‘BOH Tea Plantation’ by Zaqqy J

Maria Popova of Brain Pickings recently posted George Orwell’s 11 Golden Rules for making a perfect cup of tea, so I can now cross How to make a perfect cup of tea off my ‘writing ideas to tackle later’ list. (At least, a perfect British cup of tea.)

I myself break most of George’s rules. I usually use cheap decaffeinated black tea from who knows where, brewed with a tea bag instead of loose, in a cup instead of a pot, with sugar, with pasteurized and homogenized half-and-half, and I don’t like really strong or bitter tea. And I’ve never been on tea rations.

But I feel inspired once again to take my tea-making to the next level with some good loose-leaf tea and a real, legit tea pot. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Ann has seen a lot of really cool shipping container homes on Pinterest, so that is probably her best option, to buy a shipping container, have it delivered to the church when no one is around, and then Pinterest the crap out of it and hope no one notices.

I wanted to help her because I’m a big fan of alternative and eco-friendly housing, so I took it upon myself to scour the internet for this handy visual reference that should help her quite a bit when the time comes.

Image: KottageRV.com

If you do a Google image search for ‘shipping container homes’, it’s pretty amazing the stuff that comes up. Here are some of the more modest examples I thought were pretty interesting.

Photo: dwell.com

Photo: Babble.com

Photo: ContainerHome.info

Photo: Coming Unmoored

Photo: The Tiny Life

And finally, a not-so-modest example.

Photo: Ottawa Citizen

This post is part of a special focus on pilgrimage.

What does it mean for a pilgrim to progress? Or, like C. S. Lewis wrote, Pilgrim’s Regress? Are we moving forward with purpose or slipping away, clawing to maintain stasis? Physical, mental, spiritual stasis. A point of equilibrium. Are we going someplace as individuals? As humans?

I often feel as a civilization we are constantly searching for distractions. We desperately cannot handle a pause of any sort. I get this feeling when I have days off from work, the feeling that I don’t know what to do with myself. I feel as if I should be doing something, anything, that if I don’t I am just wasting time. Sunday night brings that sinking feeling of dread for the days ahead and remorse for missed opportunity, a feeling of being trapped in an obligation that I want to escape.

This feeling extends to life as a whole if I stop long enough. If I stop filling up time with entertainment, cell phones, hobbies, dish washing and laundry. Is it a bad thing to feel this way? Maybe it’s a warning, like pain when we are physically injured, a warning to us as a race that we have gotten lost along our journey. Maybe we don’t even recognize it as a journey any more. I believe this is the key difference between a pilgrim who invests time, and one who simply spends time.

A pilgrim is on their way to a better place.

First of all, they believe there is a better place.

Second, they believe it is worth setting out to go there.

Third, they believe there is a way to get there.

Fourth, they eliminate anything that will hinder them from getting there.

And finally, they embrace anything that will help them reach that place.

I believe we have replaced this focus with frivolous distractions, like careers, money, prestige, power, and entertainment. We have forgotten. This has caused us pain and emptiness. It has made us feel all at sea about life.

Photo: National Media Museum

Picasa is possibly the best free app ever developed for Mac and PC. It is Google’s take on photo management software, and it’s a pretty good take.

I’m a Photoshop user, but for polishing up digital photos I don’t even bother with Photoshop. I just open up Picasa and click ‘I’m Feeling Lucky’ in the ‘Commonly needed fixes’ tab which does an automatic light and color correction that usually gets good results without any other tweaking. Then I crop if necessary. Boom. Done.

There are a bunch of cool, simple tweaks you can do with Picasa, but my current favorite is ‘Cross Process’ (under the green tab on the Edit Controls sidebar).

In pre-digital photography, cross processing referred to the practice of developing film in different chemicals than what would normally be used for that film, resulting in high contrast, over saturated colors. Now it is common to find apps like Instagram and Picasa replicating the effects of cross processing on digital photos.

Not every photo looks good with Picasa’s ‘Cross Process’ applied, but I’ve had pretty good luck, especially on outdoor photos. You will notice the greens and yellows get intensified and the whole photo gets a bold, 70s kind of look. Or at least what I imagine a 70s kind of look to look like.

Here is the raw photo which became the cover for the ‘Bad Luck and Good Times on the Appalachian Trail’ story:

And now with ‘Cross Process’ applied:

And finally, I used ‘Vignette’ (under the blue tab on the Edit Controls sidebar) to finish it, which darkens the edges of the image:

Pretty cool, right?

The changes you make in Picasa won’t be applied permanently to the image file until you save them. Picasa does keep a backup of your original image when you save your tweaked version, which takes up a lot of extra disk space, but at least you know the original is still around if you need it. You can also export the image to a new file on your computer and then undo the changes you’ve made to the original image in Picasa.

Post your digitally cross processed images online somewhere and mention the link in a comment below. I’d love to see your results.

Here are a few photos of old farm equipment my wife took last year with some cross processing ninjutsu applied:

‘Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred … ‘Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!”

- W. H. Murray, Scottish mountaineer and writer

I care about my friends too much to be that guy.

But I’m learning that kind of thinking is hopelessly flawed. The fact is, the people I’m trying not to bother are the people who are my biggest allies and supporters, or could be if I choose to see them that way. The trick is not to avoid bothering those people. The trick is to give them whatever information they need to fully support and help me in my endeavors.

Here’s a little story to illustrate my point.

——–

The other day I was with my friend, Cheeto, headed to his dad’s house to paint the guest bedroom. He pulled over at a Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and Munchkins®. We walked in and it was packed. I ordered hot tea.

After a minute they gave us our order and we walked toward the door by way of the accessory station to fix up our drinks and grab napkins.

I opened up my hot tea and realized I just had hot milky water, no tea. So I walked back to the counter where we picked up our stuff and tried to get the attention of an employee, any employee, but it was packed, like I said, and none of the employees so much as looked in my direction.

So I said screw it and walked out.

I got out to Cheeto’s truck and he asked how it went. I said, ‘They’re too busy. I just–’

‘Oh, hell no,’ he said, before I had finished my story. He grabbed my cup and walked back into Dunkin’ Donuts.

I sat in the truck and collected money on his ‘The Simpsons: Tapped Out’ iPhone game for a few minutes until he came back.

‘You need to learn to stand up for yourself, Natrix,’ he said when he got back in the truck, tea bag string proudly dangling from the styrofoam cup he handed me.

‘Did you blow up on them?’ I asked. Cheeto has a habit of getting very confrontational, very quickly with customer service people, and also with people in general. Apparently it has something to do with his Italian upbringing.

‘No, I just went to the front and showed them,’ by which he meant he showed the customers standing at the front of the line the hot milk water in my cup, ‘And I said, ‘Does that look right to you?’ And they were like, ‘No way, you need to get that fixed.” So the customers let him in at the front of the line, he showed the employee at the register, and the employee fixed it right away.

I had a thought when I was walking out of the store, at the moment I was accepting that I would be drinking hot milkwater instead of tea, that I should not just accept it. That I should get it fixed, for the sake of my manhood, if nothing else. But I did not want to stand in line again, and I did not want to get in the way of other customers who had already been waiting for five or ten minutes, and I did not want to start yelling at super busy employees to drop what they were doing and fix my drink. Those were the options I saw I had to choose from. Or, take the walk of shame out the door with my hot milkwater.

What Cheeto did was to get the customers at the front of the line on his side. Once they saw what was wrong with the order, they got out their pitchforks and prepared to mob the store on his behalf. Then it was a breeze to get the problem fixed, without the need for theatrics or confrontation (which is a shame, because Cheeto puts on quite the show).

——–

So what can I learn from this experience, other than knowing how to avoid the walk of shame next time I get a tea-less tea?

The people around me are ready to ally with a cause they believe in, but only if I give them a chance by presenting my cause in a way that makes it their cause.

Here is a bunch of crap I discovered this year, in no particular order of importance.

1. New Wahl Detailer trimmers
2. Square app
3. How to Un-friend someone on FaceBook from my phone
4. Honey Dew’s frozen coffee
5. The online barber culture (here’s a sample)
6. Evernote app
7. The simple fact that if you win an argument with your wife and you are finally ‘right,’ you still lose. Because in a relationship, if one of you is hurting, you both lose.
8. Comic Book Men TV series

Stacey K

1. NUMBER ONE, by far, no bones about it – Macklemore – life-changing hip hop that feeds my soul. High praise, I know
2. Thoughtcatalog.com
3. Gratitude – writing three things I’m thankful for every day
4. Boston. No, really! One of my new favourite places
5. NaNoWriMo – even though I only wrote 7,000 words, it was an amazing experience, with really supportive, inspiring people
6. The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan – old timey language and beautiful allegory, bursting into poetry every few paragraphs… basically a recipe for enchanting Stacey’s heart
7. MyFitnessPal (website and app) – really helped me be realistic about what I’m putting in my pizza door (read:mouth)
8. The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern – sometimes I read bestsellers and I’m like… how the f*** does this sell a million copies? And then I read The Night Circus, and I’m all like…. now THAT is a bestseller, people

Geoff

1. Shot Designer App
2. Backstory – newsstand digital magazine for iPad
3. Embedded by Dan Abnett
4. Edward Burns – Q&A With Jeff Goldsmith Podcast – ‘Newlyweds’
5. Steamdot Coffee
6. Wounded Healer by The Followers
7. The Lumineers – Self-Titled
8. Movies – to many to mention

Matt

1. Life without vulnerability is not life (TED Talk by Brené Brown)
2. Introversion is okay (TED Talk by Susan Cain)
3. Josh Garrels’ music breathes into my soul
4. Being unperfect is life giving (book by Brené Brown)
5. Shame means death to the soul (TED Talk by Brené Brown)
6. Read good sci fi (Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card)
7. Don’t overthink – make the decision that is directly in front of you, not the eight different decisions that may, or may not, result as the choice in front of you unfolds
8. I feel better when I don’t eat wheat and dairy

Nate

1. Of Monsters And Men – my wife discovered OMAM before they got big and I didn’t like them, but they grew on me and now they are, by far, my favorite Icelandic indie folk/pop band
2. Pluto by Naoki Urasawa – an eight volume manga series based on ‘The Greatest Robot on Earth’ story arc from Osamu Tezuka’s Astro Boy. Blew my mind in both art and story
3. Google Picasa’s cross process filter for photos
4. The Pacific Northwest – from Astoria, Oregon to Vancouver Island, it is a beautiful part of the world
5. A renewed interest in minimalism as a lifestyle
6. Adobe Creative Cloud – access to all of Adobe’s tools without the steep upfront cost
7. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart – not like I had never seen it before, but I really got into The Daily Show during the U.S. presidential campaign
8. The Newsroom, Aaron Sorkin’s new show on HBO

Bonus

• Tanuki – racoon dogs (via Mark)

I have a concern about how technology, hip and cool culture, and new trendy ways to process information and ideas distract us from the purity of the stories themselves. Sometimes I think it’s a rabbit hole, a warren of sorts, a web in the negative sense, at the least a distraction from producing something really valuable in itself – namely, the meat of the story. I notice a huge difference, say, when I get on a slow train to nowhere and only have a notebook and pen.

- Mark Hill

I used to think of plans as these ultra-structured, restrictive, life-choking things that control-freaks had to have, but I have since come to realize I need a plan and a structure to feel grounded, and to give me a sense of momentum and accomplishment. I have also found it is much easier and more enjoyable to be spontaneous when you have a plan to depart from. That has been the key to my falling in like with planning, actually – the knowledge that a plan is just a guideline that can be dropped or revised at any time.

Here are some workbooks and stuff that might help you in your review and planning process, should you decide to do it: Unravelling The Year Ahead 2013 Workbook by Susannah Conway, 2013 New Year Guide by Jullien Gordon (have to sign up with name and email to get it), Chris Guillebeau’s Annual Review Template (Excel spreadsheet) and a list of all of Chris’s annual review related posts on AONC. Something else you might find useful is Donald Miller’s MySubplot.com, an online tool for figuring out what kind of story you want to tell with your life.

A belated Happy New Year to Ocsplorers everywhere! May it be our best yet.

Home is in my wife’s embrace.
Home is at the Middle East downstairs in the middle of Pharaoh Monch’s set.
Home is in a barber shop, record shop or breakfast spot.
I’ve been home and felt like a stranger.
I’ve been a stranger and felt at home.

Home is my head.

Home is my heart.

Photo: ‘Boston’ by Rick Harris

Last month I was in my hometown of Orlando, Florida for a friend’s wedding. Wendy’s cousin threw Wendy a baby shower the day after the wedding, so my dad, my brother and I hit the road looking to have some male bonding time away from all the ooooohing, awwwwwing and assorted fluffery (Wendy would have happily joined us, but alas, brides and mothers-to-be have no choice in these matters).

We decided on glow-in-the-dark miniature golf and the latest James Bond flick at Festival Bay Mall, which sits at the corner of West Oak Ridge Road and International Drive. I-Drive is the tourist shopping and eating destination in Orlando. It is aptly named as the tourists who go shopping on their days off from Disney, Universal Studios and Sea World are more often international than national, visiting from places where a pair of Levi’s are either twice the price or altogether unattainable.

In the midst of the I-Drive strip mall chaos, Festival Bay has been a shimmering beacon of bright colors and clean floors and retro Florida style since it opened in 2002. The Cinemark theater was our go-to spot for movie watching when we lived in Orlando and my friend Chris worked at the Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World there for years while taking EMT and nursing classes. Wendy and I used to go watch the skateboarders at the Vans Skatepark and I remember buying Christmas gifts one year at the mall’s Ron Jon Surf Shop.

I arrived ahead of my dad and brother, so I walked around to see whether any new stores had opened. The weird thing about Festival Bay is, ever since it opened it has been half empty. Outdoor World and Cinemark have been anchors since early days, and the Ron Jon, Vans and Sheplers each added their own strong presence, but all the smaller stores you expect to see in an American mall never showed up or didn’t last if they did. No Gap, no Hot Topic, no PacSun, no Victoria’s Secret, no Gamestop, no Bath & Bodyworks, no KB Toys, definitely no Apple store. Never even a decent food court. At some point a Fuddruckers showed up which, considering the alternatives of Subway and a handful of generic eatery stalls is really your only worthwhile food option.

What I always loved about Festival Bay was its look and feel. You walk under tin roof ceilings full of skylights, surrounded by bright pastel colors and you feel like you’re walking the streets of Key West. It feels so open, especially the area in what should be the hub of the mall, where there is a big pool with fountains, and a bridge-spanned stream which runs under a giant glass wall into an outdoor pond where turtles sun themselves. And the circular, winding layout feels more whimsical and natural than the grid layout of most malls.

As I walked around I realized the mall had shrunk even more in recent years. There were barriers set up blocking off whole wings of the mall. Where before there had been halls of empty storefronts, now the halls were completely inaccessible. And even with sections of the mall closed, there were still empty storefronts in the open areas. When I got to the spot where I expected to find the Vans Skatepark and saw it too had disappeared, I couldn’t help but stop and wonder what had gone wrong with this mall. There was so much potential here.

It could have been the opening of The Mall at Millenia the same year and about ten minutes away. That mall immediately filled up with upscale stores and restaurants, even causing a huge influx of additional stores, homes and businesses to be built in the area around it, an area that used to be a little less than not much at all. Just for fun, compare the websites of the two malls (Festival Bay, Mall at Millenia) and tell me if you notice any difference.

Personally, as flash as Millenia is, I much prefer the beachy, vintage Florida style of Festival Bay. I even like the name better. But here’s the lesson I took away from walking around the ghost town mall a month ago. You can spend all kinds of time and money and energy creating just the right atmosphere and ambience, even make sure to set up in a ‘can’t-fail’ location, but if you don’t have the substance, the stuff underneath the style that people actually want or need, man you ain’t got nothing. In fact, you’ve got less than nothing if the little bit of substance you do have doesn’t pay for itself.

For me, standing in the mall taking photos for what could be an interesting little essay for OCSPLORA, I recognized my own failures in the grand ambitions and lackluster results all around me. I have made that mistake – many times – of putting hour after hour into developing just the right style and letting substance take a backseat. As someone who claims to be a strong believer in the rule of ‘form follows function’, it’s a little ironic how often I do just the opposite.

They are supposed to be reopening the skatepark at Festival Bay soon under a different brand, and there have been talks of major renovations for the mall, but only time will tell whether Festival Bay will ever live up to all its untapped potential. The same goes for me and OCSPLORA. Hopefully I’ll learn my lessons quicker than the previous and current Festival Bay owners have learned theirs, or not learned as the case may be.

What about you? Do you put so much emphasis on the style and presentation of your creative projects and entrepreneurial pursuits that you forget about the ultimately more important substance underneath?

The term ‘Proxemics’ was first introduced by Edward T. Hall in his book The Hidden Dimension. It is ‘the science of the subjective dimensions that surround each person and the physical distances they try to keep from other people, according to subtle cultural rules’ (Wikipedia). Hall believed not only was it important how we interact with each other daily but also how we organize personal spaces, as well as buildings, houses, cities and towns. ‘Personal space is the region surrounding a person which they regard as psychologically theirs. Most people value their personal space and feel discomfort, anger, or anxiety when their personal space is encroached’ (Wikipedia).

The population of the central area of Tokyo where I live is about nine million people. Personal space is at a premium. We have been trying to buy a house on a postage stamp sized lot for several years. We don’t have wealthy relatives to give us the down payment and the banks aren’t really lending so it isn’t going to happen, but we still like to window shop. Tolstoy’s ‘How Much Land Does a Man Require’ should probably be required reading for anyone purchasing a home or thinking about it, and maybe Throeau’s Walden as well.

I have set my sites on much smaller aspirations, my own personal space.

How much personal space does a man need? A friend stated in a recent email ‘a man needs a creative space’. I find it rare that women fully understand this, the need part I mean, how important this space is to a man’s soul. Does that sound sexist? It is what it is. Maybe all men don’t have this need and maybe some women do but I am going to give you the perspective of a man. Some may call it a ‘man cave’ or ‘mantuary’ (urban dictionary), a study, an atelier, or studio. Just knowing there is a place to go to be away and think clearly can bring great comfort. I like to build my own. It’s cathartic. When I was a kid it was forts, whether they were built in the living room, in a tree or underground in the woods. Now it’s on the porch of a tiny apartment or a corner of my living room. You have to make do with what you have. I don’t need much. A place for my futon, a small table and that’s it.

John Milton in Paradise Lost says, ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ Probably the mind is the ultimate in small spaces. Maybe that’s all we can afford sometimes but I’m talking about expanding the space a bit, a little beyond intimate space and traditional personal space, a place where the mind can breathe a bit.

I prefer very small spaces. They can be shaped and sculpted. There is only room for a few items, no clutter. They are easy to clean and they need to be kept that way. This helps with clear thinking.

After my grandfather died I moved in with my grandmother. Not for her sake. I had to work off some debt and it was a cheap place to live. She lived in a trailer home. People often look down on this choice of abode. They are small-minded. I had my own travel trailer I used to spend weekends in while at University. Thirty five feet long, eight feet wide, shower, toilet, kitchen, sofa, queen sized bed, small yard and a shed. I used to like the sound of the rain on the tin roof. I don’t like the poverty associated with trailer parks and the sometimes sketchy nature of the neighbors but it is affordable and very comfortable housing. My grandmother’s was spacious on the inside. Just enough room, but I needed my own corner and so did my grandfather.

My grandfather had a small shed-like attachment at the back of the trailer. It was primitive, in a good way, and private. The ceiling was very low, not much taller than the metal screen door, so you had to crouch slightly. The shed was about four feet wide by seven feet long. There was an old metal shelf, some old golf clubs (he used to make all sorts of things, like canes out of them), various junk, materials, and other sundries. There were jars of screws, nuts, bolts, and miscellaneous fasteners attached by their tin caps to the rafters. An oversized florescent light hung in the middle of the room. You had to be careful not to hit your head. There was a stone grinder for sharpening tools attached to a small work bench made from scrap wood, various hand tools attached to the walls, and an old handmade wooden tool carrier.

I was working nights at the postal sorting facility, ‘going postal’, which I didn’t need at the time. I was also dating my fiancé long distance from Japan, mostly by phone. There wasn’t much to do since I moved back to the area after having been gone for ten years. At that time in my life I needed something to keep my hands busy. I decided to make the old workshop my space. Family members thought I was nuts. They were right, but who cares. Their version of sanity I could do without.

I bought some old French doors from a drunken neighbor for $30 and replaced the old metal screen door. Then I got to work on the inside. I kept the framing to save money, raised the roof a bit and put a new skin on the roof. Then I lined the floors and walls with scraps of cherry or mahogany veneer I found in the dumpster of an interior design business. Sometimes they had full sheets of veneer plywood. I even put a small fountain in the floor for effect. I built a compartment that went under the trailer for storage. It was only about two feet tall by three feet wide and had a sliding door. It looked about the size of a fireplace. It even had a narrow mantle to put chochkeys on. I hung an old winter kimono that I bought at a yard sale in front of the French doors for privacy and to keep some heat in during winter. I transformed that shed into a workable private space where I could think and just be. I imagined Thoreau would have been proud.

The act of building the space was probably just as cathartic as spending time enjoying the finished product. I remember thinking about the importance of process while building it. It was nice to finish it but even if I never finished it I would have enjoyed the experience. It wasn’t about production for me anymore, artwork I mean, but life as well. I still forget this almost daily. The constant need to accomplish something, to produce a finished product or work, to reach some destination, I believe is a sickness resulting from our place in history as it relates to the Industrial Revolution. It has been driven into our souls by living in this era. What will I do? What am I accomplishing? Sometimes we try to find some cosmic importance in what we create, or something that will contribute to who we are, like we are trying to forge our identity through our work instead of express as much as we already know about ourselves, or just enjoy the moment.

Why do I need a five year plan? Why do I need to be so goal oriented at all? Can’t I have some other orientation that reflects what I really value?

I often feel like I am being molded, branded, and produced like a product. I feel like I have to constantly resist. Peer pressure sucks even when you’re an adult. We have been pressured into accepting certain viewpoints concerning the nature of work and productivity. So much so that we cannot even enjoy the process anymore because we constantly have to measure how far we have come and how much use we are to society based on some sliding scale, or form of measurement.

‘Is the marketplace the measure of our culture? That would mean the death of all thought,’ says Adrian Jacobs, a neurotic composer in the movie Untitled. Maybe that is what I am resisting, the pressure of the marketplace. We are too busy, bored, or distracted to ask ourselves if we even agree with these viewpoints. Someone told us we must be productive members of society and what that exactly means. We believed them and continue to shape our lives around these paradigms. These paradigms have ruined ‘regular work’ and I find my creative works affected as well. They threaten to suck all the joy out of creating. If work and creating is simply about the end product then it’s all meaningless to me.

Building things has taught me to draw meaning through process. Trying to enjoy that moment and be present. Getting caught up in the feel and smell of wood, the sound of power and hand tools, going to the dumpster to pick out the wood, interacting with the neighbors and storekeepers, communing with God and thinking about life – which is easier when my hands are busy (riding on a train or playing or singing music has a similar affect). These are all parts of the process. They are important because they are opportunities for enjoyment if we are not preoccupied with the finished product.

The details, the work, aspirations, fame, achievements in the end are really pointless in a cosmic sense. We imagine ourselves more important than we are. It’s vanity that interferes with enjoyment. I think old people understand this better than young people. Ask them what is important. Listen to them tell stories. What do they leave out?

It’s weird to talk about my grandfather’s shed. There is vulnerability in inviting people into this personal space. It’s funny because when two people are in the space, whether physically or through writing about it, it becomes very personal. I guess because building these spaces is not only about the process but privacy too. They are an extension of my natural personal space. Often I need that extra space. They are certainly not about production for me. They are places I can go to escape the guilt of thinking I am lazy based on postindustrial norms about ‘being productive’, and maybe to escape people as well. Didn’t Sartre say ‘hell is other people’? Maybe not always but certainly enough to warrant a little personal space.

It was sometime after dark when some friends and I were standing on the platform of the Agra train station, waiting to catch our train to New Delhi. We had just come from seeing the Taj Mahal, the symbol of India. Debatably one of the world’s most opulent architectural achievements, it graces the covers of countless tourism magazines and posters. We had been awes by its tons of white marble, inlaid with jewels and coral imported from around the globe. The gardens were equally spectacular, green and flourishing despite the intense rays from the sun. Serving as both a monument and a mausoleum, the area was quiet and peaceful, commanding a certain amount of respect from its visitors.

My friends and I were standing in a circle, discussing the Taj and all of its glory. We stood close together in order to discourage as the many vendors and beggars from getting too near. Often they would approach us with one hand outstretched, using the other to make a motion to their mouths. We had learned to ignore the pleas of the Indian people. Sadly, no matter how gracious or compassionate a single person may be, one simply cannot donate to every needy person that they run into in India. A person’s funds would be exhausted too quickly and thoroughly without even coming close to providing the type of assistance that could genuinely offer long-term help.

Earlier, as we stepped outside the gated area that fully enclosed the Taj from the outside world, we had been swarmed by vendors trying to sell us postcards, figurines, jewelry, and clothing. We got pushed around and yelled at and in the end the boys in the group ended up holding back the crowd to allow the girls to board a bus. Unable or unwilling to buy the items, we learned that the quickest was to make them retreat to their next hopeful sale was to completely ignore them, not replying to their queries and certainly not making eye contact. We were afraid of being overwhelmed once again. Thus, at the station, we were doing our best to ignore a little boy cupping his hands together and reaching them out to us.

He was probably about 7- or 8-years-old. His brown hair was long, dirty, and tousled, while his clothing was gray from age and thin from wear. The boys bone structure was clearly pronounced through his smooth, dark skin and his teeth were yellowed and already starting to show significant orthodontic problems. I’m not sure if he spoke English or not, for he simply tapped our arms or tugged on our backpacks in an attempt to get us to pay attention to him.

His efforts did not go unnoticed and we tried our hardest to not react to his silent pleas. Yet, we weren’t the only ones aware of the boy’s presence. Two officials briskly walked toward our group. Dressed in camel-colored uniforms, each one carried a long, thick pole of bamboo. They began to hit the boy. There was no warning. This wasn’t a gentle tap or a push. It was an unforgiving smack. One official was aiming for the boy’s legs while the other went for the lower back.

There was a loud gasp, though I’m still not sure whether it came collectively from the group or merely from me. I was so surprised by what was happening that I didn’t have a chance to move before the little boy scrambled away from the men to avoid any further blows. He ran and hid behind me, as I was closest to him, and he hugged my leg. The guard scowled at the boy and adjusted his grip on the bamboo. In that moment, I thought the guard was going to hit me, just so he could make his way to the little boy.

Instinctively, I flinched. I have long since learned that my emotional response is neither flight, nor flight. It is freeze and panic. As I flinched and turned my head, I locked eyes with the little boy cowering behind me.

There’s a cliché that claims that the eyes are the window to the soul. This boy had eyes that were the color of cocoa, bright and wide, taking in too many of the harsh realities of his world. He looked tired, hungry, and a little scared. However, he was not surprised. This scenario had happened countless times before. It wasn’t unusual for the officials to hit him in his efforts to get food or money from travelers. It was a common ritual.

Nothing that the officials had taken a few steps away, the boy took the opportunity to sprint away. His short, quick strides carried him out of the train station. The people I was with grew very quiet. None of us knew what to do ro say next. Clearly none of us were comfortable with that has just happened. During this awkward silence, I peered around.

The station in Agra is no Grand Central. No polished marble, no elaborate looking time pieces, and no frescoed ceiling. Instead, the stairs, walls, platform, and pillars are all just gray, utilitarian concrete. People were gathered outside the perimeter of the station, wordlessly stretching out their hands to passersby, hoping for an act of charity. Others slept close together, lying close under whatever shelter the overhang on the roof could provide. Vendors rolled around creaking wooden carts full of figurines, magazines, and trinkets. Despite the late hour, the station was busy with passengers who walked to and fro searching for lost children, correct trains, and toilets. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust or dirt- the workers, the vendors, the platform, the waiting passengers, including myself.

Despite the efforts to shield me from it, I saw reality. After watching the hundreds of people outside lie down in rows to sleep for the night and watching a fight break out over a decomposing pomegranate, I realized that the train station was a more pertinent symbol for India than the Taj Mahal. The Taj Mahal merely showed me a sparkling existence courtesy of royalty who lived hundreds of years ago. Yeah, I took dozens of photos of the Taj Mahal from every imaginable angle. I marveled at its scope and grandeur. Yet, even ten years later, it is that train station in Agra that left the deepest impact.

Photos: ‘India – Agra – 001′ by McKay Savage, ‘Agra Train Station’ and ‘The Agra Train Station’ by Will.

I supported the movie on Kickstarter, not really knowing whether it would be any good, but liking the idea. It’s actually really good, sort of a documentary/road trip/mid-life change-up film all about the American Dream and what it really means. Here’s a little bit about it from the site:

In February 2012, a group of five guys converged on Wilmington, Ohio, with an ambitious goal – to make a film on the stories of every day people who’ve given up their dreams and settled into a complacent lifestyle.

No member of the crew had ever made a movie before. In fact, there were hundreds of reasons why they should have scrapped the idea, put it on the back burner, and moved on.

Instead, they picked up their cameras and decided to plow forward.

Simply put, their lives would never be the same!

The movie went on to become one of the most funded documentaries in Kickstarter history with over 4,500 people raising $100,000 to complete the editing and marketing of the project.

Since then it’s premiered in a dozen theaters across the United States (and now across several countries).

You could also label the film a who’s who of popular lifestyle bloggers. Among those who make an appearance: Jonathan Fields, Tammy Strobel of Rowdy Kittens, Chris Guillebeau of The Art of Non-Conformity and a whole bunch of others that I didn’t realize were famous on the internet until meeting them in the movie. Even the producer, Adam Baker of the popular Man Vs. Debt blog is internet famous.

Five bucks to download or stream the movie.

Photo from the ‘I’m Fine, Thanks’ Facebook page.

Hello?

It’s hard to put a value on something that’s from you but for others when there is no response. It’s like huckin a rock in a pond at night and never hearing a splash. Theoretically, you know the rock got there but you have no closure; no evidence. Between my music, blog-posts, short-stories and online articles, I’ve been puttin out content for years. Over that time, I’ve received accolades only twice. It’s frustrating. It’s awkward and it seems unfair at times.

I was chatting about this with fellow hip-hop junkie, Cas-Uno. He explained his perspective like this: ‘You passed out or sold over two thousand copies of your albums, not including digi-downloads, YouTube views, etc. You have no clue who has your album playing right now and loves it. And that’s because they don’t find you on Twitter or Facebook and let you know. But how many artists or writers do you love? How many of them have you tracked down to personally thank or praise?’ My answer is one. Only one time I remember doing that. So why do I expect that?

Although the praise is fun and inflates the ego, you do not need anyone’s accolades. You do not need any permission to proceed and continue your creativity. It comes from the soul. The soul fuels the person, not the opposite.

Photo: ‘indastage’ by Friutz

1. Trees

I’m no arborist, but the small amount I know about trees still manages to dazzle me. I mean, they start as a twig sticking out of the ground easily destroyed by a wandering lawnmower, and transform into a pillar that will outlive me to weather storms and drought and lovers carving their heart-framed initials into their skin. Even greater than that, they basically live to balance my existence, soaking up the sun and making oxygen out of my refuse. Plus, they dress for the seasons, and always seem to look good.

2. The human body

It blows my mind how simultaneously resilient and fragile the human body is. A cut can be sewn back together with some blue surgical thread, and in enough time, the skin will show a mere trace of the experience and return to normal functionality; the same organism can be slain by a half cup of water to the lungs. The body is so complex and astounding. Nerves! Muscles! Brain tissue! Plasma cells! Just think – it’s a wonder of the world we get to walk around in every day.

3. Computers

Although I have lived through the gradual progression from monochrome adventures on the Oregon Trail to defeating the Babylonians in Age of Empires, to Angelfire.com and chatrooms, to Facebook, Skype calls and Flash animation, I am still utterly mystified by computers. I mean, have you seen a motherboard before? It’s a piece of plastic covered in green finger-paint with tiny metal knobs on it, and you’re telling me THAT’S the brains of this operation? THAT is where my 10,000 digital photos from 2004-to-present are hanging out? How is that possible? I could make an identical looking thing from the craft supplies I have on hand, but I don’t know how I’d fit even one photo into a little metal knob.

4. Radio waves

Okay, so radio waves occur naturally and artificially. The natural kind have been around since the beginning of time, no big deal. But radio stations and satellites and MRIs just whip them up to transmit information via… the air? Yeah I don’t quite get that. But anyways the mind-blowing fact here is that radio waves like the ones that carry your local easy listening music are just perpetually hanging out in the air around us, while we carry on unawares. And then a tiny mess of plastic and metal and maybe a coat hanger strung together just right sucks the radio waves out of the air and into a wire and through a speaker and then I can hear Macklemore and get my groove on, enamoured by the sounds of a hip-hop beat.

5. Music

Our lives are full of noise. Right now there’s a little beat being tapped out on my keyboard, the furnace is humming and it means absolutely nothing to me. In truth these mundane things are very similar to a hand or a stick hitting a piece of hide stretched over a shell, which we call a drum, or a little piece of teardrop-shaped plastic flicking some bits of wire stretched across a hollow wooden thing known as a guitar… but somehow, while the majority of everyday noises hardly enter my brain, the right noises strung together in the right rhythm, like Pachebel’s Canon or Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’, can stop me in my tracks and bring a tear to my eye.

6. Sunrises & sunsets

When it comes to commonplace regular occurrences in the natural world, sunrises and sunsets are as predictable as it comes. There has not yet been a day where the sun does not rise or set (though, to be fair, there are days the we don’t see it). Naturally speaking, you could even call them mundane. And yet, there are sunsets and (considerably fewer) sunrises that were so unique and breathtaking they are painted on the canvas of my memory, never to be forgotten.

7. Conversation

Conversation is this unfathomable thing that gives utterance to what is in my brain and spews it out into reality, where it meets the ideas and feelings that formed inside your brain that you have carved into words and sounds that enter the air between us and we begin to understand each other. I marvel at it! Sure, ninety-something percent of communication is non-verbal, but we’d still be lost if we didn’t talk to one another. Don’t think this is a legitimate ‘wonder’ of everyday life? Just see what happens when you stop talking to your wife for a week.

What incites wonder in your everyday life?

Photos: (1) ‘At Lands End’ by Sharon Mollerus, (2) ‘Sleeping Beauty’ by Hamed Saber, (3) ‘Space Shuttle Program’ by SDASM Archives, (4) ‘JJ Rousseau by airwave?’ by Nicolas Nova, (5) ‘flower rain – guest vocalist’ by Ibrahim Iujaz, (6) ‘road to hana’ by paul (dex) bica, (7) ‘Last Conversation Piece’ by Cliff.

The Tokyo Skytree ticks all the boxes as far as world wonders go. It’s ginormous, majestic, and expansive. You can feed off its glory and basque in its shadow. I can see it towering above Sumida Tokyo from my apartment if I stand all the way to the left in the sunroom.

But I am much more interested in what is going on in the shadows nearby the tower. This is shitamachi or ‘low city’ – downtown if you will. Shitamachi implies more than a literal geography. It means the place is more down to earth, gritty, friendly. It usually has cheaper rent, soul food and other sundries. Community is close and highly valued. In Sumida many people still leave their doors unlocked. It is also the home and workplace of many artists because of the cheap rent.

One group of artists is collaborating on a project involving storytelling. Kamishibai is an old Buddhist storytelling art used in temples by monks using paper scrolls. It was revived in the 1920s through the 1950s as a way to earn a meager living riding bicycles from place to place with a small box stage attached to the back. Now there are only a few kamishibai artists left; one is in Sumida.

A friend of mine, Takeyo Kimura (TakeyoKimura.net/), is a community artist who often presents art projects involving the stories of average people in different neighborhoods and areas throughout Japan. He uses creative ways of presenting these stories such as sound installation, or writing small books with a map so participants can actually visit the places where these stories happened. He is now collaborating with a kamishibai artist combining kamishibai with the stories of the residents from the shitamachi area of Sumida.

I am participating in his five week workshop with a team or artists creating our own kamishibai stories from the stories of the local residents. An old woman who runs an old cleaners stops by to listen to our stories and sits on her own chair in front of the small workshop space. A public TV crew stops by to interview us and do a story on the workshop. Random friends stop by to drop off food or show support. Tour groups on their way to the Skytree look on with interest.

My Japanese is poor so I struggle to communicate my ideas about how the narrative of the short story should go. Ours involves a man’s story of how the houses in the neighborhood are so close the kids would just jump through second story windows to visit friends. We imagine a whole world where kids do not even need shoes because there are amazing places to visit from the second floor like foreign countries, sumo stables, and even the ocean.

While we were spinning these tales I realized we were continuing the fabric of community through storytelling. It is a multi-layer fabric. We needed older faces and a place where things happened, new faces and space where things are still happening. We needed the effort of people to actually do something and not just talk about it in a virtual community. This is wonderful to me. A place where meaningful community is happening despite the meaningless busyness that goes on around us and in us. This is a world wonder.

Top photo: ‘Landscape with Tokyo Sky Tree’ by DaraKero_F. Other photos by Mark Hill.

Before I moved to Asia, the only thing I knew about Cambodia was that it was often featured in World Vision commercials. I remember them vividly; the emaciated dirty children playing in puddles, the cheesy voice-overs reminding you that for only a dollar a day, you could change someone’s life. To be honest, they were lumped in with all the commercials about African countries, so I actually thought Cambodia was in Africa.

The vision most people have of Cambodia is not one of regality and wonder; it is one of poverty and disarray. And I mean, why wouldn’t it be? Cambodia has gone through a lot in the last century. During the Vietnam War, Cambodia was taken by the Khmer Rouge, a communist party that grew from the Vietnam People’s Army. They ruled from 1975 to 1979 and during this period some of the world’s worst human rights atrocities were committed. The Khmer Rouge’s leader, Pol Pot, implemented a process of social engineering which led to widespread genocide. The reign also induced famine and diseases due to its reliance and insistence on self-sufficiency. The vast majority of Khmer culture was destroyed, and people accused of opposing the reign were routinely tortured.

My impression of Cambodia was not one of grandeur, to say the least. However, when I moved to Japan I started talking to people who had been there on holiday and I learned Cambodia had way more to offer than I had previously thought. Not only was the economy bustling since the nation’s return to monarchy, but they were cashing in on tourism now more than ever. Upscale resorts and hotels were popping up by the dozens in Siem Reap, the gateway town to the Angkor region, to accomodate the thousands of tourists headed to explore the ruins of Angkor. Little did I know it at the time, but in a few months I would be one of them.

At its heyday, Angkor was the capital of the Khmer Empire, which covered present day Cambodia and parts of Laos, Thailand, Vietnam, Burma and even Malaysia. Hundreds of temples were built around the vicinity of the capital, which at its largest was much bigger than even London was at the same time. The city itself, Angkor Thom, no longer exists; however, the temples inside it are still moderately intact. The main draw is Angkor Wat, which is one of the new Seven Wonders of the World and the largest religious structure in the world. It is also the only temple that has been in continuous use since it was built, and is incredibly well maintained.

I found all of this out through the Lonely Planet guidebook I used, as I was planning my backpacking trip through Southeast Asia. I had convinced my friend George to come with me, and I decided that Cambodia, Siem Reap specifically, was a place I had to venture to. In August, 2012, armed with my bright purple backpack, a British travel companion, and my guide, I flew into Phnom Penh and took a bus to Siem Reap, nervous and excited at the same time.

The first thing I noticed was that neither the World Vision nor the resort ads seemed to be entirely accurate. They both offered up very different visions of present-day Cambodia, and the reality was somewhere in the middle. On the six hour bus ride I saw uncountable houses on stilts made of wood and straw, but in the town itself I saw development and prosperity. New places were popping up. People had work. Times were good. The tourism the newfound interest in Angkor had brought was having a positive effect on the economy and the community as a side-effect. It was great to see.

I pondered this until we arrived at the bus stop where we were picked up by a good-natured man in a tuk-tuk and carried all the way back to our hotel. He smiled, tossed our bags in the back with us, and without securing anything started driving down the unpaved road. With every bump I feared I would lose my bag, but somehow we made it with everything still intact. Exhausted, we promptly relaxed, played some pool, and went to bed. After all, in the morning we were in for a busy day of exploring Angkor.

We woke early and headed down to borrow some bicycles from the hotel. We hopped onto our barely working one speed bicycles and headed into the crazy Cambodian traffic. As with most places in the world drivers are slightly more insane in Cambodia than in North America, and George hadn’t been on a bike in a while. Once again I found myself fearing for our safety, but after a wobbly start we were out of the city and cruising down to the temples. We found the ticket booth, bought three-day passes for forty dollars each, and continued on our way. We rode and rode, pausing frequently to guzzle water and wipe the sweat from our brows. Soon enough, we had arrived.

Angkor Wat. The symbol of Cambodia. The largest Hindu structure in the world. It doesn’t sound like much on paper, but I was taken aback by the size of it. The scope of the project. The idea that this had been built in the 12th century. As I stood there I realized this was what drew everyone in. The chance to experience something bigger than themselves. I walked across the path and through the main gates, and started to explore.

The temple is huge. It has a moat that is wider than a football field, and that is just the beginning. The walls around the temple could be enough for a day of exploring all by themselves, but we were on a time budget so we gave them a look, then walked all the way over to the real thing. We feasted our eyes on the murals intricately carved into each and every wall. We walked and walked until we could walk no longer. We took photos and talked to other like-minded tourists. One thing was for sure. We were definitely looking at a piece of history.

On the bike ride back we didn’t talk. Whether it was heat exhaustion setting in or cultural exhaustion it is hard to say, but we were both satiated. We headed to our hotel, ate dinner, and promptly rested our heads.

Although our first day had been more than epic, we had a three day pass that we didn’t want to waste. The next day we were scheduled for a cooking class in the morning. We met up with our Cambodian teacher bright and early. George and I hadn’t had our coffee yet, so we mumbled incoherent answers as she asked us questions and got us checked in. We started to wake up a bit more as we got into the tuk tuk to head to the local market.

In many places in Southeast Asia, the markets are more tourist traps than actual markets. They sell souvenirs and clothing for cheap, but they are frequented by few locals. This market was nothing like that. We instantly brightened as we walked into the colourful chaos of the local market. We saw women bartering over strange, exotic vegetables. We saw fish being gutted by women sitting on tables. Naked toddlers were running around followed by their older siblings. It smelled like a mix of spices, raw fish and meat and sweets, overpowering and complicated.

We walked around and were shown what everything was. Our guide joked with the vendors in Khmer. They told me I was beautiful. I was flattered. It was very exciting. We finally left with our purchases and headed back to the hotel to use them. Our guide told us along the way that most people visit the market every day for fresh food, since they have no refrigerator to store anything in. At that point the vast differences in class really started to sink in. I was sitting down in a four star hotel, learning how to cook local food from someone who didn’t even have the most basic of appliances at home.

This thought mirrored my impressions of the entire town. The place was lively, having been recently caught up in the backpacker mania that swept through all of Southeast Asia. There is an entire street, called Pub Street, where you can buy beer for thirty five cents and party the night away. There are beautiful hotels on every corner. However, there are also ‘gas stations’ made of pop bottles filled with gasoline for Cambodians who are too poor to fill up their motorcycle or tuk tuk with gas from the station. There are little girls and boys walking around selling cheap souvenirs trying to earn enough for their family to eat. The gaping hole between the two lifestyles is vast, and ever widening.

Later, as we explored some more of the smaller temples, I found myself face to face with some of these kids. I was walking along, admiring the more run-down temples and humming the Indiana Jones theme song to myself, when a girl popped up in front of me.

‘Lady, what’s your name?’ she asked me.

I was startled, but replied with ‘Jeri. What’s yours?’

She looked up at me, giving me a shy smile and said ‘Pao. Where you from?’

‘I’m from Canada,’ I replied, continuing to walk to try to catch up with George.

‘Ah! Canada! Capital city Ottawa! Big city Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver. Prime Minister Stephen Harper. Speaks two languages!’ She looked up at me expectantly.

I had no words. She had just schooled me at my own country, and she had probably never left her town before. I was impressed.

‘Uhh, yeah,’ I replied.

‘Listen, when you come out of temple, you buy from my store, okay?’

‘Uhh… Okay.’

‘If you buy from someone inside, I will know and be very sad, k?’

‘Uhh… Okay.’

Pao walked away and we walked further into the temple, exploring the ruins.

Most of the temples are not as well kept as Angkor Wat, although restoration efforts are taking place every day. Honestly, I liked them even more because of that. The fact that they were so run-down made me feel like I was discovering them for the first time, even though there were at least ten other camera-toting tourists in my visual field. No matter. There were trees growing over moss-covered stones, ancient carvings almost invisible after years of disuse. It was fascinating. George and I explored the small temples for about an hour.

When we walked outside the gates, sure enough, Pao was there waiting for me.

‘Hi Jeri! You buy from my store, yes?’

‘Sure, Pao. You have impressed me,’ I said, smiling and digging out my wallet.

‘Good! You want bracelet? Make good present for sister!’

‘How much?’ I asked. I knew the other kids were selling three bracelets for a dollar, and I expected the same deal.

‘Two dollars for one,’ she replied, smiling her innocent smile.

I was shocked! That was six times the price of the other kids! I tried to explain this to her. We bartered and ended up deciding on a bracelet and a big bottle of water for two dollars. I walked away feeling like she had done well to earn my money. After all, I’m sure that two dollars will buy her family much more than it would have bought me.

I had a few more adventures while I was in Cambodia, but in the interest of brevity, I will not recount them here. If you are interested in visiting this wonderful part of the world, keep the following things in mind:

First, pay attention to the local way of life, and try to do things in a similar way. Respect local customs and dress code. Be polite and friendly. In this way, tourism doesn’t have to have the damaging effect it has had in many places. The locals will inwardly thank you, I promise. On a similar note, support businesses run by locals. The service is often great and you know the money is going somewhere it is needed.

Second, try not to get taken advantage of by people trying to sell you things, but also keep in mind that they are trying to earn a living. Don’t get mad at them, even if it seems like what they are asking is preposterous. Khmer culture is one based on saving face, so as long as you don’t embarrass them publicly or get noticeably angry, you will both be fine.

I loved everything about the town I visited. I loved the temples and the history. I loved playing pool and eating local food at the hotel bar. I loved the market and the local town culture. I even loved the street vendors. I don’t think there’s a choice but for me to go back. Get ready Cambodia, because I’m coming for you again!

‘Kids @ Angkor Wat’ photo by Chem7. All other photos by Jeri Knopp.

No, this doesn’t mean that I can break cinderblocks in half with my bare hands or catch flies with chopsticks. As much as I would love to have the strength and ability to perform these tasks, I know that deep down inside I’m a klutzy weakling. Tai chi is the perfect type of exercise for me, a slow and controlled form of martial arts often practiced by the Chinese in parks. No lifting weights, no extensive running. Nothing like any of the gym classes that I had to endure during high school.

My education took place in Hong Kong, the city I fell in love with on my first trip through China. It’s a place where thousands of neon signs add to the buzz and energy of the streets that seven million people roam each night.  A metropolis that makes me feel safer than New York City ever will. The shopper’s mecca where you can get dollar deals or designer ensembles. The city and its history represent me: a Chinese culture heavily influenced by western ideas.

Clockwise: Nathan Road, Kowloon at night (JoopDorresteijn), east meets west on the streets of Hong Kong (Mitch Altman), Sculpture Walk at Kowloon Park (Harvey Barrison), Hong Kong harbour and Kowloon (Herry Lawford)

Four years after the beginning of my infatuation with Hong Kong, I had the opportunity to return to the city for a few days. I discovered that Kowloon Park was a ten minute walk away from where I was staying, right in the heart of the city. So, a friend and I arranged to wake up the following morning and arrive at the park in time to practice tai chi with the locals.

Easier said than done. Smacking my alarm clock to stop its intrusive beeping, I forced my eyes open and realized I had gotten up earlier than the Sun. Ugh. My fluffy, white pillow started making a pretty convincing case to simply lie back down again to rest my eyes. Knowing that I had fallen into that trap many times before, I tossed aside the bed covers and put on shorts, an old post-prom t-shirt, and a battered pair of sneakers. Knocking on my friend’s door, I soon realized that her pillow was comfier than mine. She wasn’t awake.

So, I set off on my own, along with my trusty camera, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by being the only inexperienced person out there. Passing a pond blanketed with large green lily pads, I climbed a set of worn stairs into a clearing dotted with large sculptures. In the surrounding trees the birds were arguing over who had the most melodious song.  In the clearing in front of me, people were practicing tai chi.

Except, it wasn’t how I pictured it. I had imagined a mass of people going through the same slow, sure motions together. Instead, people were scattered throughout the area practicing routines individually. How was I supposed to join one of them? I was just expecting to join a large group. This was no good at all.

Pondering my situation, I decided to take out my camera and take some shots of the art form being performed. My attention was soon drawn to a man clad in a loose fitting black outfit. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. As evidenced by his movements, he was physically fit and I was having trouble guessing his age. His skin was a rich tan color with just the right amount of wrinkles to give him some character. His face was set with a solemn look of determination. He was doing a routine that utilized a long bamboo pole.

Next, he brought out a sword and practiced a lengthy and impressive looking routine. Each motion was precise and elegant. In this particular exercise there was a considerable amount of complex foot shifting and hand turning. His movements were confident and steady. I never once saw the sword’s tip waiver in a moment of weakness. His poise and balance were impressive and he exhibited the grace that I associate with classical dance. After he finished, I asked for his permission to take a photo. It just didn’t seem like a good idea to annoy a man with a threatening looking sword. Fortunately, he grinned, nodded, and immediately went into another series of moves.

After snapping some shots, I just sat there watching him, in awe of his agility despite his age. Bending, stretching, and balancing carefully, he continued in a series of fluid motions. I doubted that many elderly people in the States would be able to do the same actions. I eventually started talking to him and, despite his limited knowledge of English and my inability to speak any Chinese, I learned that his name was Wong Bei. A 76-year-old resident of Hong Kong, he had lived there his entire life. Each morning he rises early enough to get to the sculpture garden at 6:00am to begin his exercise. I was in the process  of asking him another question when he suddenly started walking to the middle of the clearing and motioned for me to follow. Dropping my camera next to his pile of martial arts equipment, I eagerly did as instructed.

Standing about five feet in front of me, he told me to mirror everything he did. After a few moments, I was fully aware that I was getting stares from onlookers, so I tried to concentrate more on getting the positions just right. Wong Bei made the moves seem effortless. Meanwhile, I was breaking into a sweat. Upon completing the warm-up, Wong Bei said, ‘Just one more.’ I tried to shrug off the disappointment over the brevity of my lesson, but I soon discovered that this was just the first of many ‘Just one more.’

After nearly an hour of personal lesson time, other students began to arrive. At 7:30am each morning, Wong Bei has about a dozen students who come to learn tai chi from him. Many of them were middle aged and spoke English. The students had been studying with Wong Bei for anywhere from a few months to many years. No matter the case, each called him Master. Sadly, I had arranged to be somewhere at 7:45am, so I had to make my excuses and leave. I explained my situation to one of the students who had arrived and he kindly acted as translator for the next several moments.

Wong Bei asked my name and I wrote it down in English along with my address because he wanted to send me a tai chi DVD to continue my studies in America. He peered at my name. ‘Chin? Your last name is Chin?’ I nodded and he asked me which one, for apparently there are numerous families of Chins. Not knowing the answer, I shrugged and he asked me to print out the name in Chinese. Fortunately, I knew how to do so. Or, at least, I thought I did. For when I finished, he gave me one of his smiles, uttered an understanding grunt, then gently took the pen from me and added a pen stroke to one of my characters. Oops. I looked up and Wong Bei still peered at me with his kind, grandfatherly smile.

Tai chi with a sword, Hong Kong (Ling Wang Marina)

I turned to my translator, ‘Please tell him thank you for taking the time to teach me today.’

‘Master Wong Bei says it was his pleasure, you were a good student. Did you enjoy yourself?’

‘Oh! Of course! I learned so much this morning.’

‘Are you coming back tomorrow?’

‘Absolutely.’

Top photo: Wikimedia Commons

Even the most demure exploration of the fashion industry unearths some ugly truths. With media more accessible than ever, messages scream from all directions about what is beautiful, what to buy, and who to be. Looking deeper, we are confronted by the disturbing realities of mass-production: catastrophic environmental impacts, slave- and child-labor and a massive discrepancy between production cost and retail price, to name a few.

As Nate expounded in his last post, Henry David Thoreau had some pointed things to say about fashion. As an enduring voice for simplicity, many of his remarks about resisting the rapid, but not necessarily positive advances in this world sound just as relevant today as they were when he wrote them in 1854.

What would Thoreau say about the state of the fashion industry today, with it’s even further-reaching effects? How can we follow the advice of a man who wrote, ‘On the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art?’

Joe Mitchell (courtesy of Joe’s Facebook profile)

Graphic designer and fashion enthusiast Joe Mitchell found inspiration in the words of Thoreau and created a line of t-shirts that were a fusion of fashion and simplicity for Moselle Clothing, a company that exists to create clothing in a way that diverges from the normally dark world of clothing manufacturing.

In a recent interview, Mitchell said he ’originally started out wanting to put together a collection that was both natural and a bit manly. One that wouldn’t feel like more fashion clutter, but a bit of an escape from it.’ What emerged from those beginnings was a collection aptly named ‘The Wild‘, with outdoorsy graphics and a distinct woodsman theme.

Not only did the collection channel Thoreau’s retreat into the woods, reflecting a return to the natural in it’s aesthetics, but also in it’s manufacturing process. The Wild was Moselle’s first range that used Fairtrade organic cotton.

Moselle Clothing’s The Wild collection, designed by Joe Mitchell (Photos: sharpadze.com and moselleclothing.com)

As a Fairtrade certified cotton licensee, Moselle only uses materials that pay the farmers whatever rate is higher between a price level determined to be a minimum for a sustainable living, or the market rate. This rate means the farmers are usually paid at least fifty percent more than their cotton would otherwise fetch. In addition, fifteen percent is added to the base price and is used directly to further social, economic and environmental development in the farmers’ communities. This also means the cotton is produced without child labor or harmful working conditions, and is grown without the use of harsh chemicals.

The Wild is Mitchell’s second collection for Moselle since forming a relationship with the company in 2008. He met the founders while visiting Australia on an intensive University of the Nations course.

‘I had heard through the grapevine about Moselle,’ says Joe, ‘And when I quit my job in 2011 I asked to intern with them. Kindly they said yes, and I ended up interning with them for four months doing design and a bit of everything. While I was there I put together what would be my first collection for them, using designs by the mega-talented Claire Matthews. Since then I’ve been fortunate enough to design two more collections for them, The Wild and Calypso, which is due out in October.

Moselle is a small surf fashion label, currently based in Maroochydore, Australia, which is about an hour north of Brisbane. Catrina Pennington started the company in 2009. At the time she was involved with Destiny Rescue, a charity that works to end human trafficking through prevention and rescue programmes in Thailand, Cambodia, Mozambique & India.

In Thailand, Destiny runs rescue programmes in which staff visit brothels undercover and offer to rescue the girls working there, some of whom may be underage. After rescuing the girls they provide accommodation, food, and counseling, and if the girls desire, vocational training in jewelry and seamstress skills. Catrina had a vision of starting a label which could sell clothes made by the girls, thus offering them sustainable employment and true new starts in life. Moselle Clothing was born.

Photo: moselleclothing.com

Moselle has now been around for three years and has secured Fair Trade Australia and New Zealand membership. Moselle clothing is sold at select retail shops and festivals in Australia, on their website and at online ethical stores like Blue Caravan. ’All of our tees and singlets,’ adds Joe, ‘Are made at our ethical production facility in Thailand by women who’ve been rescued from trafficking.’

Along with his continued collaborations and volunteer work for Moselle, Joe Mitchell is a freelance graphic designer who recently launched Sharpe Adze Design Co. and a long-time fashion enthusiast.

‘I like fashion because of the creativity — the idea of being able to design something which you get to wear after I find pretty rad. As a digital graphic designer it’s killer to design something that’s not just 2D.’

‘The fashion industry definitely has it’s dark side too. Sweatshops, unacheivable standards of what ‘beautiful’ is, huge problems with pollution, environmental degradation, and worker poisoning from non-organic cotton farming, etc. In our culture we also tie fashion to identity, meaning fashion can be quite a superficial thing at times.’

‘Prior to working with Moselle, I’d read Naomi Klein’s book, No Logo, which documents the ongoing problem of sweatshops. I guess I got into ‘ethical clothing’ because I wanted to try to be a little part of the solution.’

Being part of the solution is not limited to the few ambitious, creative combatants on the frontlines of ethical clothing production. Joe encourages every consumer to do their part.

‘I think one of the best ways of having a positive influence in the fashion sector is just starting to ask your retailer or brand a bit more about your threads.’

Holding clothing companies accountable for their chosen manufacturing methods is an important role to play. The more they see their customers caring about these issues, the more pressure they will feel to keep those customers happy.

When you approach a company or brand about their practices, ask questions like:

• what countries are their clothes made in,
• do the factories where their clothes are made pay a living wage to their workers,
• are the factories monitored,
• are the factories certified as safe by FLO, FLA or under an SA8000 standard,
• and does the brand sell any organic lines.

‘If the person you talk to doesn’t know,’ says Joe, ‘Ask them whether they or someone else in the company could please find out and get back to you. If a company knows you’re a regular customer and have a genuine query, most will be happy to look into something for you.’ He also suggested asking questions on a company’s Facebook or Twitter page because questions asked publicly will usually get a quick response.

If you want to get involved in the fashion industry on a more intimate level, Joe suggests interning with labels like Moselle, People Tree, Patagonia or Toms.

‘Or even better – why not start up your own Fairtrade organic or upcycled clothing line?’

Top photo: sharpadze.com

‘Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without.’

About twelve miles north of where I live, in Concord, Massachusetts is a pond called Walden Pond. You may have heard of it. Its singular claim to fame is the part it played in the writer Henry David Thoreau’s life and work.

In 1845 Thoreau moved into a little one room cabin he built for himself on the northern shore of the pond. He live there for two years and two months and from that experience he eventually published a book titled Walden, now world-famous and recognized as an important work of American literature.

Today there is a replica of the cabin containing all the same things Thoreau had in the original: a fireplace, a bed, a desk, a table, and three chairs, ’one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.’

Clockwise: A monument to Thoreau near Walden Pond (Rich Moffitt), the monument and a replica of his cabin (Matt Riggott), inside the cabin, furnished like the original (Tom Stohlman), Walden Pond (Matt Kowal)

In the chapter of Walden titled ‘Where I Lived, and What I Lived For,’ he explained his reason for the move:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Thoughts on clothing and fashion

Thoreau had strong opinions on the subject of fashion, which he touches on in the first few pages of Walden, in the chapter titled ‘Economy’:

I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit? If you have any enterprise before you, try it in your old clothes.

…

Perhaps we should never procure a new suit, however ragged or dirty the old, until we have so conducted, so enterprised or sailed in some way, that we feel like new men in the old, and that to retain it would be like keeping new wine in old bottles. Our moulting season, like that of the fowls, must be a crisis in our lives.

…

I believe that all races at some seasons wear something equivalent to the shirt. It is desirable that a man be clad so simply that he can lay his hands on himself in the dark, and that he live in all respects so compactly and preparedly that, if an enemy take the town, he can, like the old philosopher, walk out the gate empty-handed without anxiety.

…

While a thick coat can be bought for five dollars, which will last as many years, thick pantaloons for two dollars, cowhide boots for a dollar and a half a pair, a summer hat for a quarter of a dollar, and a winter cap for sixty-two and a half cents, or a better be made at home at a nominal cost, where is he so poor that, clad in such a suit, of his own earning, there will not be found wise men to do him reverence?

…

When I ask for a garment of a particular form, my tailoress tells me gravely, “They do not make them so now,” not emphasizing the “They” at all, as if she quoted an authority as impersonal as the Fates, and I find it difficult to get made what I want, simply because she cannot believe that I mean what I say, that I am so rash.

…

Of what use this measuring of me if she does not measure my character, but only the breadth of my shoulders, as it were a peg to bang the coat on? We worship not the Graces, nor the Parcae, but Fashion. She spins and weaves and cuts with full authority. The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveller’s cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same. I sometimes despair of getting anything quite simple and honest done in this world by the help of men.

…

On the whole, I think that it cannot be maintained that dressing has in this or any country risen to the dignity of an art. At present men make shift to wear what they can get. Like shipwrecked sailors, they put on what they can find on the beach, and at a little distance, whether of space or time, laugh at each other’s masquerade. Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.

Thoreau’s own appearance, as reported by others

According to the Thoreau Reader, in 1842, after meeting Thoreau, Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote: ‘He is a singular character — a young man with much of wild original nature remaining in him; and so far as he is sophisticated, it is in a way and method of his own. He is ugly as sin, long-nosed, queer-mouthed, and with uncouth and somewhat rustic, although courteous manners, corresponding very well with such an exterior. But his ugliness is of an honest and agreeable fashion, and becomes him much better than beauty.’

In 1862, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote of his friend: ‘He wore straw hat, stout shoes, strong gray trousers, to brave shrub-oaks and smilax, and to climb a tree for a hawk’s or a squirrel’s nest.’

Apparently the above photo of Thoreau (and from what I’ve seen, the most commonly found image of him), is one of ‘three daguerreotypes taken in June, 1856, when [he] was 39, after a Walden reader in Michigan had sent money and requested a picture. The beard had been grown the previous winter as a precaution against ‘throat colds” (also from the Thoreau Reader which references The Days of Henry Thoreau by Walter Harding for its information on Thoreau’s appearance).

Wikipedia’s entry on Thoreau had this fascinating bit to add: ‘[He] also wore a neck-beard for many years, which he insisted many women found attractive. However, Louisa May Alcott mentioned to Ralph Waldo Emerson that Thoreau’s facial hair ‘will most assuredly deflect amorous advances and preserve the man’s virtue in perpetuity.”

Top photo: Alex

It started on December 13th, 2011 with this tweet:

At the break of day I look for you at sunrise When the tide comes in I lose my disguiseyfrog.com/mng3ocj yfrog.com/mgj7ezhj

— Matisyahu (@matisyahu) December 13, 2011

And these photos:

For any other mainstream artist, shaving off a beard of ten years would be newsworthy, but definitely not controversial. Matisyahu, though, has been a Chasidic Jew his whole musical career. Increasingly on the world stage as he grows more popular with every album, he has attracted a lot of scrutiny, praise and criticism from the world of orthodox Judaism.

Matisyahu started life as Matthew Paul Miller, a Jewish kid who went to high school in White Plains, New York, where he began performing the type of music that would later make him famous: hiphop and beatbox, but with this crazy Jamaican-accented reggae infusing it all.

After dropping out of high school, he eventually got serious about religion and joined the Chabad-Lubavitch Chasidic movement, adopting a Hebrew form of his name: Matisyahu. He became famous for his deeply spiritual lyrics as much as for his unique sound.

Sidenote: If you want to check out his music, I suggest starting with ‘Live Like A Warrior’, ‘One Day’, and ‘Jerusalem’, all three from different albums (in that order you would hear them newest to oldest).

I won’t pretend to understand the deeper meaning and emotion involved, but what appears obvious from reactions inside the orthodox community is that for an orthodox Jew, shaving off a man’s beard is equal to shaving off his religion, his faith and his community.

Blogs and magazines reported Matisyahu had posted a note on his website, explaining,

‘No more Chassidic reggae superstar. Sorry folks, all you get is me…no alias.

When I started becoming religious 10 years ago it was a very natural and organic process. It was my choice. My journey :to discover my roots and explore Jewish spirituality—not through books but through real life. At a certain point I felt the need to submit to a higher level of religiosity…to move away from my intuition and to accept an ultimate truth. I felt that in order to become a good person I needed rules—lots of them—or else I would somehow fall apart. I am reclaiming myself. Trusting my goodness and my divine mission.

Get ready for an amazing year filled with music of rebirth. And for those concerned with my naked face, don’t worry…

you haven’t seen the last of my facial hair.’

Later, he tweeted:

For all of those who are being awesome,you are awesome.For all those who are confused:today I went to the Mikva and Shul just like yesterday

— Matisyahu (@matisyahu) December 13, 2011

‘In other words,’ declared Huffington Post in an update to their take on the story, ‘He performed the same ritual observances today as any day. So it’s confirmed: Beardless religious Jews exist.’

Elad Nehorai wrote another HuffPo piece in June after Matisyahu tweeted two more controversial photos, one of him standing at the back of a crowd sans yamaka (a head covering that observant Jewish males wear to show respect for God), and the other of him ‘sitting next to another musician who was smoking a joint.’

And then, yesterday, Matisyahu posted two pictures of himself. Not wearing a kippah. Sitting with someone who’s smoking pot.

The cry is quieter this time. It’s not as vocal and intense, but it’s deeper.

Although the beard cut was more shocking, these latest pictures are a clear and outright rejection of his values, and also as his position as a leader and role model for us religious Jews who still want to be a part of secular culture.

It’s not about pot. It’s not about the kippah, even. It’s about the message he’s sending. The way these pictures didn’t even come with an explanation. As if our relationship with him didn’t even exist.

Words cannot describe what it is like when your brother, the person you looked up to and admired for so long, rejects everything you hold dear. It used to be that we loved him for the great good he did for us and the world, for the way he proudly represented who he was, without any apologies and with a full heart. He was our spokesman, our ambassador and mentor.

Matisyahu recently released his fourth studio album, Spark Seeker. Kool Kojak, co-writer and producer on Spark Seeker, interviewed Matisyahu about the album for The Lab Magazine, asking, ‘Where is your beard?’ Matisyahu replied, ‘Last I saw my beard it was on the floor of Supercuts on 96th St. and Broadway. I had that beard for 10 years – almost all my twenties.’ About the album he says,

Obviously during this record I went through some external changes that reflect deeper inner changes. Authenticity is necessary. In order to find one’s truth [one] must be willing to take chances and make mistakes. I found for myself that doing things in an unauthentic way or out of guilt – especially when it pertains to God and spirituality – was quietly deadening my soul. I decided I would start over and free myself from any baggage I could. To shave it all off and start a new phase, clean slate, and return to something fresh. To release and approach God from within, not out of duty.

For more, check out ‘Catching Up With Matisyahu’ by Kristen Blanton on Paste Magazine, ‘Matisyahu, Former Hasidic Reggae Star, Continues Evolution With ‘Spark Seeker” by Mark Kennedy on Huffington, and ‘Matisyahu And Me: Partners In Rhyme’ by Daniel Isenberg on Complex Magazine.

Top photo: Beau Grealy

Janis Galloway in her Sunday best

In the rapidly evolving world of style blogging, Janis Galloway of Dress Me Dearly Styling has made it clear that she’s here to stay. Not content to exist in a bubble of online interaction, Janis is an enthusiastic contributor to the arts and fashion communities in her hometown of Edmonton, Canada, both on- and off-line.

First and foremost, what inspired you to get into the fashion industry? When did you decide you wanted to be a stylist?

My own personal style blog and the fashion network around me really inspired me to get involved in the fashion community in Edmonton. I started my blog on a whim one day, and once I realized I had a dedicated following I knew that what I had to say mattered. That’s what is incredible about blogs. It breaks through the barriers of the fashion world and creates an equal platform for people who just love fashion and want to share that.

I always thought I wanted to be a stylist, but never thought I could. I took a chance and entered a styling contest in 2010 and met other stylists who were already working in the industry. They encouraged me to just go for it, and gave me the confidence to just get out there and try. That’s exactly what I did.

what a mesh. Outfit: Tank, American Apparel. Bandeaus, American Apparel. Skirt, BB Dakota from Black & Bold. Shoes, Joe Fresh. Bracelets, vintage and Joe Fresh. Hair bow is actually the “Mandy” bowtie c/o Calgary’s JB3 Design. Purse c/o Zatchels.

How did you make the leap from  ’I have some great ideas’ to ‘actually-happening, blogger-stylist-fashionista extraordinaire?’

When an opportunity arises I have learned to just say yes. No matter how scary it is or how much work it will be, I jump on every chance I get. Being a ‘yes’ person not only gains you experience, but also a network of people that will benefit you years from this moment. If I wasn’t out there taking chances I wouldn’t be meeting people and making connections that can further my career. I don’t know if I believe in ‘right place at the right time’ anymore as much as I believe in just being at every place at every time.

What fears/challenges did you have to overcome to get started? what risks did you need to take?

I had to overcome the fear of basically screwing up. If a client approached me and asked if I could pull something off, I simply said yes even if I had never done it before. And then I went out and figured it out and just did it. You have to overcome the fear of failure to reach any level of success.

What does an average week look like for you?

Hectic. Monday to Friday I work a 9-5 gig as the Marketing Coordinator at the Art Gallery of Alberta. Outside of those hours I’m updating my blog, meeting with styling clients both personal and commercial, answering hundreds of emails, establishing new partnerships with brands and trying to squeeze in time for family and friends.

wallflower Outfit: Dress, Swish Vintage. Denim Jacket, Stitches, a prized item I’ve has since junior high. Necklace, The Bay. Hat, H&M. Shoes, Payless. Clutch, vintage from Le Object D’art.

What keeps you going when things are looking bleak, or when you’re too tired or too busy to think straight?

My friends and partner. I have an astounding group of people who support me endlessly and force me to step away from my laptop to enjoy a glass of wine, a bike ride or simply a nice phone conversation. I would be nowhere without these people to keep me grounded.

It’s clear from your work that you’re passionate about your city. What do you love most about the Edmonton fashion scene, and how do you stay so well-informed about all that is happening locally?

I love its growth. What is currently happening in Edmonton’s fashion scene is an incredibly special moment to be a part of. In the last two years the fashion community has grown immensely. There is a huge sense of community between bloggers, designers, writers, store owners and fashion fans. I’m really lucky to have launched Dress Me Dearly when I did, at a time when Edmonton’s fashion scene was just about to peak.

I stay well-informed because I take an active interest in what’s happening in Edmonton. I volunteer to participate/coordinate in community events, I’m on local committees, I go see local bands, I attend restaurant and store openings and more than anything – I’m just physically out there on the sidewalks taking it all in.

sunday best. Outfit: Dress, Vintage. Belt, Vintage from Decadence. Bracelets, Forever 21, Obviously Chic. Heels, Payless Shoes.

Being outside in your community sounds so simple, but it has a huge impact on your life. Like most people, I used to drive to and from work and I realized that I felt completely disconnected from Edmonton. I would get in my bubble, drive to work, and then go inside my workplace into another bubble. Now I take public transit, walk or bike most places. Walking from my home to the bus stop every day, I see my environment and the people who make Edmonton such a great place to live. I read the posters stapled on the lampposts. I see storefronts. I read the paper on the bus and run into friends and acquaintances, spark up conversations about anything and next thing I know I’m making plans that night to see some obscure play or jazz band.

Finally, if you could treat an aspiring stylist/style blogger to one morsel of advice, what would it be?

Say yes to every opportunity that comes your way in the beginning. Even if it’s not an ideal gig, something good will come out of it, whether it be what you learned during the experience or the people you meet at that job. Just say yes!

Visit the Dress Me Dearly blog at www.DressMeDearly.com, or Janis’s styling agency at www.DressMeDearlyStyling.com.

Photos: Harvey Miedreich

Ruggles Mine in Grafton, New Hampshire, USA

Now days, most of my friends don’t live in the same town, let alone the same house. And I spend six days a week sitting in front of a computer. So I’ve found the best thing I can do with that one special day off every week is to do something adventurous.

I’ve talked about this personal adventure idea a little before, and I still think working adventure into even one small part of your life can do wonders for the whole. That’s a third of the reason why OCSPLORA exists.

Just to be clear though, if my job were in construction, or involved lots of travel, or had me doing professional lightweight mixed martial arts fighting at least half my week, I would probably spend my days off laying on the couch in front of the tv watching The Last Samurai.

I think one of the keys to a successful day off is to do something completely different on that day than what you do the rest of the week. So if the rest of my week was not indoors, and not sitting in front of this Venus Eyetrap, and not at home, it’s fair to say I might want to do those things on my day off.

The hard part for me, upon deciding I needed to get out and do adventurous things on my day off, was to try to do anything fun by myself. I have no problem escaping home to go work in a cafe for six hours on a Saturday, but to get out of the house and go have fun – by myself? That’s weird.

(And it’s not, by the way, that I prefer to be by myself when I go out looking for something to do on a Sunday. It just works out that way most of the time due to my friends having dumb schedules or living so far away or wanting to spend all their free time with their families and what-not.)

What helped me, actually, was when my wife began working in the city, which is about a half hour away, instead of at a store one town over, which was about ten minutes away. We have one car and the train schedule doesn’t work out for her on Sundays. If I was already leaving the house to go drop her off at work, I might as well find something to do while I was out and take whatever I needed with me so I didn’t have to come back.

It doesn’t happen every week. Some Sundays just get lost in the mix, but I do try hard to keep the no-computer-no-internet-no-doing-anything-that-feels-too-much-like-work-on-my-day-off rule. Oh, and grocery shopping. I avoid grocery shopping at all costs because it is definitely work.

So my advice is to just do it. Go for a walk, lay in a patch of soft, fluffy grass with a good book, call up a friend and go out, ride your bike, go snow skiing or hot air ballooning or polar bear riding or whatever it is people do in your area of the world to get out of the house and have a good time, because what’s life without one day a week of fun and relaxation? And if you’re not doing it now, when else are you going to start?

St. Andrews Anglican Church in Oxford, North Canterbury, New Zealand

I have a complicated relationship with weekends. My wife works in retail and works most Saturdays and often Sundays too. On Saturdays I usually work on creative projects like OCSPLORA, but Sunday is my chosen day of rest, my weekly sabbatical, the day I don’t check email or even open the laptop if I can help it.

A sabbath is a very difficult thing to keep in our modern western society. There’s always something that needs doing and always more to do than time to do it. But it is oh so worth it.

Some of the best Sundays I ever knew were from April to June of 2007 in a little town called Oxford on the south island of New Zealand. We were part of a school there, Wendy and I, and we lived in a five bedroom, two bathroom house with seventeen other people.

On Sunday mornings I would get up early, but not as early as on the weekdays, take a shower, eat breakfast. Then we would walk about thirty steps to the little Anglican church next door and worship with the local Anglican population, all twenty or thirty of them.

Sidenote: If you ever get the chance to go to a little Anglican church in a small country town in New Zealand, you really should do it. If you don’t know what to do or when to stand up or any of that, like we didn’t, don’t worry. They will just be glad you came and treat you like a celebrity.

Everyone who lived in the house with us went to church, but they all went to the Baptist church up the street, which had two services on Sunday morning. Most days, our housemates would all be leaving for the second service at the same time we were getting back from our service, which left us the entire house, empty and quiet and peaceful.

My routine for the rest of the morning was really beautiful, like a work of art, like a perfect musical composition. I would grab a stack of books I was reading, set a pot of water to boil, and check whether anyone had gotten a fire going in the wood stove. I would stoke it up, or get it started, make my cup of tea or hot chocolate and sit by the fire with my feet propped up and read for an hour and a half or so, until everyone else came back. I would try to keep reading straight through to lunch time, but I would usually end up in a conversation with whoever sat down in the circle of chairs around the fire.

After lunch the whole group of us would watch a movie on the projector, or maybe some of us would go for a walk or run or bike ride. Sometimes we would get invited to dinner by one of the families we knew in town. Otherwise we would eat leftovers and sandwiches. After dinner we might play a game of Settlers of Catan or just sit around and talk until we got tired. Then off to bed to start a new week.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it?

Morocco is a bilingual country. Arabic is spoken by almost everyone and French comes in a close second. Many people will switch back and forth between Arabic and French several times in one conversation. Very few people speak English, which is all I speak.

My wife Amy had spent weeks searching for a used car by internet and word of mouth. We had decided to take a break from looking for cars and spend some time in one of the local markets to shop for stuff for our new house. While wandering around some back alleys of Casablanca, I saw a classic Renault R4 that had been fixed up and painted bright red.

‘That’s the kind of car I need to get,’ I told our friend Najate. She looked kind of surprised but told me that it would be a cheap car and that there were lots of them for sale. Najate is one of our Moroccan friends who lived in the United States for several years, so she speaks English and Arabic.

A few days later Naget called to tell me she saw an advertisement for an R4. She called the owner and set up a meeting.

I took the car for a drive, had a friend look it over and decided to go for the purchase. I told the owner I would pay his asking price, assuming there were no major problems with the car.

I was told Moroccans are not big on maintenance, so I asked one of the mechanics where I work to take a look at the car. I scheduled a time for the owner, the mechanic, and myself to meet. The owner and I showed up but the mechanic was nowhere to be found. The owner only spoke Arabic, so I got out my cell phone and called the mechanic.

Here is where having a good translator is necessary.

I was hoping the mechanic would explain that he would be there soon, or that maybe we would have to just set up another time to get the car looked at. So I handed my phone to the car’s owner. The owner of the car started yelling into my phone. He hung it up, got back in his car and drove away. I called the mechanic back to see what had happened and he said he told the owner the price was too much and I didn’t want the car. You can imagine my disbelief when I found out what just happened.

Determined that this car really was the best deal, the next morning I enlisted the services of a third translator. Yassine, one of the guys I work with agreed to call and apologize for me about the previous day’s events. The owner agreed we could meet again and take the car to a mechanic in Casablanca. He would pick me up.

I found out that the mechanic spoke French so I took one of my friends with me who spoke French, but not Arabic.

When we arrived the head mechanic was not at the shop but one of his guys looked over the car. His French was not so great so my friend couldn’t figure out everything the mechanic was talking about. So we broke out my phone again.

The conversation then went from me to my friend in English, from my friend over the phone to the head mechanic in French, and from the head mechanic to his mechanic at the shop in Arabic, and then back to me through that same chain.

What all was said, I am still not sure, but it seemed that the mechanic had not found any major issues with the car. At that point I was just happy to go outside to tell the owner I would take the car. We met the next day to sign the papers and make the transaction official.

For the last 3+ years, OCSPLORA has been a hobby. Now it’s time to take it full time. What that means is more great Feature Stories, a new community discussion board with lots of exciting possibilities, and 4 Volumes a year of The Creative Revolutionary’s Handbook.

If you believe in the mission of connecting and encouraging creative revolutionaries and sharing their funny, fascinating and bold stories with the world, please give OCSPLORA an extra push.

OCSPLORA.com has a new gear section, powered by Big Cartel (awesome store-front setup for indie artists), where you can buy memberships to the Octopus Exploration Co., which is basically just a glorified magazine subscription, and for a limited time, the 2012 OCSPLORA Crew Shirt, which is basically just a glorified tee shirt. You can also get single copies of Volume 02 in both PDF and hardcopy editions.

Thanks for your help! OCSPLORA has a long, hard road ahead of it, but it’s going to be a lot of fun, too. Hope you stick around for it!

I was certain these were the forward scouts of a far larger force. Something had to be done.

Looking around the vines growing on the eve of the restaurant, I spied the nest. Only one this time, unlike last year when a veritable army of fire ants set forth each day from their numerous military bases in an attempt to conquer the hotel.

Since that time however my culinary spectrum had broadened, and I knew no fear. This time I knew what action to take. My course was set. Violence inevitable. Fire and hot oil would follow.

Fried Beef and Ant Eggs was on the menu again.

We hit hard, and we struck first. The nest was cut from the vine and dropped into a bucket of salted water to neutralize the bulk of the army, followed immediately by the frantic dancing and slapping that always follows a foray into ant held territory as fire ant soldiers leap from the vines to attack the hungry intruders. (No photo available due to photographer also being attacked.)

Beating a retreat with the contents of the nest, we were able to examine our spoils of war. Plenty of eggs, soldiers, and a few winged queens were ready for the frying pan.

While the chef rinsed the eggs and ants, the rest of us prepared the aromatic vegetables and beef that would accompany the fried delicacy.

Beef fillet, lemongrass, galangal, shallots, garlic, sweet red pepper and kaffir lime leaf were swiftly sliced into an unknown quantity that relies on the eye alone to measure.

Along with the meat and vegetables we also assembled salt, chicken stock, sugar, soy sauce, oyster sauce and fish sauce, and introduced them all to the ant eggs for a final pre-dinner photo shoot.

A frying pan was heated, a splash of oil and we were ready for the shallots, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaf and garlic, which were sautéed for a minute until a pleasant and aromatic smell wafted through the air.

The beef was added, and quickly sautéed until rare, then a pinch of salt and chicken stock, a sprinkling of sugar, a dash of oyster sauce, soy sauce and fish sauce, and a splash of water were thrown into the mix, and sautéed briefly before the ants and sweet red peppers were added and cooked for a further minute or so.

The finished result, garnished with some lemongrass and ready to eat, victory in the war against bugs has never tasted so sweet.

Stir Fried Beef with Fire Ant Eggs
(Cha Sek Cou Bong Ong Kgrong)

Recipe courtesy of Chef Navuth, Sambor Village Hotel, Kampong Thom, Cambodia.
Photos and Text by Richard McDonald.

It’s a little late this month, but welcome all the same.

The theme for July is ‘Rest’.

v. rest·ed, rest·ing, rests
1. To cease motion, work, or activity.
2. To lie down, especially to sleep.
3. To be at peace or ease; be tranquil.
4. To be, become, or remain temporarily still, quiet, or inactive.

(From The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 4th Edition ©2000 Houghton Mifflin Company.)

Photo: National Maritime Museum

Life in a farming town knows its rhythms. Growing up surrounded by dairy farms and wheat fields, I came to recognize the signs of seasons changing, advancing like clockwork, sure as the sunrise, never varying from their course. Rural life fell safely within the boundaries of the seasons, measured by the cadence of green tractors sowing perfect lines in patchwork pastures. Plant, water, harvest. Plant, water, harvest. From a young age, I could see my future stretched out before me like a dirt road in the prairies, no twisting or turning, just on, on, on, rambling forward into the horizon.

Something must have been building in me, something questioning the typical procession of the only life I knew. Otherwise, when I found the story, would I have given it a second thought? Somewhere beneath everything I knew was the faintest whisper, speaking to me of that which I didn’t know – that there was a boundless world out beyond the pasture fences, and that I was meant to go find it.

I first found his story tucked neatly in the faded pages of an old National Geographic magazine. ‘World-roaming Teen-ager Sails On,’ the cover beckoned. I stopped what I was doing, split open the musty pages, and dove in.

I’ll never forget how I inhaled his story, not even putting that yellow book down until I had savoured every word and studied every photograph. I discovered he’d written a book, ‘Dove,’ and immediately searched it out. When it finally arrived, I was absolutely spellbound by the tales of this new friend I’d found.

His name was Robin Lee Graham, and his story slammed the door shut on the prospect of living a mundane, predictable life. He was just my age, and in April of 1970 he became the youngest person to sail around the world alone. It was a tale of epic adventure, complete with scenes of disaster, triumph, romance, daring, and paradise found. I hung on every word, lost with him in lands of smiling island faces, my heart pounding as tempest waves suggested impending doom, sympathizing with him during moments of desperate loneliness, and all the while marveling that seas could be full of anything other than golden stalks of wheat.

The words of Graham’s journey became fuel for my own dreams; it was a story powerful enough to change the direction of my life. It simply wasn’t enough to admire the story. I wasn’t even satisfied by immersing myself in every word – it sparked a hunger for something bigger than words on dog-eared pages could satiate. Robin Lee Graham’s story had the power to inspire me to live my own daring, unforgettable adventure. He taught me that I, too, could have a story worth telling.

Photo: National Geographic Back Issues

Storytelling is the conveying of events in words, images and sounds, often by improvisation or embellishment. Stories or narratives have been shared in every culture as a means of entertainment, education, cultural preservation and to instill moral values. Crucial elements of stories and storytelling include plot, characters and narrative point of view.
‘Storytelling,’ Wikipedia

Photo: nyaong

On your mark… get set… go!

Whoa hold it there. Where’s the fire? Why are we in such a hurry to get going before we even know where we want to end up? I have some questions:

What are you starting? Do you even know?
How should you start it?
Why are you starting this something?
Do you just want to be a person who starts things?
Do you want to be noticed? Ego? Id? Superego?
Did you count the cost to yourself? Your family? Your community?
Does it really add value?
Is it just ‘graffiti?’ Is it new? Better? Really?
Is it expendable? Do people need or want this?
Are these questions relevant to starting something? Maybe….

The 3 top reasons why we fail to start something:

1. Doubt: in our creativity, the worth of our idea, the quality of our product, whether we can finish what we’ve started.
2. Money: enough said.
3. Procrastination: because of the previous two and any other reasons we can think.

Conclusion: all three of these reasons and most others we can come up with are really fear in disguise. Step over the stones of fear and get going.

The Secret of starting something?

Wait for it….

Wait for it….

begin. That’s it… begin.

It took me all month to write this article even though I started it at the beginning of the month. Starting was easy. I had unfinished ideas, most of which didn’t make it this far but still good for something else. Why did it take me so long? I wanted it to be excellent. Spoiler- it isn’t, but I started it and finished it, and hopefully I learned something along the way.

I could have waited, in my usual fashion to ‘get it right.’ That’s called procrastination and I am a master. What if I can’t come up with a complete proposal? What if I only have a snippet of advice or morsel to chew on? Is it worth it? Is it enough to start something? Maybe not for now, maybe not even for me but those morsels may help someone else start something.

If we want to start something we don’t need to do it alone or in a vacuum. It can be collaborative.

Like a charrette.

Like this website.

Everyone should have some advice about starting something because everyone has started something. It may not be a revolution but why does it have to be? Nothing is better for learning how to do something than doing something and you have to start somewhere. Maybe we shouldn’t be looking to start the next occupy movement (what was that about anyway?), or worse, imagining how that something will make us a living.

The point is, it’s easy to start something and difficult to finish. So what? Should I not start something because I am afraid I won’t be able to finish? I believe good can come of it either way.

Maybe we should just begin… start… something… somewhere and see what happens.

Photo: JD Hancock