The Kara Chronicles

An Homage to Old Cinema

2012-02-06T12:09:00.000-08:00

I remember those special Tuesdays. Once a year on a Tuesday morning at 6:45am, my dad would meet and greet me at the Cheremoya Elementary School bus stop with a little piece of paper. This wasn't just any old piece of paper, it was the golden ticket that listed all of the Academy Award nominations for the year.

Every year all the Best Picture nominees at the Academy Awards can somehow be linked together around a common theme. Although some years this theme is more implicit than others, it is pretty clear that this year's common thread amongst many films is a tribute to the cinema and a recreation of the past: From the birth of talking pictures to the birth of visual effects and magic on the silver screen, from a time warp into 1920s Paris to the depiction of the beginning of life itself through naturally-created special effects, many of these films avoid futuristic plot lines and escape into the magic of the past.

Martin Scorcese's Hugo, which topped the nominee list this year, follows a young boy who lives inside and maintains the clocks within the Gare Montparnasse Paris train station in the 1930s. Hugo finds himself on a parallel journey: While attempting to fix an old automaton, which he hopes is embedded with a secret message from his late father, a clockmaker, Hugo forms a relationship with the old and bitter toy shop owner within the railway station, who recognizes the automaton drawings and dislikes anything to do with the movies. When Hugo meets Isabelle, the shop owner's goddaughter, Hugo notices she possesses the very heart-shaped key needed to activate the automaton. Together Hugo and Isabelle embark upon an adventure to discover the secret life of her godfather, Mr. George Melies, the innovative filmmaker who brought fantasy and special effects to the screen in the 1900s. This is the touching and engaging story of a young boy with a love for cinema trying to unlock the mysterious door to a repressed filmmaker's past. Who knew Martin Scorcese could make a PG film comparable to his linguistically-colorful Rated-R classics (Goodfellas and Raging Bull)? The audience gets to experience two magical worlds—that of Hugo as he literally plays with time and that of the real filmmaker George Melies, whose movies brought fantasy and surrealism to the screen. For the underexposed moviegoers out there, Hugo is indeed a Trip to the Moon (George Melies, 1902) worth studying, a three-dimensional modern tribute to the cinematograph and classic visual effects.

Martin Scorcese's Hugo, Nominated for 11 Academy Awards.

Let's not forget some of the other nominated films that take a step back in time. Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris brings some of the most prolific writers and painters from the past onto the screen. Paris is an off-beat Cinderella tale about a struggling screenwriter and dreamer who, upon the stroke of midnight for several consecutive nights, steps into a fairy tale, carried away in a coach to meet his greatest inspirations. From Ernest Hemingway to Gertrude Stein to Picasso and Degas, the writer seeks criticism and validation for his novel. Only by journeying backwards can Gil Pender move forward with his novel, free his mind from judgment, and accept his imagination.

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris, Nominated for 4 Academy Awards.


Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, Nominated for 3 Academy Awards.

There were a handful of other great films this year that do not fall under the theme of looking back. Lars von Trier's Melancholia, for example, takes a visually-stunning and emotionally-heavy look forward at the inescapable end of the world, and it's never looked so beautiful. Yet I believe what we've needed this year is a bit of magic and hope, to wine and dine with F. Scott Fitzgerald in Paris; to watch dinosaurs and evolution come to life in Terrence Malick's epic The Tree of Life, who is able to capture the essence of everything innocent and sacred in this world from infants taking their first precious steps to childhood adolescence; to experience the birth of sound and experience sheer joy watching an ode to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers tap dance across the screen in The Artist.

That same excitement I used to get waiting for the nomination list at the bus stop has resurfaced. The Academy Awards are even bringing the classic Billy Crystal back to host this year's ceremony. I know where I will be on Sunday, February 26th— paying homage to old cinema and letting my imagination escape into the past and the wonderful magic of the movies.

Michel Hazanavicius's The Artist. Nominated for 10 Academy Awards.

A Little Larry David In All Of Us

2012-01-23T21:22:00.000-08:00

Saturday night I was at the symphony for a live performance of Haydn's"Creation" Oratorio, a beautiful chorale work on the beginning oflife — plants, animals, archangels, Adam, Eve — a piece I had never heard and,to be frank, a piece that required some deep concentration on my part. Thirty minutes into the piece, my ears caught an irritating sound. Not paperbags rustling or the opening of a candy wrapper; not the usual symphony ofcoughing trying to compete with the orchestra. This time, the sound wascoming from two seats across — a man rubbing his significant other's back, niceand slow. Awww, smiley face :) For the first few minutes, I tolerated the noise,for it was sweet that the older gentleman was petting his lady; after that,however, the zipper-like, windshield wiper sound of the lady's polyester jacketreally started to get on my nerves. I was no longer paying attention to thesoloists' lovely voices. I was too busy telling the guy off in my head whilestaring at him.

At thismoment, I channeled the neurotic, candid, stubbornly opinionated, and often anasshole, Larry David from HBO's hit comedy series, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Onlydifference is, most of us on this planet we call Earth, are non-confrontationaland would rather let anything from minor pet peeves to feelings of unjust ordiscrimination build up inside until we explode, perhaps even at the wrong timeor towards the wrong person (Sorry journal!). The closest thing we haveto a Larry David in America is road rage, giving strangers we don't even knowthe middle finger, a vulgar neologism (like asscracker, wankjob, or fuckhole,for example), or tailgating the douche who won't risk a speeding ticket likeyou will just to drive 100mph; to instill fear is the angry driver's goal.

Now I knowpeople who can't stand Curb Your Enthusiasm, being described as a littletoo honest, awkward, or embarrassing to watch. Larry David either makes youcringe with anxiety or fume in disgust. Even The Office's David Brent isless humiliating. Whether instigating conflict or retaliating towards someone'sbehavior, Larry will confront the situation and continue to dwell on theproblem until some sort of resolution, ie. he is right, occurs. Wherever hegoes, trouble brews; most of the time, he creates it (picking up a hooker whohappens to be carrying marijuana just to use the carpool lane, stealing thehead off a little girl's doll to replace another, feigning an even more thanusual obnoxious jerk persona just to get out of caring for his girlfriend withcancer. Even if Larry has good intentions or does something we all do (throw anapple core in a neighbor's garbage can, buy his girlfriend's flamboyant son thesewing machine he wants for his birthday, allow a battered women's shelter freeaccess to his laundry machine, bring a limousine driver leftover food), theblame ends up in the hands of LD. He is destined for disaster, a real"social assassin."

I can't getenough of his honesty and meddling in other peoples' affairs. In Larry David'sbald, ethical world, there is clearly a right and a wrong way to behave andshow respect, which he must always communicate to the perpetrator. If JasonAlexander borrows an expensive pen from him and precedes to suck on it andstick it inside his ear, it's understandable that Larry would no longer wantthe pen and, instead, request a replacement. If Julia Louis-Dreyfus blames youfor leaving a ring stain on her expensive, wooden table when you know you neverset a cup down on that table, you too may defend yourself. Perhaps you wouldn'tstart interrogating everyone who attended the party to find the guilty ringstain culprit. "Do you respect wood?" Larry asked surreptitiously;this question cost Larry getting back together with his former wife, Cheryl.

Should Ihave spoken up during the concert, asking the patron with a thing for polyesterto cut it out? Should I have pulled a Larry David? Most of us don't have the balls,and when we do, our window of time has closed. One things for certain: AfterLarry confronts, and draws out, his issue at hand, it's over. While the other party inthe debacle typically walks away even more annoyed and disgruntled than before, Larry walksaway feeling better for speaking his mind. He moves onto his next activity orincident.

Don't get mewrong, it would be quite scary and chaotic if we all turned into Larry Davidand created big things out of the most trivial matters. Perhaps we'd haveanother war. What I'm suggesting is this—ifsomething's bothering you and causing you physical or mental unrest, perhaps,once in awhile, you should revert to the nearly nonexistent piece of LarryDavid that resides in your brain and say something. Speak up! What's the worstthat could happen? (To answer this question, watch every episode of CurbYour Enthusiasm ever made.)

Open Air Enlightenment? Part Two

2012-01-17T14:36:00.000-08:00

So where was I? Ah, yes. I am about to jump out of a plane 12,500 feet high where I risk plummeting to a loud and extremely rapid death.

However, before I do, I should establish a bit more fear and suspense!

After the lady in charge rushed our final signatures on the "death" forms, she made it clear that we had taken so long to read over the very important documents, we had to rush through the next steps. This meant everything leading up to the imminent skydive. I don't know why it's called skyDIVING when it's not graceful in the least. It should be skyPUSH perhaps, or skyDIE- just kidding! One by one, each of us "divers" were called by our tandem instructors to tell us what to do. My guy was from Denmark and had come out to beautiful America, to the lovely city of Perris, California, just to jump out of planes. He was tall, lean, and a bit bossy. "Here, put this on." He gave me a tight, stick-it-to-da-thighs blue, one-piece jumpsuit, which I later realized was one of the coolest uniforms I have ever worn in my life. Talk about a killer Halloween costume! All three of us looked like astronauts getting ready for the next Apollo mission, except a little more spastic and out of shape. With my suit and backpack on, I appeared ready to go. Next Kenneth, my instructor, explained to me the rules of the sky, everything from body and hand signals to the procedure. I laughed in disbelief when he assigned me the task of pulling the bright orange golf ball and releasing the parachute. Um...are you sure you want me to take on this responsibility? He said he couldn't do all the work. Lazy!

As my boyfriend's mom snapped pictures of her three brave astronauts about to deploy for battle with mother nature, I started to shut down. Am I really doing this? My smile tells me yes, but my stomach is sending me all sorts of mixed signals.

I guess Kenneth liked to be the first one on the plane, because no one was following us into the small plane painted like Jaws, the shark. "I want to jump first," the brave words escaped my mouth. I have always want to be the first one to go when it came to class presentations and other nerve-racking events. Why shouldn't this be the same? This way, I wouldn't have to watch everyone else risk death right in front of me. I could jump and allow fate lead me to my destiny.

"Where's your helmet?" Kenneth asked nonchalantly. My boyfriend says that he will never forget the complete look of terror on my face at that moment. "Helmet? I didn't get a helmet. Are we supposed to have a helmet?" This was the epitomy of fear. No helmet equals no head at the end, I thought. Well, it appeared that none of the jumpers received a helmet; I have the feeling that the skydive instructors forgot to tell their jumpees to bring a helmet often, because they just smiled and brushed it off like it happens all the time. They are thrill-seekers after all? What do they care?

The side door of the plane opened, and I could feel a gust of air slap my face. The ten of us were now 5,000 feet in the air. "We're about halfway! How do you feel?" the videographer asked us excitedly. The best I could do was a thumbs up gesture with my constipated facial expression. Then the first guy jumped. He was there, and then he was gone. That would be me.

9,000 feet in the air. This was it. There was no turning back now. Kenneth and I were strapped together, bound for life, without a helmet. I asked him to tighten the straps on top. He reviewed the procedure with me in gestural form. Pull the golf ball, pull the golf ball.

Oh my god, oh my god. 12,000 feet. "You ready?" We were sliding towards the open vacuous space. I think I heard every cuss word in my head at that moment.

12,500 feet. I didn't even have time to say goodbye to those behind me. What is this was the end? I kneeled on my right knee as instructed with my head already in the fearless sky.

One...two...and with a push and a shove, we were live in the sky. I didn't even realize how far we had dropped, because I was screaming so much (Kenneth told me earlier that screaming would help me breathe).

It was so surreal and too blurry to recall my exact feelings at that moment in time, in all of two minutes. I was fighting gravity to the max. The next thing I knew Kenneth was tapping my shoulder, and I had pulled the golf ball! The rollercoaster ride had ceased, and we were dangling from the hovering parachute above us. I took in the vast land beneath, my two legs dangling in the still air.

The landing was a smooth ride; two straight legs led me to the grassy finish. I had done it. No death, no injuries. Just a major head rush.

I reunited with my fellow cadets, high fiving, hugging, and all the corny, sentimental movie crap we've all seen before. The astronauts had landed safely.

Was I enlightened from this experience? Did it change my life? Well, I didn't hear Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" as I had imagined, but, let's just say, I now have a bucket list over a page long. What once seemed petrifying is now an attainable challenge or thrill to come.

Open Air Enlightenment? Part One

2012-01-09T21:59:00.000-08:00

In the very first scene of the new HBO series Enlightened, the protagonist, Amy Jellicoe, played by Laura Dern, an executive at a large product company in the Inland Empire’s Riverside, California, suffers a public meltdown when the married man she slept with, who happens to be her superior, transfers her to another department. This opening scene of the show sucks the audience in through Amy’s hysterics and explosion onscreen. In contrast to the anxiety and panic present in the first scene, the following cuts to shots of Amy at Open Air, the rehabilitation treatment center she visits in Hawaii. Amy’s calm and soothing voiceover relays to the audience her new-found connection with her inner spiritual being and her current state of peace and happiness. Amy has now reached enlightenment.

On Friday, January 6th, I had a surreal experience jumping out of a plane; I've always wanted to go skydiving. Channeling my inner mantra beforehand, I assumed I would reach enlightenment as Amy claimed she had after Open Air (from watching the entire season, the audience discovers that perhaps Amy still has some inter and intrapersonal issues to resolve). I thought perhaps I would reach some epiphany about what my purpose is in this world; perhaps I would reach my calling and have some sort of transcendental experience, connecting with natural elements and to some higher power. Hah! I think the whole experience fell closer to Amy’s panic and state of complete nervousness from the opening scene. A little surrealism, a little existentialism.

When I told my friends a couple weeks ago that I would be going skydiving, they responded with the following: “Wow, Kara. I wouldn’t take you for a thrill seeker.” I’m not! At least not this kind of thrill seeker— road trips across the U.S., moving to New York on a whim, performing rhyming poetry on masturbation in front of 400 people, and literally “thrilling” San Diego and organizing over 200 people to perform Michael Jackson’s Thriller dance for the annual Thrill the World event were closer to the thrills I have sought in the past.

As my boyfriend, his brother, and I rode in the car towards our petrifying destination, Skydive Perris— as in Perris, California— we were silent. I tried to channel my spiritual side and meditate to get my mind off the bucket list-worthy event to come. I tried to relax and think of the positives. My uncle had done it; friends had jumped into nothingness and survived. Many people consider it one of the greatest things they’ve ever done.

It wasn’t until we arrived at the school, walked past the brave jumpers about to risk their lives, and squeezed into a little room to watch a video on the various DVD packages we could purchase, that the terror really started to sink in. I’m sorry, but I was not thinking about watching myself on YouTube or getting a DVD that would, when played in slow motion, capture my constipated and awkward facial expressions. Do they really want my face and clammy hands representing their company?

The worst part came next. Not only did we have to watch another video in another tiny room of a man who made clear he was not our lawyer but was there to “explain” our legal rights, we also had administrative paperwork to fill out—two large packets, full of redundancies, with what seemed like a million clauses seeking our initials. You know, just in case we die. The company is not responsible. Or are fortunate enough to evade death and get injured, at which point we may want to sue the company or anyone affiliated. The forms were very clear: The company is not responsible. Even if you happen to parachute into an occupied area and become “attached to an aircraft,” in which case you may die—the company is not responsible. This company definitely suffered from issues of low self-esteem and paranoia because we then had to recite aloud, in front of a video camera, the final clause WE ALREADY SIGNED that said we were fully aware and responsible for our own mortality. When public speaking, I tend to enunciate, speak up, and make eye contact. Sometimes I smile. This time, I sounded like a cross between Mumbles from Dick Tracy and a first grader on speed. My jaw was clenched with fear, and my cheeks were sore from pouting and frowning. I’M NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THIS! I wanted to yell from the top of my lungs, but I signed their silly papers and said their silly words anyway…after I asked a few questions about mortality rates.

Now you know I’m just exaggerating about how scared and how chicken I actually was, right? Stay tuned for Part Two and the accompanying DVD (yes, I got one) of my graceful launch into the vast blue sky. Again, exaggeration.

To the symphony!

2011-12-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was little, I have attended the symphony. My dad, an avid classical music aficionado, took my sister and me to the Hollywood Bowl when we were babies. He just recently attended his 400th concert at the venue at which point I rolled my eyes in amazement. Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Mahler...all great composers I had the pleasure of hearing as a little girl. Of course, I was focused on other, what I thought to be more important, things like the treats we would eat at the concerts, walking up and down flights of stairs with my sister in grand hopes of stacking as many cushions as possible at the end of the night (sometimes the ushers wearing silly uniforms gave us money!), and falling asleep on the uncomfortable benches.

Little did I know that my first job at the age of 14 would be that of "House Staff," or Usher at the Hollywood Bowl. My job was to greet and seat all of the patrons.

Growing up, I never understood my dad's love for instrumental music, especially classical music. Doesn't it all sound the same? Isn't Bach pronounced "Batch"? And Wagner pronounced the way it's spelled-- "Wag-ner" (not "Vag-ner")? It was strikingly clear to me that my dad was a nut wearing his "Maestro" shirt and pretending to conduct his own concerts to versions of his favorite pieces in the house (eye roll).

Yet my boyfriend rolled his eyes at me when I pumped my fists in gayety after the first movement of Dvorak's 9th symphony. I couldn't help myself. My head bobbing uncontrollably as if at a dance club. My dad was the first to always clap after the final movement; now I know why I started to tend an ear towards classical pieces while working at the Hollywood Bowl. Accompanied by the chirping sounds of crickets, I'd get lost in the movements--when I could choreograph my own movements and take a break from the chitter chatter and tasks at hand...listening to Beethoven's 9th Symphony, Mendelsshon's Violin Concerto, Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Okay, Dad. I get it now...Classical music is awesome.

So for the rest of that first summer ushering at the Bowl, I would join my dad after intermission to watch the second half of the concerts. I even found myself closing my eyes and yearning to hear my dad's verbose lectures on the historical and technical backgrounds of the pieces. I brought friends, attempting to convert their ears to the delightful adagios, allegros, and andantes, the strings, the horns, the winds, the percussion, the syncopated melodies...Just like movie scores, you can have an entire cinematic experience with instrumental music-- listen to the hook, let it develop, build to a climax, and explode! Plus conductors are usually exciting to watch with their hair in cahoots and their arms flying all over the place.

Classical music stimulates the brain and allows you to escape into romantic and baroque paintings and historical periods. There's a reason most of the contemporary vocal music I like today involves the symphonic and classical elements. Just listen to "Rococo" by Arcade Fire and the music of Sufjan Stevens, Bjork, and Rufus Wainwright. Listen the instrumental works of Rachel's, an American chamber music group, and tell me you are not moved. Go to a coffee shop playing classical music, and tell me you can't get studying done. Watch a movie or dance performance, and tell me that instrumental music does not play an integral role.

Let's just say I am so glad student tickets to the symphony are $10. I may not always remember how a piece of music goes, but once it gets in my head, I invite it to stay and swim for awhile.

Thanks, Dad!

A Little Glee Culture

2011-11-24T16:29:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following for my class on culture. I have found myself analyzing everything and everyone's behavior... Let's start with Glee on this merry holiday!

Every episode of Glee is a study on culture—youth culture, ethnic diversity, and individuals whose passion is to sing in the school glee club. These are the students who end up being the outcasts of the school and indeed get made fun of, bullied, or forced to transfer schools. This is the case of one student in particular, Kurt, who because of his coming out as gay to his dad and the school, gets threatened and bullied by the jocks on the football team. At the beginning of the show, Kurt is already an etic, or outsider, to the rest of the students and his dad. Nobody understands him and his tastes in fashion, musical theatre, and Lady Gaga, of which he is an emic, or insider. Kurt remains an etic to those around him even when he transfers schools from an individualistic, co-ed school to a collective, all male school. Although Kurt becomes friends with Blaine, an “out” and friendly singer who understands him, the only way for Kurt to become a part of the collective and an emic, is to stay on the outside as an etic. There are rules in the new singing group Kurt does not comprehend, and the group frowns upon anyone failing to conform to the school code and uniform. Kurt cannot have a solo or stand out as an individual like he did at his previous school in the Glee club. Perhaps he was more of an insider there than he thought.

It is pretty obvious that Glee represents the ideal culture, though trying to portray the realistic culture of high school. The show deals with many pertinent issues in schools and youth culture of contemporary society—teen pregnancies, bullying, racism, learning disabilities, homophobia, for instance—often times paralleling the dramatic stories with song and dance. Whether something good or bad is occurring on Glee, the drama is taken to the extreme, either completely negative or over-the-top positive. Perhaps that is what the show is about—making the audience aware of these issues and the importance of dealing with them—in a cheesy, melodramatic way. After all, it is Glee, and both the up-tempo bubblegum pop and the sappy power ballads must be sung! Perhaps through the ideal, we get a taste of the real.

The Lives of Others Affect Each Other

2011-11-19T14:00:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched the engaging German film, The Lives of Others which received the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Feature Film back in 2006. You know you like a movie when you can't stop thinking about it the following day...either you ogle the technical and cinematic aspects of the film, or you have an emotional response (often outside your comfort zone), or the story takes a hold of you, and you begin to mentally map all of the events that occurred in the film-- the synchronous events, the what ifs, the chance occurrences, the spontaneity, the parallel stories that end up connecting...I could go on and on. This morning I was thinking about the two main characters in the film and how they both start in one place, experience some sort of cognitive dissonance, and end up in another, ultimately learning from one another.

The Lives of Others takes place in the politically corrupt 1984 East Berlin where an agent of the GDR-controlled Stasi police, Detective Wiesler, conducts a surveillance investigation in the home of a writer and his lover. Used to interrogation and loyalty to the socialist GDR, the rigid and solitary Wiesler becomes completely enveloped in the lives of the passionate and artistic couple, to the point of obstructing the GDR investigation of Dreyman and risking his life to save that of the playwright Dreyman. Wiesler has a vicarious reaction to Dreyman--whereas Dreyman seems to be living, Wiesler lives a lonely, static life. It's not until the latter end of the film, after the Berlin Wall comes down, that Dreyman discovers he was under surveillance and saved by an anonymous Stasi employee with the initials HGW. Although the two characters never meet during the course of the film, the cause-effect relationship creates an affect on both characters. Two characters from two different cultures learn about the other, stereotypes are removed, and their lives are changed for the better.

Granted Wiesler and Dreyman never meet in The Lives of Others, but at some point in the story, there lies a yearning to know the other and an emotional response that develops. I can't get enough of these stories where a partnership develops between two characters-- a white, extroverted criminal and a Native American who does not speak English both happen to be in a Cuckoo's Nest. "Put it in the basket, Chief!" Randall P. McMurphy encourages his quiet pal to play basketball; it is the Chief, not even McMurphy himself, who believes in McMurphy and his optimistic speeches all along. The characters may hit their turning point at different times in the film, but there is nothing more touching than seeing the characters step outside of their cultures and allow someone to challenge them and let them into their worlds...

Perhaps they will end up watching the TV show Countdown daily in comfortable silence, spending Christmases together, and singing "Killing Me Softly" at a petrifying school pop concert together...as in About a Boy.

Perhaps two unlikely strangers Lost in Translation in the city of Tokyo will fall in love and escape reality in the company of each other.

And who could forget the literal connection formed between a young boy and his extraterrestrial friend in E.T.?

These films tug at my heart strings and make me think about all the connections that exist between two people in my neighborhood, in my current city, in the country, world, and even universe. They could be family that never speak, two lovers who share the same bed but not the same future, or two complete strangers that have never met. Either way perhaps one day these two beings will play a role in each others' lives.

An Arousing Aroma Leads to a Food Coma...

2011-11-07T23:55:00.000-08:00

So, Thanksgiving is around the corner...the time to be with family and be thankful for all that you have. A time to be thankful for the gracious meal that lies before you and is about to be impounded into your body until you can't possibly stuff yourself any longer...until you've reached maximum capacity. And you hit those two annual words that send a signal to your brain or stomach or behind that you are a human garbage-- or fowl-- disposal: FOOD COMA. Read the poem below and listen to the audio track to get the full picture... And Happy Turkey Day.

An Arousing Aroma Leads to a Food Coma by Kara Hayes

An Arousing Aroma leads to a Food Coma:
A poem by Kara Hayes

Oh my God.
This feels odd.
What the hell did I consume to place me in this lethargic tomb?
See that turkey leg floating in my womb?
There ain’t no more room.

It all started with one small bite.
A little taste of “sky rockets in flight-
Afternoon delight!”
Mom said to finish my plate
So I ate and ate and ate
Until I licked my slate all clean
As much as my mighty mouth could wham, bam,
Cram and slam.

More beans?
Yes please.
More cheese?
With ease.
How about bread to fill that empty hole?
Another bite to swallow whole?
And milk to do your body good?
If only I could,
I would.

Oh man oh man.
Blast this tryptophan
For making me high
A thousand pies in the sky.
With this fork I thee wed.
With this spoon I have fed.

Stage One: Stuffed.
I’ve had enough.
Stage Two: In pain.
This is insane.
Stage Three: Can’t Move.
Do my toes have grooves?
Stage Four: Can’t Breathe.
Can’t huff. Have started to heave.
Stage Five: Call 9-1-1.
This body weighs a ton.
And my FOOD COMA is done.

Well, maybe one small bite
To make my heart feel just right.

Stung by a Bee!

2011-10-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

If only bees weren't major B-s, bitches that is...who sting you when you're out on a lovely, reflective walk on a rainy day. What the buzz? Why was this one little stinger out in the first place? I was listening to the kind of music that pulls on your heart strings and makes you believe in love and all the beauty in the world... when I felt a piercing sting on my calf. I look down to see my worst enemy attached to my gray tights. Yes, my legs were covered with thick, gray tights-- and they weren't even colored! Who knew bees liked muted, gray fabric? I was already afraid of bees, and now my fear has escalated...great. After so many years of dancing around butt loads of bees during the summer, or frankly, just running perilously from those hairy, striped mothafuckas, I get a venom surprise!

If only bees were bumbling, clumsy baffoons like in The Simpsons, or polite, friendly bees like in The Bee Movie. If only they were all as cute as the Halloween costume I wore as a three year-old, or as skanky as the Halloween costumes one should never wear as a three year-old. [Pretty sad that I when I googled "sexy bee costumes," there were over 500,000 images.]

But alas, they don't talk or strut or pout or beg your pardon. They have stingers that find their way into your skin and leave you with a red, swollen surprise that still hurts. I like honey, but geez.

Listen to my Story...

2011-09-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

So my storytelling went well on 9/9/2011 except for sweating profusely and nearly crying twice. It was hard to go after intermission...since this was different from theater where you cannot see the audience, the nerves kept building.

It was a semi-cathartic experience revealing my personal narrative in front of 100 strangers.

If I had a chance to do it again, I would certainly do a couple of things differently...

Take a listen if you'd like to hear my story, and in the words of Portland Story Theater, Let the narrative be with you!

http://www.portlandstorytheater.com/podcasts/KaraHayes.mp3

Livin' in Rose City

2011-09-26T10:15:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been missing San Francisco, my former home of less than a year. I miss the blend of city and nature; I miss the fast-paced environment of NYC blended with the relaxed, coastal mentality of California. I miss all the cool, creative people I know and love. I miss the kitchen dance parties, the long walks over hills and across bridges, the museums and music venues, and the massive amounts of people that go spend their weekends drinking at the park. It takes a year to really feel like a resident of a town. Unfortunately, I had to move for graduate school before getting that opportunity to know the hidden gems and quirky happenings only a resident could recommend to a visitor.

However, I should look on the bright side-- I now have the chance to truly discover Portland. This past Friday was the first day of autumn, and as a new Portlandian just shy of three months, I find myself excited to experience the falling leaves, rain puddles, and weather that perfectly complements pumpkin spice and gingerbread lattes. I’m excited for the seasons.

So to spark Oregonian enthusiasm, I have started a list of positive Portland pleasantries... I hope to have a journal full of golden nuggets in a year’s time. I hope to fall in love with my new home.

1- Green Goddess! Portland is chalked full of glorious nature... Tree umbrellas align the neighborhoods and forests. Even if you tried, it would be difficult to escape from the beautiful outdoors of the Pacific Northwest. A plethora of creeks, waterfalls, tall trees and redwoods, and lakes, I will never run out of wilderness.

This summer, I hiked everywhere and went kayaking. I took it all in...

2- Soccer City! I think I understand the concept of "team pride" now. I understand how a sport can unify a city in spirit and voice. Portland is home to the Portland Timbers soccer team and the Portland Trailblazers basketball team. I have seen a handful of soccer games this summer, and not only am I more interested in watching and learning about the sport, I have found myself playing soccer and practicing corners and headers with the giddy excitement. It feels amazing to run across the school field and score a goal; supporting your home team feels pretty sweet, too.

Each time I attend a Timbers game, I am amazed by the creative and incredibly catchy (to the point of going crazy) cheers that the Timbers army section belts for over three hours. There is even movement involved and a cheer in which you can hug your neighbor. Everyone is smiling and proud to be in Ohhhh Rose City...Soccer city! Score a goal!

3- Coffee Town! Home to the famous Stumptown coffee roasters and a million others, Portland will never run short of coffee. Not only are there fewer Starbucks and more independent coffee roasters and shops on every corner, there are also exceptional coffee baristas who make quality beverages on a daily basis. I have visited a handful of cafes that make a mean americano-- I am talking about a sexy looking espresso drink that tastes like smooth, caramel goodness. As a coffee addict and a bit of a snob when it comes to the strength of the caffeinated beverage, I am quite impressed and delighted to find a quality shop in walking distance.

Plus most coffee houses serve food and delicious pastries to go with it. Some bake their own bread or make their own ice cream. Some reside in old houses, and others make you feel like your stepping into another era... a Baroque blend perhaps?

4- Food Trucks! Also in walking distance from every hip neighborhood resides a diverse community of food trucks. They are open late and provide tables for picnicking and a delicious variety of edible yummies. Korean tacos, Venezuelan arepas, savory pear and Gruyere crepes, and American baked mac and cheese are some of the mouth-watering street food one can chow in a Portland location near you! I don't think I will ever run out of options.

5- Bike It! Portland is the Number One bike-friendly city in the nation. Bike riding is an environmentally-conscious, physically fun activity that gets people moving quickly without gas around the city. A few entries back, I had just begun to bike ride. Since then I have been on several more, one that did involve riding along side cars and other cyclists-- a ten mile ride! Today I rode my first Portland bridge! My sore legs can remind me of my achievement.

6- Welcome to Portland, and have a nice day! :) Everyone from the drivers to the cashiers at Burgerville, a fast food, healthier Oregonian chain, have been warm and courteous, amiable and peaceful. Both young and old, teachers and classmates, baristas and patrons, bus drivers and pedestrians, I have felt welcome in my new home. One of my friends in San Francisco linked me to a contact here in the city, and immediately,I received an email from her to gather all the new Portlandians together for tea. The ladies and gents at the local coffee shops will spend their time conversing over the hot spots in the city. This segues into my last item on the list...

7- Community! My teaching cohort just went on a team-building retreat at the beautiful Mt. Hood camping grounds. It was an amazing experience-- walking to a gushing waterfall, untying a human knot made up of 26 people, jump roping for the first time in years, sharing talents, singing around a campfire, and playing getting-to-know-you games. Very corny I know but worth it to be out in nature with new classmates and friends who perhaps know what it's like to be in a new city and embarking on a new adventure. I left feeling so warm and happy inside.

I know my list will continue to grow as I continue to discover the gems of Portland.

Storytelling this Friday 9/9...

2011-09-06T21:47:00.001-07:00

Getting ready to tell a personal story in front of a ton of people is never easy...

What has helped me with ideas, structure, practice:

- Walking
- Audio Recording
- Walking w/ audio recording
- Notecards
- Rehearsing in the shower

With each practice, I've gotten off topic... It's got to be easier than performing theatre or dance, right?

Hehe... Right?

A Legend Thrills the World...

2011-08-24T23:21:00.001-07:00

I remember my 23rd birthday fondly-- a joint party for myself and my favorite artist, Michael Jackson. Yes, our birthdays are only 8 days apart. I aligned the walls with Michael Jackson and Jackson Five photos, thumb tacked my stuffed monkey to the wall dressed in my marching band jacket I had worn two previous times for Halloween, and of course, had the King of Pop's music videos playing as guests arrived. It was a black-and-white attire-only party-- white socks and black shoes required, and upon each attendee's arrival, they were given an MJ song that summed up their soulful aura and personality (I was Smooth Criminal and my sister was PYT). Yes, I was a bit obsessed, but I had already been a fan for two decades, and nothing screamed fun more to me than practicing MJ moves with friends in my very own living room.

Today is Michael Jackson's birthday; he would have been 53 years old and in the midst of a comeback. Just watch This is It, and it is clear that he was not done with the world yet. I could spend the remainder of this blog entry writing about how amazing MJ was as a dancer, singer, humanitarian, and all-around entertainer, but I would rather focus on an event designed for communities around the world.

Back in August 2009, around my birthday, I knew I wanted to do something in tribute to the passing legend. I had participated in a voluntary event called Thrill the World back in 2007...you know the YouTube video featuring Filipino inmates dancing in synchronization to the full-length album version of "Thriller"? Well, Thrill the World is basically that but all over the world. Anyone can learn the dance and participate, and, in simultaneous harmony, thousands of people around the globe bust out the moves in zombie gear and in tribute. 2009 was going to be the Thrill the World to remember; MJ fans were ready to unite. I wanted to do more than dance. Since anyone could sign up to be the Event Manager in any city, I decided to go for it. I was going to lead a pack of San Diego zombies on Thrill day.

We held free dance lessons in the community, did flash mobs in parks, malls, and haunted houses. We posted fliers, sent email blasts, and blogged incessantly. We created homemade zombie costumes and promoted on the news. It was a ton of work, and I couldn't have done it without my co-organizer and much help from other fans of MJ, synchronous dancing, and community unity.

There were more zombies dancing in 2009 than any other year thus far, and we broke the World Record for largest simultaneous Thriller dance with 22,923 participants in 264 cities and 33 countries. We had 209 people doing the booty bounce and roar turns in San Diego. It was a wonderful experience, and now, every year, I plan on participating wherever I am. Last year, Los Angeles. This year, Portland.

So today, I encourage you to turn on Pandora, or bust out your ipod, records, cds, or cassettes (I still have mine somewhere) and listen to your favorite Michael Jackson song...Wanna be Startin' Somethin', Smooth Criminal, Man in the Mirror, and Get on the Floor are my choices. Do your best zombie move, and pay tribute to a legend that continues to thrill the world.

http://karamiah.blogspot.com/2011/05/man-in-mirror-reflection-on-legend.html

The Art of Storytelling

2011-08-16T09:37:00.001-07:00

My interest in storytelling began on my move up to San Francisco. After spending too many hours on the road listening to music, my friend Evan asked me if I'd ever listened to The Moth podcast. A podcast on bug biology, I presumed. Gross!

Little did I know, that The Moth would open my mind to a world of possibility, a glimpse and a snapshot into the lives of many individuals. Not quite monologue and a bit astray from stand-up comedy, storytelling was its own art form and unlike anything I'd heard before. Storytelling existed before the printing press. It was all folktales and legends. Communication was by word of mouth. I had no idea that kitchen table stories and everyday happenings in the lives of strangers could be so damn entertaining and engaging. Let's face it--when mom or dad, or someone you know that perhaps verges on gregarious, tells a story, or lectures, we sometimes zone out, wait to talk, substitute their words for blah blah blahs, and listen for a pause so we can escape the torture. In San Francisco, I made it a point to listen to This American Life and The Moth on my nature walks to tune in with the voices and stories through my headphones. I even went to a Marsh storytelling performance.

Interestingly enough, I was recently reading a book for my graduate class that reflected on oral culture in society, where connecting with people through repetitious storytelling is a way of life, versus print culture, the dominant communication style in our society. The print way of life separates the text from the reader and creates distance that allows us to think abstractly about the concepts and meaning. Facebook and Twitter are both forms of social print culture...though we may feel connected to our friends from high school or someone we met once at an event, it only feeds us a line of text that is far from relationship-based communication. Fascinating stuff really.

I suppose my recent move to Portland, where I only knew a handful of folks, spawned my interest in embracing the oral culture way of life. Besides, I am dying to connect with my creative side again... so why not fuse creativity and orality through the art of storytelling! I could be a Moth podcast!

Though I have a theatre background and love speaking in front of large groups of people-- my last job was providing campus tours at an art and design university in San Francisco-- the idea of telling a story with content provided solely by my life occurrences, scared the crap out of me. First off, what interesting stories do I have to share? That I am comfortable with dishing to strangers? Secondly, I have become rather withdrawn and introverted in the past couple of years compared to my previous extroverted self. Moreover, my print culture mind wants to write the story down beforehand and memorize it like a script.

Storytelling is not about that at all. There is no script, yet it needs to be structured. It can't be melodramatic, yet there should be body language and stage presence. My writing brain and my tendency to belt numbers from Chicago with jazz hands, was a bit discouraging.

Nevertheless, I decided to go for it! I joined the Urban Tellers and just completed my second workshop with the Portland Story Theater which culminates in a live performance of our personal stories. I already feel more alive and creative. Everyone has a story to tell, and it's amazing to see the voice develop in others and myself.

I still have a lot to discover, to structure, to spew, and to hone...but I am so excited to be a part of the storytelling culture and to reveal a bit of the craft and beauty behind it.

Photo taken by Russell Young (c) 2011.

More to come when the storytelling performance approaches...
http://www.portlandstorytheater.com/urban.tellers/urban.tellers.htm

Everyone I know is turning 30...

2011-08-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

It's August...that lovely summer hot-with-a-capital-H month when bees are buzzin', water is glistenin', and the sun is shinin'. The California Raisins are dancin' to the Beach Boys. People are outdoors and falling in love. I always get excited as August approaches not only for the aforementioned reasons but because of my right to self-indulgence on my birthday. C'mon, everyone knows it's your day and no one else's, unless you unfortunately share your special day with another (man, that sucks). I like doing something fun and adventurous on my birthday. I like playing host. I also like attention and gifts (hint hint).

Well, in the past few years, as I approach 30, I have become more reserved and less excited for that day of glorious narcissism. I discovered when one puts too much hope and time into the day, even gathering a group together for going away parties and other special events, it's inevitably disappointing. Plus we have Facebook and other nonverbal and impersonal ways of saying happy birthday (I hate that song). It's quick and easy, don't get me wrong. It still takes thought, but it's more difficult to feel the love.

So, I am turning 29 in less than 10 days. I realized that many of my friends are turning 30 this year. With 30 comes changing careers, or going back to school, owning pets, getting married, or searching for "the one", having babies, and all those other scary responsible things that come with growing up. It's a pivotal time in our lives, so why not celebrate it in full? Booze it up, and be a kid all the same!

Here is an awesome list of how many of the newborn 30 year-olds went all out on their special day:

Houseboat party
Scavenger hunt through San Francisco
Trip to NYC
Trip to Vegas
Driving a Nascar on the track
Swing dancing and a murder mystery party
Robot-themed party and dancing
A wedding

One thing all of these fabulous birthdays have in common is spending the day with special friends!

So, I am looking forward to the big 3-0 next year, but for now, I will have to settle for a wiser 29.

Taking off my training wheels...

2011-07-16T13:47:00.000-07:00

So I have a confession. No, I didn't kill anyone. I am a bit embarrassed about this, but, until yesterday, I had not ridden a bike since childhood (I am not counting renting bikes on the beach). I have owned a bike since August of last year and not once did I test the seat or wheels... Um, I was scared, petrified even, of getting hit by cars. Or other cyclists. Or just running into happy children innocently frolicking on the street...What if, out of the blue, a crazy cyclist in desperate need of training wheels comes swerving and wobbling down a residential street? A little girl screams when she sees the clownlike girl (that'd be me) coming towards her unable to brake and gesturing with crazy hand signals. By then, however, it would be too late. There would be two injuries--the crying child and my mangled body. Not to mention a perfectly good bike ravaged.

"No, anxiety, no! I will not let you consume my fear of biking," I said. I can do this. It can't be more difficult than driving a car completely packed with boxes for 637 miles or driving through the rainy, populated streets of Manhattan. Right? I didn't bike in San Diego...would have helped. Nor did I bike in San Francisco...would have helped also. So, now was the time to take off my training wheels.

There are so many benefits to having a bike. You can certainly get to places faster than walking. You get to ride in the open air. You can exercise and build strong posterior muscles. You can ride in bike lines and smile at passersby. You can bike in groups even (Bike the Boulevard! Critical Mass). You can drink and ride. You get to wear a fashionable helmet and hopefully have a cute basket in front for flowers and cute things. You can make quick trips to the grocery. Parking is easier. yadda yadda yadda.

Don't get me wrong though. Walking is still my favorite form of transportation. I get to wear dresses and flats and listen to music. I can control my sweat and swing my arms back and form. I can also use them to hold things! It's fascinating that we aren't trained to walk beyond infancy; it's not something we are afraid of like driving a car or riding a bike or swimming. It's just something that we all do, and it makes for a unique mode of motion.

Well, to make a long story somewhat shorter, I did it. I had my first danger ride on a bike. I rode around the Portland residential streets wobbling and all, nearly falling a few times. I looked really ridiculous attempting left and right turn signals (is that what those were?). My bangs were drenched, and I got tired easily. I am sore and have a couple of silly bruises. Nevertheless, I didn't run over any children. The initial fear has passed, and I can't wait to do it again :)

Bidding adieu from the top of a hill...

2011-07-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

My last night in San Francisco was one of those movie moments, or perhaps even sentimental TV drama moments at the end of a series (I thought of 90210)... Fourth of July has never really been a holiday I hold near and dear to my heart, but this past Monday evening, I got to spend my time with wonderful friends at the top of Bernal Hill.

Bernal Hill is where I got most of my exercise the past four months, hiking and running through the terrain whether the weather was windy or humid...whether nostalgic or hopeful...lost or anxious. Just me and my This American Life and Moth podcasts climbing to the highest point...one of the best views of San Francisco.

I guess you could say it was bittersweet... drinking whiskey, sneaking body warmth and hugs, discovering slides on our route to the top, and toasting to different special occasions during fireworks across the city- people moving to NY and Chile, birthdays, and a job well done.

Just a little combination of nature, Odin, and friends as the best send-off a gal could have...

Leaving California with an achin' in my heart...

2011-07-06T21:58:00.001-07:00

So Tuesday I left San Francisco for Portland, Oregon after living there for less than a year... Within that time, I moved four times, so you'd think by now I'd be a moving expert, physically and emotionally...Not this time!

Due to my recent surgery (read here), the doctor told me not to lift anything over 10 pounds. Hence my right arm was useless (Sorry, Shake Weight)... and my left, because it throws the right arm off balance. So, I had to recruit people to vacuum seal and pack and lift before I drove 637 miles.

I am just warning you, this is going to be a sentimental blog entry that aims to tug on your heart strings just enough for a teardrop.

So, I mentioned obstacles...I won't spend too long riding the self-pity train. Here is a timeline of my pain and struggles since November (don't cry yet):

Pre-November: break-up, boyfriend moved, mold-ridden apartment, psycho roommate, bills and no car, moved.

December: Shared a room ... roommate had sex in the room.

January: Concussion, moved.

February: Sick, moved.

March: Hit my head again.

April: Recovering from all of the above...

May: Sick.

June: Quit my job, hit my head again, biopsy, surgery.

July: Moved.

Note: Long distance relationship the entire time.

So one could say I had a lot on my mind the past nine months.

However, as I drove out of California, my home for the past 28 years (short stint in NYC), I started tearing and reflecting (get your tear ducts ready). Besides landing a job within three weeks of moving and appreciating Kaiser healthcare (it is so organized; sign up today!), besides the mixture of nature and city, the houses, restaurants, and public transportation, I was going to miss the most smile-inducing times I've had in awhile. Man, I know some ridiculous and silly and creative and intelligent and fun people that really know how to have a party- a kitchen dance party perhaps, or a crafty birthday party for someone else.

So I've compiled a list, in no particular order, of my favorite moments shared during my time in San Francisco (I may be sobbing at the end...while smiling:)

- Spending sunny days in Dolores Park with friends drinking beer and watching hunky Jesus contests and mime troupes. Not to mention performing a read-a-loud of Cyrano de Bergerac with Jen.

- A photoshoot with the Polka Dot Robot girls my very first day in the city (polkadotrobot.com).

- Drinking Bloody Marys my last day in the city.

- Dancing with the ladies from 2484 Adams at the Janet Jackson concert (Miss Jen!).

- Trying rabbit for the first time with Andy and Laurel...and all their generous artisan dinner parties (this inlcudes kitchen dance parties).

- A full house of adorable doggies and babies. Soooo cute!

- Erin's birthday scavenger hunt through the Mission... temper tantrums in Walgreens, dancing under busstops, and riding invisible ponies across Valencia Street. Not to mention Team Doggystyle (my team) won!

-Slumber parties (and laughing parties) with my best childhood friend, Laura.

-Getting high with my coworkers and eating Ikea meatballs in a catepillar costume (see below).

-Having breakfast with my lovely roommates and being part of their wedding committee.

-Singing musical tunes at Martuni's with two incredible personalities.

-Having lunch and walking with friends visiting from NYC, Florida, San Diego, Portland.

-A trip to Napa with my love.

-Spending time with my sister.

-This is a solo moment but walking to and across the Golden Gate Bridge post-surgery.

The last moment deserves its own entry...

Cinematic Surgery

2011-06-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I think of surgery, I picture it on film...We've all watched ER, Grey's Anatomy, Scrubs, Look Who's Talking, City of Angels, Ghost, Knocked Up, and a slew of other medical scenes that may seem glamorized, dramatized, and fantastical. I like to call upon the 1979 Fosse classic, All That Jazz, when imagining a hallucinogenic trip into a musical dimension only realized during surgery. During a real life experience, there usually isn't some powerful, melancholic song blasting through the hospital speakers. Not everybody is celebrity material. And things don't come out clean (like nearly every baby delivered on screen). If you haven't had a real life experience, perhaps that's all you can visualize- Nicholas Cage hovering over you with some Sarah McLachlan sending you right to sleep and the handsome Patrick Dempsey as your doctor. I think of the comical delivery scene in Nine Months with Robin Williams as a Russian amateur doctor who dances clumsily around the hospital room, more foolish than the bumbling idiot, Hugh Grant, and the invasive jokester, Tom Arnold with his video camera.

Well, although very unlikely that reality can step into the realm of fictional media, this past Friday, I got a closer look into the magical medical world of cinema...my own documentary. I got to play the Patient and the Cinematographer, a whole POV shot and experience worth writing about.

The cast of characters:
Patient (Me)
Mom
Dr. Langer
Dr. Langer's Assistants
Admitting Nurse
Pre-Surgery Nurses
Anesthesiologists 1 & 2
Post-Surgery Nurse
Discharge Nurse
Transportation Team getting you from one room to another

Props:
Hospital gurneys
Hospital beds
Warm blankets
IV unit
Hospital gowns
Shower cap
Needles
My copy of The Great Gatsby

So here's pieces of the plot I remember:

FADE IN

Getting an ID bracelet and signing papers consenting to the near chance of death and disease.

Following the beige line to a waiting room full of strangers.

"What's your name? When's your birthday? Are you allergic to any medications? What is the reason you are here today?" Routine questions asked by all nurses and staff every five minutes...just to make sure you are conscious and cognizant of your role in the hospital drama.

The somewhat humiliating moment stripping down and putting on my hospital gown too long for my short stature. "Do I have to take everything off?" I asked hesitantly.

Wondering what everyone was doing there. Noticing that I was one of the youngest.

Reading The Great Gatsby as I laid down on the hospital bed with a plethora of warm blankets. "Would you like another warm blanket?" Yes, please!

The Tom Arnold moment where my mother coerced me to take a picture while in my glasses, hospital gown, and bundled in a million blankets. "If you post this picture on Facebook," I warned. She promised she wouldn't, so I have included the dreaded photograph below. I gave her a smile for her satisfaction (smile therapy, as stated in Ally McBeal).

Not having eaten since the night before and going on 3pm, my mom asking the nurse for snacks... processed muffins and sugar-coated cranberry juice. I started not to feel hungry much longer. As soon as I heard someone purging in the hospital bed next to me.

Being transported by Mike, a 6'9" man, to the anesthesiologist prep room. I could barely see the man.

Listening to my mom tell funny jokes and talk to her dear friend, Sheila, who also happened to be in the emergency room back in Houston.

Reading a text from a loved one. Talking to my brother and making light of my costume.

Getting sleepy.

Being anxious. Not knowing how in the world I was going to fall asleep.

Being coached by two anesthesiologists, one dark and serious, and one goofy with glasses. He offered me a cocktail through my IV. I chose a Tom Collins and a mojito, two drinks that went through my veins and worked wonders in relaxation.

Getting sleepier.

Giving my glasses to my mom, my last form of eyesight.

Being transported into the surgery room prior to the anesthetics while seeing Dr. Langer and all her assistants prep the surgical tools necessary for the operation. Lots of light and feeling hazy around me.

FADE OUT/FADE IN

Waking up in yet another hospital bed. In recovery.

Sucking on ice. Feeling nauseous. Making sure I still had all my parts in place. Seeing a bandage in a new place.

Sitting in a massage chair sucking on more ice. Being read the discharge papers. Getting slowly dressed in my monster hoody (see photo below).

Being transported one last time to the car and bidding Kaiser adieu.

Would I want this experience again? Not ever, but never have I seen so many characters and been able to get an inside, somewhat blurred, experience into the medical world.

FADE OUT

Chin up!

2011-06-24T10:53:00.001-07:00

Today my positivity comes in the form of

- Dance
- Journal writing
- A light read
- A walk
- A monster hoody
- Roadtrips and nature
- The anthems of Arcade Fire
- Support (both chest and emotional)

Arcade Fire perform "Sprawl II" on Sound Opinions from WBEZ on Vimeo.

A Day of Inspiring Comes to an End...

2011-06-16T23:51:00.000-07:00

I always gain inspiration from my work experiences. Once I finally stop thinking so seriously about it, I find the humor in the smallest things. That is the good stuff. The creative kick, or at least an enticement to start writing it down.

Okay, so I am a "Pre-admissions and Campus Tours Representative" at a for-profit university that shall remain nameless (hint: It's in San Francisco and is the largest private school of its kind). That means I give tours across the city of the facilities and equipment to prospective students and their parents. I have the lovely primary task of going through a portfolio of interested students (Interested = online inquiries, filling out a card at school, or attending an event, etc.) and calling at least 50 of them per day.

Now "pre" admissions means pre-college, minors rather, that have yet to graduate. They are not ready for college, so we offer a high school program just for them. So, the first challenge, aside from making calls 50 calls a day and the vocal and physical strain your neck goes through, is that you are calling minors:

1) The parents may be caught off guard and extremely pissed at you for calling a young child. They think you're trying to sell them something.

2) You are dealing with a low maturity level and weak attention span that may hang up on you, put you on hold while they talk to their friend or send a text, answer their cell phone in class (this is bothersome), get the giggles, or simply act cooler than thou art and not give a hoot and holler that you are calling. Not to mention the most embarrassing email addresses. It really helps to say it aloud- perhaps then the students will realize how incredibly ridiculous and unprofessional junkinthetrunk@yahoo or skankygirl2000@gmail are.

3) You are calling students that expressed interest as far back as 2008, meaning they never got a phone call when they were interested (and a freshman) or they ignored the calls and emails up until this point (a hint that they were just clicking on random sites and didn't know what they were doing when they filled out an inquiry three years ago). Why would a 16 year-old care or remember you? One student told me they just wanted a free pizza coupon.

4) These kids don't know what they want to do. Of course, it helps to have a great personality and get the students to open up to you through your warmth and personable phone disposition. However, the majority of them (there are some motor mouths and holier-than-thou students) are timid and have never really spoken to someone, in particular, a stranger, about their dreams. Would you? Especially to a glorified telemarketer with a minor in counseling? Over the phone? Hell nah. It's easier not to talk. It's too academic for them and embarrassing to talk about passions and career plans.

5) Students don't tell their parents anything. So, even if you crack them and get them interested in Motion Pictures or Fine Art or the summer art program, they still need a Visa or Mastercard to make the magic happen. Students also lie that they've checked their email (I know they don't; I can check on Salesforce).

However, I am leaving this job in less than a week to continue my own education, and I will take the good stuff with me:

I will smile as the elevator doors open and welcome new faces.

I will meet with nervous applicants and make sure they have their IDs and supplies for the summer program.

Before I go, I will load up my USB drive with the photos aspiring photojournalists sent me- their friends, pets, scenery, and inspirations.

I will perform a scene of delightful dialects with a young actress-to-be.

I will call the ghosthunter documentarian from West Virginia and wish him luck making his paranormal films.

I will make people laugh on tour and remind them that they are in beautiful San Francisco.

I will tell my friend to continue taking photos even after her friend passed away last year.

A student will answer, "I've been waiting for your call!"

A parent will say, "I wish I could meet you in person."

I will hug an excited and encouraging parent who loves their child and finds comfort in knowing their son is in good hands.

I will call my friend Jazzy who said I was her mentor and would make an excellent teacher and congratulate her on getting a summer job and winning first place in her speech competition.

And I will hug my fellow glorified telemarketers who have also made a difference...the voices I hear everyday while on my headset.

Regardless of the hang ups, disappointed and irritated minors and parents, the micromanaging and telephone monitoring, the evil emails, and the 45/50 calls a day that seem devoid of any value whatsoever, I feel I have made a connection.

And I will leave this job without strings attached knowing I have played a small, perhaps significant, role in a young dreamer's life.

Thank you, and have a great day :)

Glee your heart out! Part One

2011-06-05T17:24:00.000-07:00

So, remember I asked the question, Why can't I be more like that guy? Well, included in the "that guy" category is the character Rachel Berry from the Fox hit television show, Glee. Granted, I started watching the show because people said I bore a similar resemblance to Lea Michele, the stunning actress (Vanity!). She has got the positivity, ambition, wholesome and kind disposition, and vocal pipes that one can't help but appreciate. Sure, I roll my eyes sometimes, but I also think we all need a little Rachel to brighten our spirits. We need a little Glee in our lives... hear me out!

First some background... I can relate to Miss Berry, as I believe many of us at one time or another can. Growing up in Hollywood, I was very infatuated with celebrities; I filled up scrapbooks with my favorite movies, heart throbs, and singers. I looooved the Jacksons, Mariah Carey, Madonna, and any tune I could sing and dance to. I would bust out dance moves in the living room. Around junior high time, I began to take dance and drama classes. I loved acting. I was dramatic, of course, and being a middle child helped fuel the desire to *shine* (do you hear the chorus in the background?). More than the attention associated with being onstage, I enjoyed taking on a different persona through speech and movement.

It's no wonder I developed an affinity towards musical theatre - combining my three greatest loves: singing, dancing and acting. Let's face it- Musicals are wondrous and grand. The epitomy of nonsensical and el supremo queso. West Side Story was my absolute favorite. I wanted to be Anita. I would also practice Jet moves in my spare time. Later Velma Kelly from Chicago became my dream role. Okay, so I started doing musical theatre and singing in high school. I didn't even realize I had a soulful, belt-worthy voice until I auditioned for Godspell in 11th grade. Up until then, I was singing the wrong numbers (We all can't be Ariel from The Little Mermaid, can we?). I was an alto, and I was Mary Magdelene. I sang on that grand piano... and I was hooked.

A slew of musicals, plays and revues (Cabaret, Once on this Island, Stage Door, Hair, a Velma Kelly solo) got me through the rest of high school and college. I would have to say that my "glee" was being involved in theatre productions. It made me smile; it was a means of expression. So much meaning in every line. Connecting with the cast and the rehearsal process. Sigh...

Post college, I started breaking away from the musical world. I liked the dance as its own entity. I liked songs a la carte without dialogue and costumes. I became attracted to experimental theatre, some weird shit. Sure, I enjoy watching musicals once in awhile; one of my best friends performs in at least three musicals a year, and I am her number one fan! Sure, there are musicals that will forever be in my heart and my song repertoire; rock musicals really do it for me. Nevertheless, I started straying from that teenage dream of Broadway and New York. I suppose I could tell you I grew up and no longer need to play make believe with Webber and Sondheim. Just like dealing with the fact that Santa is a phony, I struggled with believing all the rigamorale performed in front of me. Perhaps my jadedness combined with my maturity into the adult world affected my whole stance. Why did each and every thought have to be sung? Gag me with banality! Why did every theme revolve around love and happiness? Or some insecure man with a mask? The stories just seemed simple but complex in the mind of the protagonist... a bit narcissistic and selfish. People fell in love way too easily.

So let me get right to the point...We all can say we grow out of the sappy stuff, the melodrama, the synchronized choreography, and the musical ballads. We can all say that we don't have our own Glee that we turn to for comfort and for sheer pleasure...

That's bullcrap! Sue Sylvester would see right through you and make you drink a protein shake...we all turn to things that allow us to escape or step into that childlike world of innocence and fun! Glee is fun! It's a show that appeals to both you and...well, everyone. It takes contemporary, one-hit wonders, annoying, puke-worthy songs and makes them audible and harmonious. Mash-ups and tributes galore, oh my! All the characters are so much fun to watch- your archetypal punks, nerds, cheerleaders that still surprise you with their histrionics and artistic capacities.

Rachel Berry is the poster child for this Glee-dom kingdom that has me dancing in my room after every episode. That has me belting to Rent and Jesus Christ Superstar again. That has me singing my way through the work day and happier overall. Yes, we all need a little Glee to be more like that guy.

Perhaps our schools do, too...

To be continued.

Part IV: Slammin'!

2011-05-27T13:23:00.001-07:00

The next step in my Artist's Way was to express the within; this seemed an easy transition from my audio art projects. Every morning, I had been writing in my journal, beefing up the pages with dreams, life long goals, and way too much meaning. Not really. Most of my "morning pages" (a term coined by Julia Cameron) were streams of consciousness full of boring, redundant statements. Mostly morning complaints. The point was, by writing in a journal and letting out all of the worries and first things on top of my head, I would be clear-minded and ready for a new day of possibilities. So, I did it. I forced myself, finding myself writing how dumb the exercise was each time. A bunch of nonsense and a diary nobody would kill to find; in fact, they would probably want to write their own depressing journal afterwards!

Well... after some time of doing this, I would automatically, like clockwork, wake up and write. The entries began to include bits and pieces of narrative, poetry, and deep thoughts. I started writing strings of rhymes. Clever rhymes.

I am not going to be embarrassed, but my first rhyme that had any potential and substance was about "my lady time"... entitled "Ode to Menstruation"

I realized I started getting on a sort of themed train-of-thought. These were all disgusting, distasteful, or completely ridiculous topics that are universal in nature- poems on text messaging (see audio track below), stress, food comas, urination, customer service, and masturbation. Yes, they were just flowing out of me, and I started reading them aloud.

Next thing I knew creativity was overflowing. I was in the middle of substitute teaching, and I had to write a rap on the anatomy of the brain (see audio track below). My daily life was in rhyme. I started recording the poems on garage band and performing at open mic nights. I created a myspace page. I found that these "silly poems for adults" were more like performance pieces. Dr. Suessian lyrics that needed to be expressed to a rated-R crowd. I went to comedy, music, and poetry slam venues. I won 2nd place and cash prizes at the La Paloma Poetry Slams in San Diego for recitations on Starbucks, masturbation, and rejection.

I was a rhyming artist... silly poems for adults.

Part of my poetic release could be attributed to the slew of negative near-relationship experiences I had. Let's face it- there's a reason some of the best work from artists emerges when they are unhappy... depressed or angry or bitter or anxious. I know I only write sappy, cheese-ridden abab rhymes when I'm happy! Such a cliche! So "Rejection of my Affection" was based on real life experiences (the perfect date that went perfectly, only to never hear from him again... the older man... the friend with benefits...sigh...the mysteries of life).

It was such a release to perform. To combine silliness and biting candor through physicality and theatrics. I was on a high... And I kept filling up journals.

What would be the next adventure when happiness began again?

Find more Kara Hayes songs at Myspace Music

Part III: Me and my taperecorder

2011-05-19T21:02:00.000-07:00

During my excursion to London and Paris, I decided to bring my dear friend along, a great listener and observer...my tape recorder. I would use it to capture all of the vibrant and interesting sounds of the cities. Now we're not talking about some fancy, high-tech digital voice recorder; we're talking about a ghetto $19.99 audio recording device that only accepts (and eats) those big bulky cassette tapes we all used to own.

So, I stuck my friend in my purse and record I did: metros and trains, museums, guided tours, the opera (witnessed French booing!), the friends I made from Australia, Canada, and Ohio, and the lovely sounds of the airport. I even brought it to dinner dates. I spoke to the tape recorder as if it were a journal, when I woke up and when I went to bed. I was in love with the raw, unobtrusive quality it brought to the scene. People didn't seem to mind, and I felt like a journalist reporting my memoirs.

Tape recorders and I got acquainted when I was a little girl. My sister and I used to make radio tapes for kicks, full of horrible songs too embarrassed to mention, interviews with the most animated dialects, and painfully catchy commercial jingles. I remember in junior high calling all my best friends and asking them to participate in a one-of-a-kind survey over the phone. I tape recorded the interviews, getting their views on their favorite celebrities (keep in mind, I grew up in Hollywood), favorite colors (shocking answers), and what they wanted to be when they grew up. It was creative expression for me; I felt at ease.

So, what happened when I returned from Europe to San Diego? I wanted to record more...

I had been reading Julia Cameron's The Artist Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity , a book of 12 chapters to help guide the inner artist, and getting inspired left and right to pursue different artistic endeavors. First I lined the walls of my room with butcher paper. Then each day I added to the walls, and themed collages started to form.

Next up was an audio art project inspired by Stevie Wonder's song "As". At the time, this was my favorite happiness track, meaning I felt love encompassing me in nature, in relationships with strangers and friends, and in essence every time I listened to the soulful and colorful lyrics... "As around the sun the earth knows she's revolving..."

I came up with an idea. It was a lengthy process, but it was the process that brought me the most joy of all, walking around, listening... just me and my tape recorder.

"The inspiration for this audio piece derived from Stevie Wonder's lyrical and soul-drenched song, As on the captivating, pivotal album, Songs in the Key of Life, as well as the wonderful people surrounding me at each moment of everyday, my goal being to recreate the optimistic, beautiful, and lyrical message of the original song through the diverse and unique voices of friends, family, mentors, and the local community in conjunction with the awakening and tranquil sounds of nature: birds, the ocean, dolphins, and children. I wanted to depict the essence of harmony and the combination of voices to ultimately create one voice and one song.

Thanks to all my participants for your beautiful, eclectic voices. I hope, by listening to this piece, you attain the same visceral sensation and cosmic sense of wonder for the surreal and potential fantasies of the universe in which we live. Dolphins Blooming, Stars Burning, Children Flying, Rainbows Revolving, Oceans of Tomorrow, Until we dream another day, Until the earth starts turning just for the sun, Until night becomes joy and pain, Until life becomes the cure, Until the day I am living. Right to Left. I am loving. I'll be. I'll know. I am. You Are. Forever. As.~"

How can I be more like that guy? Part II: Hi From London!

2011-05-17T19:36:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I said I would divulge on working from the inside out... Well, I want to start with one my bravest endeavors.

22 years old. Had just lost my virginity and another lover who fled to Paris to teach English. Well, I coped. Back in 2005, post-college, I got a job as a barista at Starbucks. I was around coffee, my favorite beverage, and working as a Public Speaker at FIDM. I was getting antsy though. I always said I wanted to travel the world after high school. It didn't happen. Then came college. It didn't happen. Well, it was time now. I had enough money saved. I decided I would go to England. And France. Two countries on the top of my list. I was nervous about traveling solo. The element of culture shock. I knew it wouldn't be too much of a stretch, but, for someone who had never left the country, it was.

I started by getting a passport, just about the ugliest photo I've ever taken. I didn't smile. Mug shot! Then I booked my flight. I made sure to have a French phrase book and a money belt (I was paranoid).

I am so happy I did it...It was a start to my artistic and autonomous journey of self.

Instead of reminiscing about those experiences, I recently discovered my adventures in electronic format that sum up my trip perfectly. Dated February 2006:

1) Hi From London, Part I:

"Hi Everybody,

It's Kara writing to you from wonderful London town...about to leave for Paris tomorrow for new adventures!!! Yes, it's cold here,but with a little London layering, I feel tip top, or "fit" as the English say. I've already experienced so much of the city, its landmarks, and its hearty culture. My highlights thus far have
included: National Gallery of Art, Tate Modern Museum, the British Theatre Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral, Shakespeare's Old Globe Theatre Tour, Plenty of Pubbin' (Cider is pretty bloody "brilliant"), a splendid musical theatrical in the bustling nightlife of Central London ("Mary Poppins"), many London bridges and parks, and the Houses of Parliament.

I've been drinking more black tea than coffee (if you can believe it), walking my little heiny off (and much faster than the usual San Diego strolling), saying "cheers" instead of hello and thank you, taking the London tube everywhere, and basically dressing like a Londoner (colorful clothes that mismatch...must include a hat, scarf,
and boots). I love the fast pace and the fashion style of the city. People are a bit harder to approach, but, with a little Kara smile and kindness, I've found they're very willing and happy to converse. I've already enjoyed a free beer with my new Aussie friends on the tube (Yes, you can drink anywhere), spent the majority of a day with an Argentinian woman who offered to email me her pictures when my camera
ran out of batteries and who I found out, upon our departure, had the same birthday as me, and have gotten plenty of apologies for being bumped into on the street....

So all in all, I'm thrilled to be here. Expect pictures and Part II soon. Write me if you wish!!

Kara"

2) Hi from London, Part II:

"Hey All,

So I just returned from spending a wonderful five days in Paris, immersing myself in even more culture and aesthetically-enriching stimuli than before. Of course, when I first arrived in the city, I felt like a completely vulnerable, ignorant, and lost foreigner.People were less approachable than in London...I didn't understand the language or get their sense of humor... my first night at the hostel proved this, for I was immediately laughed at and misled in the direction of my room...imagine carrying a ginormous suitcase in the rain up and down three different flights of stairs and not being offered help by the laughing staff! However, my attitude and fear were soon to change...

In five days, I made love to the city. I saved shopping until the end, rather milking up all the amazing landmarks (Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower...which i got to see almost every day from my place of stay, National Assembly, Concorde, a day in Versailles...and the precious gardens, the Pantheon, Notre Dame, Invalides, opera houses, and plenty more). I fell passionately for the eclectic and comprehensive museums: In Order, the Louvre, the Pompidou, and the Musee de Orsay. I was seduced by the food and drink: crepes, cheeses, the most tasty espresso (it's the milk), delicious southern French food, and escargot (comparable to spinach artichoke dip). Every night(thanks to my tour guide), I not only didn't have to stay in the
smelly hostel anymore, I engaged in something artistic and very European, attending one and a half operas (Dad: Rigoletto!), two movies at a little French Cinema (I finally experienced the masterpiece work, Citizen Kane), and eating fine cuisine. But by far, my first night was the most memorable and set the tone for the rest of my trip: Walking around central Paris until 5 in the morning with my dear friend, Marc...getting my first taste of the romantic, decadent, authentic, and magnanimous city.

In the end, I met some wonderful people and wiped clean the stigma (well, for the most part) I had towards the humility and warmth of the town. I spoke more in French as they spoke to me more in English. A few kind polite words in trade!!! I didn't need the map as much, and I became a pro navigator with the complex metro system.

I am now back in London...with several more adventures to go. Part III and pictures to come...

Hope you're all jolly,
love,
Kara"

3)Hi from London, Part III:

"Hi,

So my journey is coming to an end.

A few more fun and exciting adventures in Londontown and beyond: shopping on Oxford Street and in ritzy Kensington, strolling through Kensington gardens with a look at the palace...who could forget Harrods, the famous department store with the Princess Diana ever-so cheesy memorial on the lower level?...some good eatin', a good night out dancin' to an eclectic mix of tunes (James Brown was played per my request), a couple of double decker bus rides witnessing the ginormous amount of late-night beer consumers at 4am...a beautiful trip to Bath, visiting the Roman baths, the Abbey church, the Royal Crescent, and participating in a typical Bath pub crawl...lastly, taking a ride on the London eye, touring the Tate Britain museum, and the last night, capturing another musical (FAME for you Natasha).

It's been colder than ever but insignificant compared to the experience I've had in two of the most magnificent cities in the world, taking in a grand total of 1.5 operas, 2 musicals, 2 movies, 2 clubs, 8 museums, quite a few pubs, a bajillion landmarks, and an infinite amount of tube/metro rides...not to mention all that freezing yet blissful walking! Quite impressive!

I am excited to see all of you soon,
Thanks for reading (pics to come),
Kara"

THAT's all....

Wow, I returned to San Diego with a new attitude and mindset... The Artist's Way was about to begin. I was more like that guy.

Why can't I be like that guy? Part I

2011-05-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

There is a gentleman at my job who never fails to greet me in the morning with a smile. Who stops oncoming traffic so working ladies can cross the street to get their afternoon lattes. A man who walks around with a bookmark in his Holy Bible. A man who knows everybody and everyone from the top executive to the man on the corner begging for change. A man who will give up his seat so you can sit down. A man who does his job well and with grace. One who follows the rules and goes one step beyond the line of duty. A middle-aged man who most likely has lived through death and heartache and experienced trauma and loss yet makes the most of each moment. Most likely a family man but one that would be content living a solitary life because his everyday life is so rich in verse with those surrounding him. A man you would remember if he wasn't there. For this man's grin is contagious. For this particular gentleman has something we all wish was instilled in all of us- that optimism which, as we get older, habituates. For we lose that momentum and vigor for life.

We've all seen this gentleman in the movies. Most likely, we've come across more than one. I myself can count a handful of good persons that I just so happened to cross paths with in life. They come in all different forms, ages, sexes. Sometimes they are so happy, you question their disposition's honesty. How can someone smile so incessantly? As if it's permanently glued on their faces? This can actually become irritating to a point to all of us realists, pessimists, what have you. If you let your cynical and bitter side take over your whole body, you may start resenting this person. You might even get physical (Try not to go there unless you're dancing to the Olivia Newton John video). You might ask yourself, why the f--- are they so damn jolly? You're not. Shouldn't they be like you? Grump. Bah humbug. Perhaps they resemble Santa Clause. Barney. Ronald McDonald. Mickey Mouse. Every ingenue in every musical ever made (and Glee). Even those terrifying Teletubbies.

I admit that at one point in time, I used to be like these sweet, sappy and happy souls. People would actually call me the "positive one." The "fun one" to be around. The one "always smiling." It's true. I am a corny person. I admit it. And I always will be. Perhaps it stems from musical theatre and growing up in Hollywood. I had two loving parents, pets, barbies, a cool older sister to play with, and lots of imagination. I went to Wonderland elementary school for pete's sake.

So what happened? Divorce? Puberty? All those things attached to adolescence and beyond? I don't think so. We all have to go through it, even the hopelessly optimistic ones.

At one point, being happy all the time became a challenge. I could blame it on my parents, hearing and witnessing their stresses, arguments and pain. Health issues and getting sick. What a pain in the posterior. Accepting responsibility and baring financial strain. The stress of college and the real world beyond. Roommates. Psycho roommates. Looking for a job. Interviewing. Starting a job. Keeping the job. Quitting a job. Moving. Having a car to maintain. Financing a car. Not having a car. Dating. Having sex. One night stands and the scare of being pregnant. Not having sex at all. Falling in love. Cheating. A broken heart. Long distance. And then all those other things the endocrine system is in charge of like your period (ladies), sweating (ew glands), and constipation. Needing to pee in the middle of the night (that is a real inconvenience). So, perhaps I've let all the wear and tear affect my extrinsic nature.

So, how can I be more like that guy?

I think it's important to work from the inside out. I will divulge...

Shopping for Meds and Getting Graded at the Dentist

2011-05-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

This week I went shopping. Not just any kind of shopping though. I went on a crazy shopping spree at la casa de la Kaiser Permanente aka the Dr.'s office: A papsmere, full-fledged physical, and all sorts of tests, including but not limited to polio, measles, mumps, rubella, strep, glucose, white and red blood cells, thyroid, cholesterol. Shall I go on? I shopped 'til I dropped. Seriously folks, a shot in both arms, one feels like I fuckin' got socked by a baseball, and I nearly fainted.

This is a story about America's grading system. I think it really works. It promotes competition, a healthy mindset, and goals to improve oneself and be successful. Even in the medical world. Having high LDL levels really makes one think twice about that pint of Ben and Jerry's before bed. An abnormal pap and urinary tract in-fuck-tion (I like to call it), makes one abstain from that unhealthy act known as intercourse (put your pants back on!). Of course, I've gotten them other ways I will not mention (wetting the bed in your underwear, is not fun. Hey, I like to laugh).

At least you have to wait for your lab results at the Dr.'s office. This way you don't feel like a failure right away. You at least have 24 hours to pat yourself on the back for getting yourself to the Gyno and all the other check-ups you've been procrastinating. Gold stars for you while you wait for the negative (though negative = positive in the medical world...Sneaky fuckers) results that will make you feel like a fatty or sex fiend (oops, preggers) or a weak individual with a weak immune system. F is for you fucked up your body. The more meds you pick up from the pharmacist, the more you've failed. Positive punishment, we call it in psychology. Okay, but nothing makes you feel like more of a complete fuck-up than the dentist...

First of all, it's an immediate consultation; you get graded as soon as you sit in that awkward excuse for a chair. You only have the uncomfortable xray session to relax (I try to translate all the signs on the wall from Spanish to English during this time)- you don't want to look in a mirror at that time either as a panoramic picture is taken of your mouth (ew)...

So then you wait in that chair for the doc and his dental posse to come grade your mouth. Say ahh. "I see... How many times a day do you brush your teeth? Floss much?" A low angle close-up on a bunch of pokers and prodders with their metal tools. You answer their questions and get the results pronto. "Well, looks like you have no cavities and all sealants." Phew, one grade out of the way. Pass! "Now we're going to check for periodontitis..."

Here's where the dental assistant takes the sharpest metal tool she could find to measure how deep your gums recede. She was kind enough to brief me on the grading scale beforehand. 1-3 is normal and in the clear. 4 is a stop sign, borderline. 5 or 6, and you hit rock bottom, a major red flag. You are screwed and an oral hygienic failure.

I panicked as Carla stuck that cold, hard thing in my mouth. "Let me know if it hurts..." Why do they always say that? That means pain is inevitable. She listed the numbers off in a militant, rhythmic manner:

1, 2, 2, 1, 2, 3, 1... When she took a pause and a semblance of breath, I knew something bad was about to escape her perfectly maintained mouth.

Fooooooooour.

Stop sign.

1, 2, 3...Fiiiiiiiiive. It helps when you hear this in slow motion.

Shit. My first F. This seemed to last 10 excruciating minutes. Immediate test results.

Then she told me I was bleeding in my F zones. As if I deserved the consequences for not flossing enough. "And that's why you're bleeding." Then she handed me a mirror to look...as if this all wasn't humiliating enough. It's no wonder people are scared shitless of the dentist. No wonder Little Shop of Horrors had an abusive, maniacal dentist for a villain. It stems from reality.

After that torture, I think the dentist and his assistant felt sympathetic. "You have very little tartar. That's good." Oh, thanks for telling me now. I still kept visualizing the oozing blood from my gums.

Well, after that, I got a free cleaning and went home. I also got a free toothbrush, free toothpaste, and two sets of free floss.

Hmm...Were they just being nice? Or do dentists feel they have to give something to their patients after putting them in such an awkward position and for grading them so austerely? Perhaps they know underneath it all that the dental grading system works. I floss twice a day, and I smile all the time.

Now I get to wait patiently for my lab results...

Agartha's Journey, Agartha's Plea: A Conversation

2011-05-03T18:35:00.001-07:00

Kara Hayes, a Museum Guide here at NCM, wrote a poem in honor of Agartha. Enjoy!

Agartha’s Journey

Hidden deep within the earth’s core
Lives a mythical city waiting to be explored.
Seven subterranean creatures conjoined as one tribe,
Resembling four juicy pineapples and three fleshy hives.
Hollow fruits and nests comprised of browns, yellows, and greens.
Wearing coats of pink, white, and aquamarine.
Their massive tentacles expand and thrive-
As they approach, the crowd croaks: It’s alive! It’s alive!
United in breath,
Until death,
In harmony and in sync,
Traveling outside their home in search for the missing link. . .

Agartha: Greetings museum visitors and guests! We have come here on a special quest. Do not be afraid- We come in peace and in need of aid. We have crossed many rivers, valleys, and plains, Crept over oodles of buses, trolleys, and trains, To enter your art-ridden world, A cluster of megamites ready to unfurl. We call ourselves Agartha the Great, Currently seven, hoping to make eight.

Horse Head #1: (Asked the horse from Ancient Greece) Agartha, what is it that you seek?

Agartha: Not what rather, but whom. We come looking for a creature in similar costume- One of great strength and speed, A rare and exotic breed With a golden shell And a tail that quells. Have you seen its superior mane? Can you call it by name?

Horse Head #1: Aye, I can reply. You are in search for the Trilidon From the era of Cambrian.

Agartha: Yes! Good guess! We must find him with great haste! Tell us his whereabouts; we have no time to waste! Horse Head #1: I would rather spare You from despair Than break to you the terrible news- Neigh, I refuse.

Agartha: Perhaps your other head will reveal What you seem to conceal? What do you think, Horse Head #2? Can you give us a clue?

Horse Head #2: Better, for the truth I can give; The Trilidon no longer lives. He left us at the start of the year, Yet his stay was pleasant here, Until he shrank to a miserable size.

Horse Heads #1 and #2: I would return home now, if you were wise Before you reach his same demise.

Agartha’s Plea: A Conversation

Agartha Chorus: Help! Help! We look like kelp! Sinking and shrinking to the bottom of the sea. We are tired as can be And must flee Immediately. Oh Toy an Horse, hear our plea! Oh Toy an Horse, set us free!

Horse: Hold your shrills, my sagging friend. For you have yet to reach the end. Though your insides writhe and wilt, Though your rubber bodies tense and tilt, You still float and swim within this earth. You should rejoice; where is your mirth?

Agartha #1: Mirth, we have not; Only a wrinkled countenance have we got. Arms dried and baked from the sun,
Limbs shredding and spreading one by one. We can no longer hold our necks up high, All we can do is droop and sigh.

Agartha Chorus: Sigh! And try not to cry, For we can no longer see the clear, blue sky.

Horse: Yet there are seven of you and only two of us.

Agartha #1: But we need to return to the earth’s crust.

Agartha Chorus: We must! We must!

Horse: I’m sorry, but you have your home, and I have mine. It here among the children where I shine. Besides I am way too tall; I cannot move my legs at all.

Agartha #1: We are tired and in need of rest- Please give us a ride in your belly’s nest, Or a drink of water to quench our thirst Before fate takes a turn for the worst. With those wheels, take us back where we belong, And we will no longer sing a sad, sad song. We must abort our mission; the Trilidon is gone.

Agartha Chorus: We must say so long! Horse: Dear friend, I wish I could. If only I weren’t planted firmly and made of wood

Agartha #2: One could ferry us in a chariot.

Agartha #3: Or travel with the cranes in the house of rain.

Agartha #4: Or funnel through a rainbow tunnel.

Agartha #5: Or crawl the climbing wall.

Agartha #6: Or sail the painted whale.

Agartha #7: Or double on a bubble.

Agartha #1:Fellow earth dwellers, we had our chance not long ago

To leave this homesick state of woe.
And now we can only wait,
Though it may indeed be too late,
In hopes that this melancholy will subside,
In hopes one of our friends will give us a ride.
It has been bittersweet nonetheless,
We are Agartha the Great,
Remaining as seven to embrace our fate.

It's the End of an Era...and a New Year

2011-05-03T18:29:00.000-07:00

As a staff member at NCM, I was able to capture and study the Trilodon each week, as its coloring and shape began to fade and unravel. Through photographs, birthday parties, and intriguing discussions, the Trilodon grew older, cognizant of its time to leave its recent home on December 31, 2010.

NCM will spend the next month with fond memories of the original creature and the fascinating, ever-changing life cycle it had here at the Museum.

Part I: Trilodon’s Song
I am the almighty Trilodon.
I was born in the era of Cambrian.
Whether traveling by sea or by land,
My swiftness and presence are breathtaking and grand.
My tentacles grow like icicles in the snow.
My golden shell protects me well;
My sea-green exterior ranks me superior;
My transparent mane will never wane;
All hail my floating tail
That hovers from above!
Fully inflated
And never undulated,
Full of air,
Exotic and rare,
Vivid and bright,
I possess power from great height.
I’m in good cheer
Hanging from the highest tier.
Without fear,
It’s abundantly clear-
I am meant to reside here
For visitors to ogle in amazement and peer.

Part II: Trilodon’s Lament – A Conversation
As the Toy an Horse stands 33 feet tall,
The Trilodon
hangs its droopy head and cries:
I feel so small!
Why do you weep so?
Asks the two proud heads
To its frowning friend.

Trilodon:
My scales no longer shine;
My tail is no longer mine.
I’m losing my hearing and my sight,
My strength and all of my might.
If only I could spend the day
Amongst the children and play…

Horse:
Think of it this way -
At least you get a birthday every week,
And you’re not as old as me-
I’m Ancient Greek!

Trilodon:
Yes, that’s true,
But how come I don’t look ageless like you?

Horse:
Ageless, yes,
But without rest,
For little ones love to leap and linger in my belly’s nest.

Trilodon:
Oh, Wouldn’t it be nice to have such jovial guests!

Horse:
You do! They look from afar
And wonder what it’s like to be where you are.

Trilodon:
But I have withered and atrophied beyond belief;
This rapid shrinking is causing me stupendous grief.

Horse:
Good friend, I think it’s time
To cease this game of rhyme.

Trilodon:
My life cycle is turning over a new leaf.
Horse- Ring the bell,
as I must now bid thee farewell,
To all my friends and foes,
To all my hopes and woes,
Goodbye dear ones.
So long; you’ve been grand.
This is my final stand.

NCM anticipates Jason Hackenwerth’s next creation, Agartha; as he will return in early February 2010 to construct and complete the new creature!

To Venus and Back: Lure of the Flytrap

2011-05-03T18:24:00.000-07:00

To Venus and Back: Lure of the Flytrap

Chorus:
Shh! Be very, very quiet;
Do not make a sound.
For a strange creature called Venus
Heaves and hovers above the ground.
Listen to her hum.
Hear her growl and snore; (moan)
See how her head looms and droops-
She's hollow right to the core.
Hush, she moves.
Quiet, she stirs.
She is growing restless;
Hear how she purrs.

Narrator:
Wondering whispers surface the crowd.
As they guess her identity aloud.

Chorus:
Is she a sea horse or a monster of the sea?
A dinosaur or a glass figurine?
A giant worm or a chandelier?
A polar bear or a queen to revere?
A periscope or a hydra genus?
Or a telescope to marvel at Venus.
What in the world could she possibly be?
Neither goddess nor planet,
She is a mystery.

Wait, methinks she lifts her heavy head.
As she opens her lips, yawning and says:

Venus:
Who disturbs my scintillating slumber?
Who, in jest, intercepts my beauty rest?
Who would dare wake me from my cocoon?
Do you take me for some ballooned buffoon?
Don't worry, my darlings, you will know my identity soon...

My white petals breath in the wind.
My stem is long and lean and thin.
Absorb my hourglass physique.
Take your photos, and make your critiques.

Don't be shy.
Don't be so meek.
I am harmful
Only to those who are weak.
For I am a carnivore,
Craving crunchy critters,
Starving for more.
From up here, you all look so small-
A bite-size snack
Who can barely crawl.

Come closer if you dare.
Don't just gawk and stare.
Little insects, I have you under my spell.
You are becoming very sleepy...
And my thirst is deepening.
Another step forward will make things right.
Yes...good. Banish your fright,
And spare you, I just might.

Trick or treat?
Almost there, my sweets.
Another inch
Should be a cinch.
Don't be crude;
This plant needs food.
Tap tap.
I'm ready for my nap.
With just one snap,
I'll catch you in my trap.

The Man in the Mirror: A Reflection on a Legend

2011-05-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

June 25, 2009. Michael Jackson is dead! My mom's shocking text message appeared abruptly on the cell phone screen. Good thing I was in the passenger seat; my heart nearly stopped in disbelief, and the words kept running on speed dial in my mind. Michael Jackson is dead. All of a sudden, my trip along the California coast did not seem as bright and full of life. Almost immediately, my hands reached for the ipod, scanning the King of Pop's extensive repertoire of music. I had to believe my favorite artist still had a voice, and a message to spread. I'm gonna make a change for once in my life... I closed my eyes and absorbed the hopeful and inspiring lyrics of Mr. Michael Jackson; my voice cracked as I tried to sing along, too many silent tears streaming down my face. I see the kids in the streets, with not enough to eat. Who am I to be blind? Pretending not to see their needs?

In fact, before reaching Santa Cruz, I embraced all of the corny MJ classics (those with massive choirs, the soundtrack for Shamu's brother, Willy, and those videos that feature MJ as a scary Peter Pan innocent who can't find his Childhood). I didn't care; this was a sad day...and I spent it with the music of my childhood, adolescence, and adult years- my first cassette tapes, several Halloween costumes, a handful of talent showcases dancing to Billie Jean, joint birthday parties (i.e. a joint party for me and MJ, since ours fall in the same month), and MJ dancing nights- the music that can make my body move in ways I never imagined, the music that sends my head, shoulders, hips, and feet on a kinetic wave of pop, funk, and soul, the music that expresses my love and passion for the art of dance...

...The music that inspired me to organize and take part in an international, one-of-a-kind event, Thrill the World, this past year. Thrill the World is an attempt to break the World Record for Largest Simultaneous Dance, and, since its birth four years ago in Toronto, Canada, Thrill The World has conquered that title, last year resulting in 22,923 participants performing the Thriller dance all around the globe at the same time. With the significant passing of MJ and his birthday on August 29th, 2009, I knew I needed to express my passion and absolute appreciation for MJ's artistry, as a vocalist, lyricist, dancer, video genius, humanitarian, and all-around entertainer. Who wouldn't want to dress up in zombie gear and bust out the classic choreography that has moves like the "roar turn" and "booty bounce"? As a Volunteer Thrill The World Event Manager and Organizer, I was able to do what I love to do more than anything- dance and connect with individuals in the community. Whether dancing just for the exercise, to perform, to do something new and exciting, or to pay homage to a legend, 209 of us San Diegans met in Mission Bay last October, decked out in ripped up clothing, toxic make-up, and baby powder, to Thrill the World as one unit. It was amazing, and I can't wait to do it again. [Check out thrilltheworld.com and thrilltheworldsandiego.com. Next year's event will be held twice on October 23, 2010.]

Michael Jackson's talent is recognized universally. His music and videos bear a magical resemblance to the groundbreaking sounds of tribal African rhythms, rock n roll, Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Diana Ross, and even musicals, such as West Side Story. Though a controversial individual with many secrets and complexities, one cannot deny his influence on pop music today. To see an eight year-old and a 71 year-old participating in Thrill the World last year was incredible (the spectrum of diversity rocked my world); MJ's music will continue to infliltrate the modern world- in school peformances, in clubs, on the radio, in dance classes and presentations, sampled in contemporary music, on the streets, and through song (I just saw an elementary school choir perform Man in the Mirror at the New Children's Museum).

So, please, spend today in remembrance of MJ. Do the Thriller dance. Watch his videos; put on This is It (I am about to). Do an impression. Play a tune in your living room, or in your car, or on your ipod, or go out dancing. Or walking (I can't get enough). Smile, and recognize how his music has thrilled the world. It thrills mine still.

Look out for an MJ dancing night coming soon to an MJ-friendly place near you....

A Night on the Boulevard

2011-05-03T18:11:00.001-07:00

Nothing compares to sharing new and exciting experiences with other people, whether strangers, acquaintances, friends, or loved ones. This past Friday, I had one of those experiences, a spontaneous adventure full of cultural exploration, artistic expression, and Stevie Wonder-coated, goo-ridden feelings that many of us know as happiness, transcending the monotony of one's usual day-to-day itinerary. My vibrant friend, Beryl, also known as Miss Boulevard, for she works for the El Cajon Boulevard Improvement Association, getting her daily satisfaction from beautifying the community through urban planning and revitalization, took me along the Boulevard stretch for an evening of fun. After all, El Cajon Boulevard is the home to many historic businesses, restaurants, groceries, transportation lines, families and traverses six different neighborhoods in San Diego- North Park, Normal Heights, University Heights, City Heights, Talmadge, and Kensington. Little did I know, a new adventure lay ahead. . .

Our first stop? Cali Baguette Express, a popular, family-owned Vietnamese sandwich shop and grocery in City Heights, the only Vietnamese drive-thru in San Diego. At the door, we were kindly welcomed by Thien, a young gentleman, apparently one of the owners' sons of the fabulous restaurant. Immediately upon looking at the menu, I began to salivate- Cajun shrimp, grilled beef, and rotisserie chicken sandwiches all for under five dollars. Fortunately, considering my vast ability to overeat, the shop was closed; instead, we happened to be there for the after-hours party consisting of Vietnamese drinking and snacking. I always wanted to know someone who worked at a grocery or restaurant, so I could dance up and down the aisles with no one around! Thien concocted several blended boba beverages- the Asian soft and slimy tapioca balls found at the bottom of the flavored drink- incorporating the pungent flavors of watermelon, honeydew, and mango among the other options of jackfruit, durian, and taro root (mixed with spirits). We even tried a new type of boba called "popping" boba where the fruit juice, mango, in this case, exploded into your mouth upon each bite.

Sitting at one of the booths in Cali Baguette Express with a group of artists, travellers, and people who enrich their lives through the subtle beauty of life and the community surrounding them, I found myself living purely in the moment- laughing wholeheartedly (which reminds me, I need to form a laughing club!) and learning about the Asian culture with which I have been so unacquainted. Thien couldn't have been more hospitable and welcoming, offering free samples of tasty treats in the shop, our treat of choice being the ever-so salty and stringy cuttlefish, a mollusk popular in East Asia with the chewy texture and nearly spicy aftertaste that leaves you wanting more. I also enjoyed hearing stories about my two new friends', Jennie and Michelle's, travels through Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, and Korea.

Our next stop after Cali was directly across the street- an unlabelled building that supposedly hosted karaoke nights, but not just any kind of karaoke- Cambodian karaoke! I was ready for my next adventure in the city. First, a policeman carded us at the door without a smile (foreshadowing? I hope not), as we absorbed all the live sounds of a Cambodian band (karaoke was not on the menu for the evening, we discovered). We walked past the men and women dancing in a large circle, utilizing their hips, hands, and feet. There was definitely a technique to the movement, yet it was very free-flowing. We all immediately started perspiring as if we were in another humid-filled country. All we needed were some luke warm beers, spicy food, and some dancing with the locals to embrace the mood and culture. So that's what we got. We drank, we ate some more, and we got on the dance floor for some improvised movements. I jumped at the chance to participate in the traditional circle dance; the men were very respectful as they showed me the simple technique (moving your hands and hips)... I felt hot and high, so much smiling and laughter, a real bonding moment with strangers and friends.

For our last adventure of the evening, we stopped at the reknowned Beauty Bar for some last minute, intense grooving. The DJ, Corey, was awesome (We're already Facebook friends!), and we took up the entire dance floor. It's so much fun to have all that space to practice moves you wouldn't even know you had up your sleeves, ones that you are normally too embarrassed to try when there is a crowd. We connected with a couple of cool hipsters in that sacred space, sweating it up for the final hurrah. From complete strangers to intimate jive partners, we were in sync.

After such an evening, I came home to my apartment feeling satisfied and fulfilled, having lived in the moment with others. What was the last thing the young, naive traveller, Christopher McCandless, said before he died? Ah, yes: "Happiness is only real when shared."

Hello, my name is Kara, and I'm a walk-aholic.

2011-05-03T18:07:00.000-07:00

As stated in my previous blog entry, entitled, “Hi, my name is Kara, and I am a walking addict,” I enjoy walking. I enjoy walking to the point of pain in my heels and spasms in my toes. I walk because I can, and I walk because I want to. I walk to feel good; I walk to reflect. Some walks have end points while some never run out of battery. I walk to get from here to there; I choose to walk. Over any other form of transportation, though it takes twice as long to get to my destination, walking is my weapon of choice. However, the choice to walk has taken an obligatory and injurious stance of late. Part of the reason I walk so religiously is due to not having a vehicle to transport myself around town, my own private Idaho and love bug where I can blast my music to a more-than-reasonable volume, singing to the top of my lungs with my windows rolled up (or down, if you want to be ostentatious). My very own four-wheeled umbrella to shelter me from the rain. A place to escape to when there is no escape, and you have to get out of the house just to feel like you're in control of something (probably better than trying to control people). A place to go when your roommate tells you he loves you while on seven different medications and three different types of alcohol. Perhaps getting into your vehicle at two in the morning in order to feel safe and protected is the optimal solution. Walking will not get you very far at that point and not very fast. Sometimes one just wants to take a drive and feel the fresh air on their face. Sometimes one doesn't have the time to walk and has to get somewhere quickly. Sometimes one doesn't want to reflect on life and get in “dream” mode. Sometimes one wants to lend a helping hand to a stranded soul in need of a ride (this has been me the past six months) just be the Good Samaritan (thank you everyone for your kindness). C'mon, doesn't it feel amazing to bring someone to their desired location, especially if it's a cool party they invite you to attend with them, and you're carpooling at the same time (It feels good to Go Green!)? Sometimes you may decide that living in your car is a more affordable and comfortable option... Save money in this economy? Hell-to-the-yes! I think you get the point. Having a vehicle that you can call your own has its pluses.

However, now I am going to confess something shameful to you; I might as well tell you after my whole pro-automobile slant. Okay, here goes: I, Kara, the “walking addict”, have not gone on a pleasure walk for several weeks [here's where you scream in disbelief]! I'm talking about a walk without stress and baggage, a walk that only involves two things- me and my dreams. Well, music, too. I'm talking about one where I can close my eyes and reflect on the beauty and mystery of life- an epiphany pace and intuitive mind race. Not having a car and needing to get places- the grocery store, a coffee shop, work, interviews, the bus stop, and school- has made walking more of a chore, and I'm growing weak at the knees, literally. A bit of negativity towards the pedestrian profession has arisen within me. Believe me, I am not happy about this recent blooming. In fact, I feel like I'm turning against my very dear friend.

Carrying a necessary change of clothes, a laptop, chargers, a mound of flashcards (I'm academic!), a journal, and a purse, simultaneously, places quite a heavy, burdening load on one's, almost always sweaty, back. Not only do I find myself wanting a chiropractor (been there, done that), I am always rushing and stuffing, or is it stuffing and rushing? Stuffing things into a bag, then rushing out the door, never quite prepared with all the necessary provisions. The other day, I forgot my deodorant and my cell phone charger. So, I stunk, and my phone died. I don't always know what my schedule is for the day either; that's right. Perhaps I get a hot date all of a sudden or want to be spontaneous and go dancing at the club inconveniently situated miles away from home? I need to have a dynamo dance ensemble and shoes with height in my bag! Today I packed for the gym and didn't end up going. That's a ton of stuff I could have avoided. I also break out all over my body, depending on the area in which the bag falls- typically my right shoulder and back. Is there a sign on my back that says, “Welcome to pimpledom! Enjoy your stay!”? I don't think so!

Okay, I know what you're all thinking: Stop complaining, and take the bus. Spend the $2.25. Or ride the sad and lonely bike you have sitting out in the backyard (all it wants is some lovin' from your behind). Or keep bugging people for rides. Or get a used car. Or move to a city that does not ostracize pedestrians. Yes, yes...I know. That's not the issue right now. The issue I am suffering from is that I am supposed to be the girl that walks, the one that would rather walk across the U.S. if she could (could I?) than ride in a car. The girl that give non-walkers a glimpse of hope. Yet this recent negativity is becoming a problem and could soon reach a point where I become numb to the benefits of the drug. This internal battle could soon get out of control.

So, I must neglect the neck and back pain; I must put aside the stress and woes and think of the positives. Perhaps practice mobile meditation. Or come up with a wicked top ten list that states why walking is superior to driving any day of the week. So, that's what I did. Granted, it's not perfect. However, if this list will help me walk one more hour, one more day, for the rest of my life, it's worth a try. I hope any of you pseudo walkers or stressed-out hoofers can get some inspiration and pride from this list.

Kara's Top Ten Reasons to Walk vs. Drive:

1.

Your legs don't hurt from sitting and doing nothing; they actually hurt from exercising.
2.

If a driver gets cross with you for walking too slowly, just smile to yourself and know that you are the one exercising, and they are the lazy ones.
3.

You don't get pulled over for jaywalking (though speedwalking can be considered dangerous).
4.

You are forced to plan your time more effectively; time management is crucial while walking (to the bus stop, etc.).
5.

You pack only what you need (unless you are a bag lady like me). You must learn to minimize! This, in turn, helps you pack for trips of any kind. Carry-ons only!
6.

You don't rely on a GPS or iPhone to get you where you need to go; instead, you rely on the PPS (Pedestrian Point System) and acquire ample Street Smarts.
7.

You are always ready to walk (and ne're will you complain)- when hiking, traveling, on road trips, at amusement parks/zoos, in airports, in subway stations, on stairs, in parking garages, at home, etc.
8.

You interact more with other humans; you can almost touch another human's shoulders! And you have time to focus on a “hello” or smile rather than a stop sign or stoplight.
9.

You have the right-of-way, or at least you should.
10.

No hit-and-runs! Well, runs perhaps.

- Kara Hayes

Hi, my name is Kara, and I'm a walking addict.

2011-05-03T18:05:00.001-07:00

I am a walking addict. Always in motion, my feet crave the pavement. Most people I know like to take strolls in the park or skip pebbles along the beach. Many walk only because they have to, or they parked too far away. Some people bike. Some run. Some play tennis, while others gym it. Some people simply couch surf. Not me; I walk. Day walks, night walks. I walk. In the sunshine, in the rain. When I have to and when I don't need to, I walk. I walk miles. For fun. Twenty minutes or two hours, I choose to walk. I walk until my feet bleed. Perhaps this passion stems from being forced to walk as a child (my dad's poor vision got him in too many car accidents, hence stripping him of his driving privileges); I can see me trailing behind my speed-walking father along Hollywood Boulevard. All I wanted was a piggyback ride! Since then, I have been on many kinetic journeys- climbing the steep Hollywood Hills, conquering the entire grid of Manhattan (sometimes 60 blocks at a time), along the Golden Gate Bridge, meandering through all of Paris ending at the Eiffel Tower, through the White Sands of New Mexico, and across several state lines. I have traveled, and I have walked.

I'm a walking advocate. Many of us either loathe this underrated form of exercise and therapy or take it for granted. The fact that we can walk to different places, no matter where we are, without the need for vehicles or props of any kind, is simply amazing. All you need are those awkward-looking limbs attached to our hip bone (called legs). You don't have to rent them or buy them or fill them with air at a gas station (though stretching and lots of water are always good preparations). All you have to do is take alternating steps while moving forward, one foot in front of the other.

You can walk solo to the sounds of nature or zone out to your private music collection. You can walk and talk with a friend, or two, or three. You can form a walking group. You can walk the walk. You can walk with pride or walk on eggshells. You can walk on a tightrope, or, if extremely brave, you can walk on fire. You can walk in flats. You can walk in heels. You can walk in cute vintage dresses (I do!). You can hit the roof of a car and scream, like Dustin Hoffman, at the top of your lungs: "I'm walkin' here!" You can tiptoe. You can strut (I recommend Michael Jackson and James Brown). You can stomp. You can stride. You can glide. Walking is an art, and you can make it your own.

If animals and babies can do it, so can we! I encourage you to get off the couch or office chair and go for a walk- right now! Start by walking to the bathroom. Then walk down a long hallway. Walk to the bus stop across the street. Before you know it, you won't be catching the bus at all. You'll find yourself passing the bus altogether and waving at it (while grinning due to your healthy, alternative lifestyle).

The fact is you notice things more on walks. You can read and memorize street names. You can absorb the community to the fullest. You can find your own walking path, both old and new. You see people out in the open world, babies in strollers and dogs on leashes (the two cutest creatures in existence). You can see someone smiling as you pass by. You can connect with a total stranger and not have to blow your horn. Now, sure, walking takes time; some of us don't have all day. We have full-time jobs, or a family, or school. But think about this: All the time one spends driving short distances, talking on the phone and texting, sitting and waiting, for a ride perhaps, could be consolidated and exerted as quality walking time. You can walk and talk on the phone simultaneously! It's okay!

Yes, I am crazy- a downright walking loony and a bit of a walking snob, getting irritated when people walk too slowly, or couples can't undo their hand-holding for a second to let me pass (C'mon!). I am an addict that needs her daily fix. In fact, all my walks this week have been two hours long. I am starting to keep track of my treading per day. So far, this week, I've been on the following walks:

Sunday- Walk through the San Diego Zoo

Monday- Loop walk from University Heights to Hillcrest

Tuesday- Walk downtown through the Convention Center

Wednesday- Loop walk from Normal Heights to Kensington to City Heights (though I did get lost)

Thursday- Walk from North Park through Balboa Park to Downtown AND Walk from downtown to Banker's Hill (to catch the bus)

Friday- Who knows what the destination will be?

To conclude this pro-walking blog, I could never imagine a world without walking. Walking is my exercise, my diet, my muse, my therapist, my dance partner, my creative channel, my mobile journal, my soundtrack, my chance to dream, my connection to others, my memories, my happiness. . . my life.

... So please, walk with me.

Art Project February 2010

2011-05-02T17:40:00.000-07:00

This is a project I shot and edited for an art show in San Diego. It speaks for itself.

Thanks to all my friends and fellow co-workers for their help.

"To Expose...and Place Up Front"