Vengeful Bacon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVt8yLsfihRG0JGLDk3EyOOSzeB90xVDohMPozgXPvlieVaSqjO7B4oIYgBNEvewlG-LSRYSQREA3bwcQbZYfEBjfFLqOQp5vyGY4PTzMeV5lzekJ1Yrx5TIZh0fONZOmmkOxAteF8Goz-/s1600/The+Bacon+copy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVt8yLsfihRG0JGLDk3EyOOSzeB90xVDohMPozgXPvlieVaSqjO7B4oIYgBNEvewlG-LSRYSQREA3bwcQbZYfEBjfFLqOQp5vyGY4PTzMeV5lzekJ1Yrx5TIZh0fONZOmmkOxAteF8Goz-/s320/The+Bacon+copy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534742854320440338" /></a><br />It is my theory that pigs, in retribution for being sliced up and then sizzled on a pan, live as vengeful spirits that throw bacon grease at you when you least expect it.<div><br /></div><div>Aren't my cartooning skills amazing? It's like I took ten hours instead of fifteen minutes to draw this....? </div><div> <div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-6994301795450531372010-10-22T21:39:00.000-07:002011-03-28T10:21:14.894-07:00I Am A Booky Nerd - Brandon Sanderson?????This past week, I had the pleasure of going to Utah to visit my older sisters and go tour a few schools. As part of our regular Utah Tradition, I also got to go to BYU bookstore. <div><br /></div><div>Going in to the Science Fiction/Fantasy section, I notice that there is a very prominent display of books set up at the front of the aisle. Upon closer examination, I saw that the display revolved around the recent works of a certain author by the name of Brandon Sanderson. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, just to set the record straight, I had read a few of Mr. Sanderson's books before seeing this display. This is not like my introduction into Twilight (lesson learned - never take reading suggestions from girls my own age). This display simply made me remember those books that I had read, and made me reflect on them. Key word: MADE me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, the first book I ever read by Brandon Sanderson was the first book in the Mistborn series. My dad had borrowed it from the library (if I remember correctly) and when he finished with it he let me read it (this was, once again, one of my book-less periods). </div><div><br /></div><div>I liked it. It was decent. Not necessarily amazing, but still a LOT better than a lot of other fantasy books I've subjected myself to in the past. Maybe, someday, I'll read the sequel. Maybe the entire series. But so far, I haven't been especially motivated to do so, which will give you some idea of what the books were like. </div><div><br /></div><div>At any rate, after reading <i>Mistborn</i>, I decided to read his debut novel, <i>Elantris</i>. Again, I was somewhat impressed, but not spectacularly so. It was a good book. Just not an amazing one. </div><div><br /></div><div>So you see that there is a pattern with Mr. Sanderson's books, at least with me. I'm sure that other people would love his books, but I am not those people. That is the way of things. And so it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure why I am blogging this, but there you have it. Have a loverly day. :3</div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-798007213030907081.post-92088332331882481392010-10-15T10:33:00.000-07:002010-10-15T10:40:34.585-07:00Back To Earth (sort of...?)Aha! Ahahahahaha! Ha!<div><br /></div><div>I am BACK, baby! And, boy, have I got something to tell YOU! </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, sort of. It's something that no one will care about but me, but I think it still warrants a blog post. </div><div><br /></div><div>You remember that webcomic I was going to do? That supposedly full-color fantasy webcomic? Of COURSE you don't! </div><div><br /></div><div>Well anyway, there's been a....semi-change of the plans. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have decided that full-color is overrated and decided to go with greyscale. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Translation: I have no freakin' idea how to color hand-inked images on PhotoShop and so I gave up trying to find out)</div><div><br /></div><div>The plot's changed a bit as well - my original idea was......really complex. I didn't realize how complicated it was until I started on it and got lost in my own story. So, while I intend to do that story when I'm a wee bit more experienced at some obscure point in the future, I am going to do a slightly less complex one. I am actually really looking forward to this, as I have wondered what to do with this particular idea for a long time and now finally have an excuse to use it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So there you have it. </div><div><br /></div>GerunKnarlsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11028545513637325339noreply@blogger.com0