The Egyptian Queen of Thanksgiving

Allow me to explain to you the series of events that lead to me being out in the below-freezing landscape of my frosted backyard at some unholy morning-ish hour, in my pajamas and muddy slippers, stoking a fire made almost entirely of fizzled matchsticks, and roasting a charred lump of mystery substance embedded with wood and ash.

The night before, I had been sitting in a crowded theater watching Mockingjay: Part Two of the Hunger Games series, with my sister, boyfriend, and dad. The show (which was to be amazing) hadn't even started yet, though there was a considerable dent in our tub of popcorn, when the trailer for Gods of Egypt came on. I don't really need to explain this. The title is much like that of Spy Kids-- it is largely self-explanatory and leaves little room for actually watching the movie. There are gods, and they are of Egypt. That's it. Cue tension and CGI and cinematic music. The important thing about this trailer actually has to do with a book I had when I was 8, or something. It was thin and outrageously pink. In it were various articles such as how to make homemade lip gloss or acorn boats or successful attempts at flirting (I never got the hang of that one). If variety is the spice of life, this book was that Taco Bell tamale that clings to your intestines until it erupts in a fiery inferno of agony.

One of these articles was titled "How to be an Egyptian Goddess". I think you know where this goes.

What I didn't understand, at the time, was that the page on being Cleopatra incarnate was utter satire. It was as if the adults writing the book were simply experimenting with what unsavory activities they could inveigle small children into. I was too busy worrying about how to procure gold and slaves for my pyramid production. Additionally, bat feces, for the signature swoop of mascara-- I was a little less enthusiastic about that one, but you know, whatever it takes. Anyways, after many, many, many failed attempts to cajole my sisters into fanning me with palm leaves and feeding me grapes (somehow, they were a little less than thrilled at this idea), I finally conceded and let my dreams of glorious queenship die.

Or so I thought.

Watching this commercial in the theater, my mind started to do this weird scheming thing that I don't know quite how to explain, besides the fact that it's completely illogical and often concludes with me doing something completely ridiculous, like pouring glitter on my head.

See what I mean? It doesn't follow any rational pattern, and it doesn't make sense to anyone else. But I realized, in that most vital moment, that to fulfill my wayward childhood dreams I would have to, 1) Write solely in ancient hieroglyphs, 2) Wrap myself in toilet paper like a mummy, 3) Beg my sisters to fan me with palm leaves, exploiting their guilt for not doing so in the past, or 4) Make ancient Egyptian food from scratch. Number four seemed easy enough. I was pretty set on the whole paper mummy thing, though. More on that later.

So, anyways, of course there came first and foremost the preliminary research. I had checked out just one book from the library which happened to pertain to this subject.

And four on physics, three on reflexology (one of these in Spanish), one on time theory, three fiction, one on meteorology. Oh, and that one ornithology journal. Librarians fear me.

I will be honest. I didn't even research that much. It was 7 in the morning and I, goshdarnit, was going to be a certified Egyptian princess before that afternoon. The recipe I used was derived from the images on the walls of the tomb of Senet, illustrations meant to carry living memories and experiences into the afterlife, that now in the future produce a vivid picture of ancient life. Crush the grain with sticks. Remove the husks through a sieve. Using a grindstone, crush the grain finer until you have a heap of white flour. Mix the flour with enough water to form a soft dough. Knead the dough by hand or by treading on it gently. Tear off pieces of the dough and shape into rounds. Cook directly over ashes-- Once the bottom of the bread starts to brown, turn over and cook the other side. 

Oh goodness. I had no idea what a sieve was and and could not even be remotely persuaded to walk on my food, which only serves to further confirm my theory that I would have quickly died of starvation in ancient Egypt. If the whole "frogs everywhere" thing didn't send me packing before that. Well, anyways, if the Homeowners Association happens to ask you, that's why I was outside looking for sticks this morning and returning only with soggy tumbleweed (Gotta love Eastern Washington).

I got out a mortar and separated the chaffs before pounding the grain to pieces and feeling like a horrible, heartless monster. Picture an orphan baby grain separated from its mama wheat plant. And I, the merciless villain, just crushed it. Give me my callous psychopath badge now, because I surely deserve it.

Those little baby wheaties deserved a peaceful, swift end, with all their pyres (that comes later, in baking the bread..... Too soon?) Instead, for fifteen minutes, I ground with the arguably useless pestle and delivered a lifetime of torture within their last moments. My arms were sore and probably about to fall off, yet still, the little grains were intolerably stubborn. The nerve of them. Impeding my ability to become Remenkīmi royalty. I hadn't slept enough to achieve rational thought and contemplated crying to sway the wills of the obstinate grains until I just gave up and used a blender. Far less torturous, for everyone involved.



At this point in the escapade, I am standing in the kitchen wearing fuzzy, pink earmuffs and feeding wheat to a ferociously growling Vitamix blender. I am jumping up and down in my toesie socks to "encourage" the wheat to flour-ize faster. My face is puffy from suffering a cold, and I'm so doped up on cough medicine that I can't keep my eyelids from drooping, and my stuffed sinuses are rattling like kazoos as I hum "Eye of the Tiger" (again, to motivate the wheat). Oh, but wait. I haven't even gone into the abyss of Arctic ice outside yet. It gets more fun.

With that, my flour's made. It's a heap of off-white powder in the blender and it's wafting up through the air like smoke. Except not. Because it doesn't smell as nice, and doesn't make you cough as much, even though you're still coughing. My lungs were spasming a little and I felt like I'd just murdered thousands of grain babies, but.... Yeah, there's no but. Heartless monster, etc. When I looked outside, I honestly thought it was going to be far warmer than when I was collecting tumbleweeds earlier. I don't know why I claimed this obstinate, unfounded belief, but looking back on it the following turn of events seems rather obvious.

I was going to build the best fire the world had ever seen. And in that moment, the world snickered. I would most definitely not be doing that. Not only was the fire going to be a miserable catastrophe, I would get frost nip and a mild case of the grouchies. I trooped outside with all my materials, and suddenly-- the temperature.

I am a frail person with a 5'2" frame whose primary reliance in cold is in her ability to borrow her boyfriend's hoodie, through a lot of begging. It's November, and I've yet to acclimate to the cold. Vaguely Californian in spirit, I cannot handle when my home's internal temperature dips below 65 degrees, let alone the polar wasteland beyond the door. Let alone wearing thin pajamas, toesie socks, a sparkling personality, and perfectly white slippers. I am also very stubborn, which will probably get me killed eventually, but not today. I hope this explains, for the most part, why I locked myself outside in this boreal desert to experience "the realities of living in nature" (which apparently is a suburban backyard in the late fall).

Well, really.... I just had to go back in the house to survive. But I wasn't about to give up.

Just like that, I was trapped in a glacial tundra wearing nothing but pajamas. I have done far more imprudent, arguably foolish, things, but this was pretty rash of me. Honestly, the only reason I did it was because the whole time I was keeping up an internal dialogue of "this might make a good story". Why did I run off in the woods that one time? Plot development. Nobody should ever, ever trust me with even the slightest amount of decision-making. I am extremely misguided.

So there I am, kneading the flour into freezing cold water, the melting frost seeping through my pajamas into the goosebumps plastered all over my skin. My fingers are almost too stiff to continue working the dough as blasts of icy wind shred through my body and whip my hair over my eyes. It's too early for this crap! But then I remind myself-- this is how they used to do it, and unless I want to earn my wuss patch, I'll have to put on my big girl boots and cope. Eventually, I do complete the task, albeit significantly less ebullient than when I began. I toss some dough to the ducks, who aren't quite sure what to do with it.

In case you aren't familiar with my hometown environment, it's like the wild west, minus the cacti. There are tumbleweeds, rolling hills, deep valleys, and the occasional rattlesnake. Lots of people wear cowboy hats. And, we're either amidst a horrific windstorm or recovering from one, constantly. Add windstorm as the girl in her pajamas searches wildly for more tumbleweeds that aren't covered in frost to use in her sorry little excuse of a campfire. The girl only finds one tolerable brush before she realizes, that in a distraction involving approximately 10 minutes of chasing wild birds, that she is halfway down the hill, in someone else's yard, and the sprinklers are turning on. In frumpy pajamas, and once white slippers that are stiff with globs of mud.

Yes, as you know already, that girl was me. I sprinted back to my yard, tripped, got up and kept sprinting, and finally returned to checkpoint wielding only one moderately damp tumbleweed. It was measly and a tad embarrassing, but I set up a tiny fire structure of wood chips on the concrete patio anyways. At this point I discovered that my trusty old strike anywhere matches were all duds. All of them. Of course, since I'd locked myself out of the house, I couldn't really get anymore, which seemed quite foolish to me at that moment as I could practically feel the hypothermia creeping up on me bit by bit. Thankfully, as a small child, I wanted to be an action hero and taught myself how to 1) run in high heels, which has proved very useful and 2) pull off screens, pry open windows, crawl through an opening several feet off the ground, borrow my grandmother's keys, forcefully unlock the house only to find that there was another unlocked door, etc.

Okay. New matches. As it turns out, I need exactly sixteen of them for this procedure, because of the wind and my desire to smother the fire to absorb its warmth into my cold, dying little body. I was past the point of no return. My fingers were so numb that I didn't feel my thumb get burnt.

But then, out of the depths, the clenching jaws of despair.... fire. Bestowing gentle light and radiating warmth upon the weary, hope to those of frozen hearts, loving charity to all that accept the generosity of this precious gift of life. So beautiful. So resplendent. So forgiving of the cold.

My grandpa probably had no idea that he would walk outside that morning to see globs of gelatinous, charred bread-like substance heaped atop a miniature pile of coals and failed matches, tended to by me. Okay, let me rephrase that-- he's vaguely aware of my partial insanity, but he definitely had no idea that I was camped out burning half baked goo on the patio. For this, he responded fairly well. Just like the usual; shrugging to admit defeat and backing away slowly. He didn't comment at all on the fact that I was wearing "BFF" footie socks (that I bought for myself), or that I had soggy slippers solidifying by the fire, or that my eyes were swollen shut and my face was blotchy with the shade of a tomato that won the county fair. A most unwelcome scene.

He did tell me to go inside. I said, "Never." How dare he suggest that I succumb to the elements and give in to failure. How could he not see that my destiny for royalty hinged upon this very moment?! Never mind that my fingers couldn't move or feel! Never mind wood pieces and ash were stuck to the soft underside of the bread! Never mind that a lock of my hair was dangling in the fire! THIS WAS DESTINY, AND DESTINY NEVER GIVES IN! (I went inside).

The rest of the baked bread I topped with mozzarella cheese, spinach, and sliced olives (a bit tastier than the recipe that was provided, I must say). This whole "just flour and water" and "worsening cold symptoms due to 'prolonged exposure to below-freezing temperatures'" thing has got me thinking. The generations of the past command respect simply by existing. If I had to mortar grind all my wheat, I would quickly be sorted out as a weaker specimen. I would, for many reasons, hypothermia among them, be very dead. Without modern conveniences, I doubt the vast majority of us would last in any measure of the same luxury or ingratitude. Look at this. We've got stoves, packaged flour-- grocery stores!-- running water, indoor heating, access to books... Thanksgiving has passed, and in its place is the avarice of the shopping season. Black Friday is to appreciation as the Black Death was to human life. It's so inconceivably shallow and hypocritical that we turn in one day from giving thanks for everything we have to craving an insatiable amount of "more".

We've been blessed with the ability to take things for granted.

But let's not do that. Let's be grateful for the glorious wonder that is a Vitamix blender. For shoes, for family, even for locked doors (because, hey, that's a sure sign that there are doors). Thank goodness that we don't have to cook turkey over coals. Yet, with privilege comes opportunity to extend our blessings onto others. This holiday season, I'd encourage you to give the plunders of a dollar store trip to something called Operation Christmas Child. There are those far less fortunate, children who have never experienced the joy of a gift, and through one small act we can impact countries away, for the better. These shoe boxes filled with even the most inexpensive of presents can bring joy to the life of little ones whose countries are home to turmoil and distress. What better way to celebrate the meaning of gratitude than by giving?

And who knew my 8-year-old aspirations to become Cleopatra would lead to this?

Yet, since I failed at making the bread exactly as the recipe on Senet's tomb intended, or without a whole lot of episodic complaining, I am forced to resign to option two of my diabolical Egyptian princess scheme. Let me tell you something about human nature: No one likes to be woken up at 2 in the morning by a person who, for whatever unspeakable reason, wants to be wrapped in toilet paper. Additionally, other people do not want to receive a text that says simply, "I feel like I'm allergic to excessive amounts of hemp pulp. Is that normal?"

Please do not do these things.

I am begging you.

You will perhaps say that you've never thought of doing such things, but then I suppose you'd also not be the kind of person who tumbles down staircases in zipped suitcases, so shame on you. Anyways, I was a toilet paper mummy for the extent of time it takes to dance to both "This is Halloween" and "What's This?" and with everything considered, I feel like that grants me the official title of a Princess. Finally. After years of insatiable agony, my childhood dreams have been actualized and I can now go on to live a fruitful exis-- Hey, I wonder what it takes to become a Duchess?

The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture

It's no secret that I practically stalk the mailbox like a mighty lioness lurking on the suburban savanna each mid-month until the fated issue of Popular Science arrives. After which, I seclude myself in my room for hours, because it seems that I invariably become frustrated that no one shares my ideals of proper magazine etiquette. It's really not their fault. I'm extremely and annoyingly picky.

My suggestion is this: if you're going to read any glossy-covered publication, pick something you genuinely enjoy so you won't be tempted to do something awful to it like marking up the articles to circle things for your wish list.

Or better yet, just make sure I'm not around to have a psychological breakdown over the state of your reading materials. (Actually, you can buy a BB-8. I think Cody deserves one for putting up with me all the time, though he protests that I'm not mean as I depict myself to be. Psshhh.)

There are many magazines that you'll want to avoid and others you'll more want to pursue. I've created this curative guide to some of my favorites: The Week, Sky & Telescope, Popular Mechanics, American Cinematographer, Car and Driver, The Atlantic, Bird Watching, SciFiNow, Book Page, etc. In the end, it's just important to pick based on articles rather than cover, and what you find to be interesting rather than what's on the popular rack. Popular Science is actually the only magazine I ever get through, on occasion at that, but it's nice to have a favorite that's your go-to in waiting rooms. Sometimes you don't have enough time to read a whole novel or non-fiction, and it's best then to just immerse yourself in an article or two for your free time. Whatever the case, it's great to stumble across gems such as "Inside the Mission to Pluto". 

That's the great thing about magazines: There's something for the interests of everyone. But there's something, a darker side, that I'd like to discuss. In the light of humor, of course, if I may. There are many publications out there that have extreme tendencies to inspire identity crises or influence a person against their true interests into something I like to call, "The Celebrity Black Hole", from which in time no thought escapes. It's not wrong to enjoy popular culture in music, TV shows, movies, literature, you name it-- Of course! It'd be hypocritical of me to say no when I was practically drooling over the trailer to the new Star Wars. However, I would much rather study what inspires and interests me than keep up with the Kardashians. This isn't because they're bad people, it's just because I'd rather know what's going on in Paris than, say, the lives of the Duggars.

With that in mind, here are some

New Taglines for Popular Magazines

Although it's definitely not my area of interest, I recognize that it can be enjoyable to cozy up to a gossip column every now and then. However, these types of magazines can be detrimental in a number of ways.

When I was in sixth grade, our drama group used the library as a green room during productions. Since we were anxiously awaiting our cues from the baby monitor positioned at the central table, we couldn't get too immersed in any particular book or conversation. It was for this reason that I picked up one of those gauzy teen gossip magazines sitting in the rack directly beside me.

For an eleven-year old girl with a bizarre mix of social anxiety and attention craving, this magazine couldn't have come at a better time. Or, if you're not in the marketing of such a company, you'd say it couldn't have come at a worse time. Within these articles you're slammed with a high-pressure string of contradictory advice and ideals. Some tell you that you have to be self-confident to be liked, others tell you you're nothing compared to the celebrities. Articles simultaneously convince you to enjoy gossip but never spread it, to be this cultural ideal of "sexy" that is impossible let alone disgusting to perpetuate onto preteens, to be pure but to know exactly how to give a killer make out session in the school locker-room. These magazines can only seem to agree on one thing: It all comes down to who others say you are. Apparently all that matters is if you buy the "in" clothes, date a popular guy, hang out with the cool kids, stay in the know; and no one seems to care about the real you.

Self-consciousness, sensitivity, and insecurity of identity were already prevalent in my sixth grade psyche, and these magazines were like a shot of steroids to those ugly manifests of my stumbling years between child and adult (which I'm still a part of, but thankfully the only issue now seems to be not finding any footie pajamas in my size). Tween magazines, on the whole, promote the idea that your body makes up who you are and "more importantly" how others perceive you. Sheesh. Isn't it great to tell little girls that right about the time they slam into an awkward growth spurt or start to develop pimples?  Additionally, masses of studies have shown that magazines, more than any other form of media, are directly related to the development of eating disorders.

I suppose that makes me a statistic, doesn't it? This is the part of the story where I confess that I struggled with anorexia and messed up my metabolism in a way that still impacts me today. I developed ulcers, too, because I ate so little that my stomach acid burnt through its lining. No, the influence of magazines definitely wasn't my whole reason. I was also seeking to stable my topsy-turvy life with the only thing I thought I could control: my body. Where did I get the tips that told me I could eat ice cubes to fool my body into curbing the pangs of hunger? The same media that told me I wasn't good enough until I was perfect on the outside. 

70 percent of normal weight girls in the US consider themselves to be overweight. 35 percent of American girls between the ages of 6 and 12 have been on at least one diet. 

Hollywood celebrities are presented infallibly as role models. Information on beauty maintenance is far more prevalent than that of health. There are titles of articles that couldn't not send up at least some minuscule red flag: "You Specifically, Yes You, The Girl Reading This Magazine. You Aren't Attractive." Such messages are plastered all over modern media, aimed directly at teenage girls (though teenage guys aren't exempt from the cultural scrutiny, either); but nowhere are they as prevalent as the magazines preying upon young children or teenagers with low self-esteem. If I have to read one more "21 Ways to Make His Thighs go up in Flames" targeted towards my age group, I'm going to flip a table.

Why? Because these magazines feed you information that guys only want perfect smoking hot virgin sacrifices (that sounds suspiciously like some cult, actually), but at the same time, they supply tips for kissing in hallways and having physical relationships that your parents don't find out about. I may be a prude, but hear me out. Even if you don't agree with abstinence, it's indisputable that these mixed messages and constant streams of such "sex tips" send one very strong message: Guys like girls who are sex objects. Picture yourself as fourteen again. Picture your parents picturing you as fourteen. Or whatever else works. And then picture yourself being perpetually bombarded with this message that you only exist to attract and pleasure the opposite gender. 

It's wrong. It's just plain horrifyingly wrong.

Let me send a message to the pretween and teenage girls out there: You don't exist to be arm candy. You are unique and beautiful, talented and inspired and don't you dare let anyone tell you that you are anything less than that. You have goals and purpose, a personality that's all your own, and meaning beyond what society confines you to. You're a princess. A FREAKING PRINCESS. Oh, and guys, don't think I'm letting you slink away. Culture also tells you some pretty fantastic lies. You don't have to be muscular or hyper-masculine. You can be afraid or sensitive, enjoy "feminine" things, need to lean on others-- it's not a girl thing, it's a human thing. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't deserve to be cherished for who you are, too. You're a gOSHDARN PRINCE. 

YOU'RE ALL ROYALTY. OR DRAGONS. BE A DRAGON.

This article is titled "The Care and Keeping of Popular Culture", but it should really be the care and keeping of you. It's so easy to get wrapped up in appearances when we become entrapped in the warped perspective of our society. It's far too great a burden to believe that you're not worth anything unless you look, talk, or act a certain way. When it comes to real people, it isn't a matter of getting their thighs burning (wouldn't that be horrifically uncomfortable??)  If you want to get someone's heart burning, just be yourself. The right person will be the one who appreciates you in the entirety of who you are. 

And who you are, well.... That's just absolutely incredible.

Welcome to the Abandoned Garden

Why I Hate Astrology (And Not Because I'm a Leo)

I'd like to open by saying that I would probably be obsessed with astrology if I was anything but a Leo. By some saving grace, I landed within a sign that is completely, 100% against everything about me. Because of this, I can laugh horoscopes off with striking ease. Myers-Briggs, though influenced by self-perception, has the victory on the side of accuracy, and the only area in which astrology overcomes it is in the sheer amount of material published.

My typing of Leo calls me masculine, fixed, and fiery. Believe me hun, I'm only fiery after Chipotle. Besides that, I'm an emotional wreck all the time, quite indecisive and changeable, and love flowery things with a burning passion. The only thing that fits me in this sign has to do with cats!

The problem I find with astrology has to do with how vague it is. In the profiles for the various zodiac signs, most people agree with the majority of the material they read, because it's purposefully written to apply to everyone. This is a type of 'cold reading', and it's used by all kinds of mentalists, psychics, and fortune-tellers to imply that they know more about you than they really do. In demonstrations of "divination" and such, it's a combination of information so vague that it applies to over 90% of people and a quick analysis of discernible features such as age, clothing, religion, race, etc. This makes your believe that the so-called psychic knows more about you than they really do; and maybe I'd pay for someone to stereotype the heck out of me, Shawn Spencer-style, but not under the guise of "fortune telling".

Here, try this: "I sense an older male figure in your life, who wants to know you better... While you may have had disagreements in your life, he still loved you". Was it applicable? If so, you're with the vast majority. It's far more difficult to find someone that statement doesn't apply to. It's part of a technique of cold reading called 'shotgunning', and I stole that little tidbit above straight from Wikipedia. There's many other psychological tricks-- the Froer effect, rainbow ruse, hot reading, warm reading-- the list goes on and on. Astrology has wavered from the path of an astronomical art and become nothing more than a profiting ruse, a regular Wizard of Oz. So, why do we fall for it again and again?

The leading explanation is surprisingly quite obvious-- our brains are hardwired to search for connections and reward us with endorphin when they're found, however fallible. This is the ultimate cognitive bias, and when we're cold read by some astrologist, our brain searches for and savors every minuscule connection. We ignore all the outliers, even if the connections we make are the true outliers. We tend to discover what we come in looking for; if you drive down the road specifically looking for red cars, you'll notice them far more. This perceptive gifting can become a biological advantage or an intellectual failure.

Now, I love the poetry of the archetypes. Together they are a web weaving meaning through the cosmos and soul to the flickering lights in the night sky. I find artwork representing these figures undoubtedly beautiful, and I've even collected some pottery of the sort. Oftentimes, when I surpass my usual indolence, I'll base minor characters on the astrological predictions for some randomized birth date. At best, however, astrology is a poignant epistemiological or general psychological study. The basis of the underlying cognitive bias is this-- we tend to cherry pick the facts to fit whatever we've predetermined, what we want or expect to see in the data, no matter what evidence there is to the contrary. Pattern recognition is, at its base level, a survival skill that connects the neuron pathways in our brain and helps us derive a course of action based upon data acquired in the past. It's been put to its worst with astrology, which inspires against the very logic this neurological process was designed to achieve!

Look, it's a common stereotype that Leos loathe their stereotypes because it damages their pride that the stereotypes call them too prideful. But that's a mouthful, and I'm here to put it to rest. I'm pretty sure no one likes to be called a self-centered, melodramatic, vacuous, ego manic, begrudging, sadistic coward. This strikes to the core of my being. Who I really am despises these traits, calls for kindness, gentleness, selflessness, humility, wisdom, spirituality, and bravery in protecting everything I hold dear.  Leos are said to be chronic cheaters with little regard to others, who give generously only for recognition. No. My sister, for one example, is solidly in the midst of Leo-- and she's one of the most genuinely generous, thoughtful, and selfless people I know. Besides that, I can forgive the occasional egotist with a compassionate heart. Leos 'discard you like trash when you don't fuel their ego', according to one astrology forum. To this I say:

Have we come so far only to let ourselves and others be defined and so confined to this crude capitalization on cognitive bias and cruelty of assumption?

My heart aches for those who allow their lives to be dictated by interpreters of stars looking to cash a profit. I empathize with the driven Cancers who are told they must be weak, gentle Aries who are told they must fight, intuitive Tauruses who are called simple-minded, and all the others in this twisted zodiac. Libras, you are not superficial. Gemini, you are not disloyal or fickle. Pisces, you are not over-sensitive. Virgos, you are not domineering. Scorpios, you are clement. Aquariuses, you are kind. Sagittariuses, you are wise. Capricorn, you are giving.

And my dear fellow Leos, let no one deceive you. You are not inherently selfish, no alignment of stars can dictate the person you are. You can be shy and compassionate and live to help others. You can also be loud and generous and spend your time spreading joy. You can defy your stereotypes, all of you, Aries to Pisces and all the way through. No one is exact, unchangeable, or fully understandable. You're unique and unpredictable.

Now go out there and get 'em, cuties!

Touching Time

Inertia is a property of matter that dictates that an object will stay in its current state of rest or motion until acted upon by an outside force. It is my belief that our minds are very much the same. It is for this reason, to continue in a trajectory of thought against the friction of fatigue or indifference, that this morning I opened a random volume of my encyclopedia set to an undetermined page and allowed my finger to fall by happenstance on the entry of inertia. So now here I am, surrounded by physics books (and I was ever so close to studying the industry of meat packing).

Now, back to inertia. The property of inertia states that an object will move, indefinitely, at a constant speed and direction until some outside force accelerates its motion to make it slow down, speed up, or turn. (If I hear one more person talk about this mythic "deacceleration", I am going to lose my last measure of sanity). One such force is friction, which affects two objects against each other. The force required to affect the movement of an object will depend firstly on that object's mass-- this can be defined, simply, as the density within the volume of an object, or in a sense, the amount of matter it contains. The official definition of mass is the property of resistance to acceleration.

 However, weight and mass are not the same! The measured weights of these two objects are included for comparison of density. On earth, it is simpler to measure the relative weight to determine the mass-- the explain how these two terms are different, picture weighing a bowling ball on your bathroom scale and then taking it to the moon. On a scale there, it will weigh far less than on earth even though the mass is the same. The object, despite its weight, retains its relative resistance to acceleration.

The greater an object's mass, the harder it will be to act against its inertia. If you've got to have either a bowling ball or a soccer ball flying at the same velocity towards your face, which miserable experience would you opt for? If you're not psychologically unsound, you'd choose the less excruciatingly painful one-- the soccer ball, which is lower in both mass and weight. Or, you'd run in the other direction and refuse to participate. Your face definitely won't exert a large enough opposite force to stop that bowling ball whatsoever, but either way you'll end up with a broken nose and a definite concussion. Bad news, Scott Sterling.

Well, similarly, this is why trains can't break fast. It takes a lot of force to stop that mass-momentum combo!

Another thing that influences the effort involved in changing an object's speed or direction is how quickly that change is made. It's harder to change momentum suddenly rather than gradually. If you're going around a go-cart track at 30 mph and you try to turn a corner or slam the breaks, you're going to spin out and slam into a pileup along with both of your sisters that results in multiple neck and back injuries from the sheer impact of the accelerative (fun story, that one). On the other hand, if you slow down gradually to turn those corners, you'll remain safe and have no fun and no friends.

Inertia is Newton's first law of motion, and thankfully, indisputable physical laws transcend the inevitable test of time. You can demonstrate inertia by dropping an apple on someone's head an observing how the impact against their cranium alters the object's acceleration (and the speed at which they will yell at you). OR, you can do what I did, and conveniently "borrow" someone's deck of cards and their wallet to demonstrate this property of physics. 

Place a card on top of a glass of water, and a penny on top of the card positioned over the center of the glass. Flick the card away, and the coin falls into the cup! Now the water is poisoned by excess copper and zinc. You're welcome.

Even though the card is flicked away, the penny doesn't travel along with it. This is because of inertia-- even though the penny was affected by the friction of the card moving against it, inertia dictated that it stay in place, until gravity pulled it down into the cup. That's also why you can set your mom's fine china on the table and yank out the tablecloth from beneath it without any collateral damage. That is, if you're skillful enough. (Please don't try this, I'm grounded for five months).

Can you imagine a world without the blessing of inertia? It'd be utter chaos! Sudden movement and inefficiency of force would reign an unparalleled kingdom of insanity-- take one step and you can't stop sliding; no one hit that ball and now it's hurtling across the room; heavy objects fall faster than lighter objects and Galileo was made to look like an idiot; jump and the whole planet moves; etc. It'd be, to say the least, interesting. Normal societal function would become obsolete in the wake of a universe descending into what would possibly literally be the dark ages in which not even photons would obey the properties of matter.

As we know it, matter exists in three dimensions, all of which we can sense and exist within. However, as the book Flatland and many others pertaining to the subjects of geometry and theoretical mathematics speculate, we have the privilege of partially viewing the fourth dimension as an incomplete representation within our three dimensions. This fourth dimension transcends all we can comprehend. To simplify the theory, let's break it down into two dimensions.

You now exist as a square on a plane of only length and width, something you wouldn't know unless you'd existed in the third dimension to look down as yourself from above. If a person, existing in three dimensions, were to stick their finger through the plane, it would appear as a circle (Though, as depicted in Flatland, to you the square it would appear as an unending, variant line).

Can we truly predict or even comprehend how the influence of a fourth dimension would appear in our three-dimensional perception of the universe? Well, some physicists theorize that this fourth dimension is time. Time can be warped, such as by the infamous singular gravity of a black hole, as can physical objects that can be stretched, squeezed, or even torn apart atomically by the intense pressure of such a gravitational pull. Light cannot escape. Time is not immune.

And, time is relative, both metaphorically and physically. One hour on a planet influenced greatly by the gravity of a black hole may be years to another planet in the outside realm. But the stream of time is not sped up or slowed, it is merely stretched, bent, and dis-configured into the delicate fabric that comprises our universe. Space-time is warped and disoriented by the energy and matter in it-- a measurable effect, such as how light waves bend when nearing the sun. This causes the sun to appear where it isn't. This theory is known as General Relativity, and perhaps time, then, is subject to the geodetic effect.

(Click the picture for a pertaining article)

It is altogether incredible and unbelievable. What if time, like physical matter, possesses inertia? What if it is, in the fourth dimension as well as our own, physical? Could it be influenced by force? Is it moving as a vector, continuous plane or indefinite line? Is there an original force that set the object of time into motion?

Can we touch time?

Such questions crave hope of answers. The law of the human pysche is that true curiosity can never be satisfied, and I hope it is so, for then there is no force to act against the perpetual motion of learning. Alas, we are Babylon.

What it Means to be a Sister

Being a sister is quite the adventure. I say this for the many times I've almost been traumatically amputated.

Despite this, I've got a definite soft spot for the two little munchkins I'm so blessed to call my sisters. As the oldest, I basically have this certificate that permits me to mess you up if you even think about hurting one of my little angels (though blackmail is much more classy, honestly). I couldn't imagine life without these girls; they're so eccentric, supportive, energizing, slightly insane, uplifting, and made of every little thing that lights up my life.

There's Jackie, who's the responsible (*cough* bossy) middle child, and she's about as goofy and tenderhearted as they come, but when it boils down to it she's one of the toughest people I know. She doesn't take crap from anyone, especially those who pick on the underdog (especially if that underdog actually IS a dog). Jackie knows exactly what she wants in life, or rather, wants to do for others in life, and is wholly unabashed in her pursuit to serve that purpose. Then there's Olivia-- bubbly, loud, sparkling with enthusiasm, optimistic, driven, studious, and intelligent. She always puts 100% effort into her life, be it in gymnastics, school, or improv comedy performances at home, and her motto is "Don't practice until you get it right, practice until you can't get it wrong." I'm so proud of both of them. They're unique, beautiful, and spirited; and they teach me far more than I do them. I thought it would be opposite, when I became a big sister. I thought I'd be doing the instructing, and I was wrong.

Instead, I gained a motto; "Ohana means family. Family means whoop anyone who hurts 'em."

My sisters really do care for me. I remember one time I was in some bizarre emotional state and started breaking down into sobs over the fact that no one had ever brought me flowers. No sooner had my sisters heard this than they dashed out of the room and returned with an impromptu bouquet of irises and wild mustard. They may actually be angels, and now I'm on a mission to prove it :P

That's not to say there isn't dissension. Oh no, believe me, there's a lot of it. About half of my arguments with Olivia are, regrettably, very petty. The most notable of which was about eggs (long story). Another time, Jackie gave me a Christmas card, no gift accompanying it, the only inscription being a lengthy explanation of "You owe me ten dollars". Merry Christmas to you too, Jackie!

Ah, lovely memories.

They've given me a fair share of scares, too, and I'm pretty sure the vast majority of them qualify for inclusion in the "Dumb Ways to Die" song. Jackie put an arcade token in her mouth and choked on it while jumping up and down on the bed. Olivia nearly hung herself in the drapery. Then there was the time Jackie wanted to play lifeguard and Olivia, God bless her, actually experienced a not-so-fun episode of unfairly realistic drowning. her commitment to the game was fierce. Gotta love 'em.

I've always watched from a distance as they did everything together. I grew up and became a loner far too quickly. There was only room for two in playing Mommy and Baby, or Kitty and Owner. Jackie was the mothering type, and Olivia loved being (s)mothered (in affection). It just worked out like that. I was to be mature and responsible, an aptitude for which Jackie seemed by far more fitting. I often felt shut off from them, loving them but never really quite there. I was the kind of sister who would take you out for ice cream only to be shooed to another table, or call "Dance party in my room!" and have no one show up.

No, this isn't a pity party. I'm about to tell you why I finally realized this is my fault. Though I tried to be a loving sister, I was also a hot and cold sister. One minute I'd be pushing everyone out of my room for "invading my space", and the next I'd just expect them to flock back in for some quality time. You can imagine why it seemed like they favored each other. In reality, it was me shifting between two extremes of "You always get me in trouble, leave me alone!" and "Hey sweetheart, I bought you this necklace!" Yes, sometimes, I will admit, I have been deliberately mean. I have been frustrated, tired, vengeful, moody, snappy; all of the above. And because of this, my own actions, I have spent so much time on the outs.

I still do remain there, because there are memories I can't make up for so easily.

It's a difficult thing, changing who you have been. Oftentimes it doesn't come as easily as just giving an apology. I know that in my past jealousy over parental affections, I very much damaged my relationship with Olivia. I can't forgive myself for the hurt I caused a little child who just wanted her big sister to care for her, like I should have. If I can't forgive me, how can she?

Another failure on my part was a lack of understanding for the love languages. Olivia is a strong Words of Affirmation, Jackie is first and foremost Quality Time followed by "buying a puppy". I thought that if I bought them trinkets and made some snacks that they would feel unconditionally loved, even if I got snappy or wanted my space. I didn't understand just how unloving it was to set up treats for the tea party but wander off to my room instead of dining with the stuffed animals and my little sisters. I should never have believed in the phrase, "I'm too old for this", or another even worse one, "This isn't worth my time".

Oh, believe me. When you look back on these moments you'll regret every second of not living them, realizing just how precious and worth it they were all along. Those times are always worth it-- I don't care if your quasi-boyfriend is on the phone or you're missing the beginning of your favorite TV show or whatever else you've convinced yourself takes priority; sit down and have tea with the five-year-old who is looking up at you with adoring eyes and calling you "sithy" though gaping front teeth. Those are the things truly worth remembering.

Things changed about two years back. It took me several miserable months of a head-spinning paradigm shift, but I got my act together. The big point I don't want you to miss is this: It's okay to get angry. It's not okay to hurt people because of it, especially those who love you most. The Bible says this: "In your anger, do not sin" (Eph 4:26); "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control" (Prov 29:11). Buddha says, "You will not be punished for your anger, but you will be punished by your anger." Mark Twain (Yes I know, he's not the patriarch of a religion) said, "Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured."

It seems that every major spiritual and philosophical feature, these used as examples, deals at least in some part to the nature of anger. It's a struggle common to all of humanity, which is of course no surprise to anyone who's looked at the news for two minutes. Everyone's prone to some moments of giant rage. The important thing is knowing how to take deep breaths, several if you have to, and look on with love.

I'm not that kind of sister anymore who's something to be afraid of. I've built my strengths and broken down my weaknesses, an ongoing process which will be worthwhile but always open to more renovation. Now I'm the kind of sister who cooks Mac n' Cheese, brings home flowers, protects her little angels with the full-grown fury of a Mama Bear, listens to stories, carves out time to help with homework, and (hopefully) holds her tongue a little more.

That's what it means to be the oldest sister. It means having the blessing of a family that refines you into the best version of yourself that you can possibly be.

(Now if you'll excuse me, I have some Mac n' cheese to make.)

The Music of Nothing

I care a lot about music for someone who's going deaf.

My mom says she thinks it started when I was much younger, the details of which are not important, but at the epicenter of all this she had a child who learned to sing do-re-mis before she spoke them and yet would one day cease to sing at all. They found out at some standard procedure audiometry exam when I was in third grade; a little bird whispered, "By the way, you can't hear in your left ear". So it goes. We had hope, of course, as all people do before they're told not to. Year after year, the hearing worsened, deteriorating... into nothing.

For all that I profess as to the virtues of silence, I am a person favoring a steady susurrus of faint classical music, jingling bells in some room far away, slow breaths, and the drum of an almost-broken washing machine. Such sounds are my constant companions. When I step outside, I hear the birds twittering, gentle breezes caressing the trees, and the faint beat of footsteps, and mechanical noises that come with living above a city. I love the sound of rain and the sporadic cackles of fire. I love the pulse and sound of my heartbeat, two senses I can't untangle. I love the color of someone's voice as they laugh and the shape it makes as it hangs in the air. And names. Oh, I love names.

When I was reading Stargirl (Jerry Spinelli), I became enthralled at this character who so embodies everything I am and want to be. As soon as I heard her names, I knew that for a single second, my soul was understood. Yes, names. Susan, Stargirl, Hullygully, Mudpie, Pocket Mouse...  Someone like me. All through my life I've felt that names were a different kind of meaningless than everyone thought. They're meant to encompass who we are, and yet, we carry around (most of us) only one, like a weight around our proverbial neck, through the entirety of our lives. One can hardly be expected to remain the same person they were a few short moments after their birth. Names are to reflect who we know ourselves to be.

In 2012, Emma was the top girls' name in 31 states; since then it's carried through as the overall greatest statistic, into 2015. One Emma will hardly be like any of the others. Stargirl.... she will be someone different. Better yet, she will be herself. Yet, we stereotype names so blindly-- Every person I meet named Blake, I instantly shy away from in a certain apprehension that comes from my memories. It's even worse in racial profiling cases-- Studies have shown that interviewers are more likely to hire a person with a "white-sounding" name, even if the resumes are identical.

In sixth grade, I first came to the conclusion that names have this profound impact. I then made attempts to legally change my name, to no avail, and perhaps that was for the better, since the name I picked was "Echo Silver". Since then, I have absorbed more fragments of thought and personality than I could ever have imagined. So of course, I've gone by many titles-- Olive, Hollownight, Rachel, Flower, Opal, Harley, Cricket, Madhuri, and finally, currently, Ariel. Each of these names was once so dear to my heart and harmonious to my ears, but now they have each in turn become foreign and replaced. It is something I can never understand; all I can say is that I am changing.

It's more clear to define who I am by saying I collect succulents, Moroccan pottery, and sand than to say my name is Julia. How much easier it would be to know someone without a name there to impede the way, if such things were only whispered secrets among the closet of friends.

This reminds me of a plane flight to Seattle I took this February. I was seated far away from my family, and began nearly shaking with fright as some stranger took his place next to me. It was a long flight; and I began it by tracing over the lines of an already completed drawing and skittishly avoiding human contact, In the end, boredom got the better of me, and as I noticed his open laptop-- "What are you working on?" We talked for hours upon hours, and he was by far one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. It was psychology and cinematography and the human condition and wizards and puzzles and everything I could ever want to talk to someone about.

And the plane touched ground.

I realized then that I never asked his name,  never said mine. I had, in every literal sense, brushed souls with a stranger. So I asked him, and he said something that can never escape my memory--

"If I tell you, you'll forget me. You'll remember me as a name and before you know it, this will all fade away. But if I don't tell you... You'll never forget that guy you met on the airplane. You'll have to remember what I said and who I am instead.."

He left, dragging his suitcase behind him. He was right. I've always been left with a sense of wonder muddled by hints of agony for never knowing. It's very likely that I will never see him again. But if I do... I won't ask his name. It's the most magical thing in the world, the sound of resonance in a soul that will always be remembered.

But yet... I'm afraid. I'm afraid of going deaf because playing the Moonlight Sonata is the only thing that can heal me when I'm distraught. I will never know the sound of an instrument I haven't heard yet. I won't write songs or chirp back to birds or watch my anguish dissolve to the lull of a piano. Yet... I might have something better. I'll get to feel the vibrations of a person's chest as they sing some serenade, one day. I'll know what eyes look like when there are words trapped behind them, how some words taste bitter on lips and the quiver of a touch feels like the words I love you. I'll feel the sand rattle with crashing waves, the purr of a kitten as it resonates in the delicate bones of my fingers, the exact depth of a piano key as it plays the brooding C that I always hold for too long; I will never have to hear another name.

I may not have working ears, but perhaps in that all encompassing silence I will finally, truly hear.

Meet the Author

Who are you?

It's a daunting question, isn't it? In a world of 7,380,436,559 individuals, exponentially increasing, it's next to impossible to feel unique or even, sometimes, valuable for who you are. That which comprises the self is abstract and volatile, and you may try to pin it like a butterfly to a cork board only to find that the wings melt through and away You fly. How inexplicably agitating it is to know the self by uncertain terms!

I could offer up any organized scheme of objective details about myself-- INFP-T, Choleric-Sanguine, Chaotic Good, Right-brained, Neurotic, Ravenclaw, Amity, Leo (more like Cancer/Pisces), IQ 174, Love Language: Quality Time/Gifts, WPI-62, APS: Feminine-- the list of measurable traits goes on to the brink of infinity, and still, none can truly grasp that indiscernible me. I find that soulful intimacy comes breath by breath, in little flickers at a time. People can be more understood by their experiences and thoughts than by any standard test, however comprehensive.

So many times I've seen people confine themselves to the restrictive limits of their Myers-Briggs type. I should come as no surprise that I did too, for a time. These tests only highlight trends, they are not meant to conform the soul of a sui generis individual.

I may be your mostly friendly INFP, but there are other things you could know about me that would mean far more than my result on a test (even the revered Myers-Briggs). So, rather than explaining various facets of my personality in attempts to describe enough for you to "know" me, I'm going to skim over some of my quirks. It'll be fun! My main reasoning is this: Our actions much more define us than our categorized perceptions of the self, however eerily accurate they may be.

1. I start every morning with kundalini yoga and love to go on little walks (especially during damp weather, particularly involving the acquisition of chai tea at the local bakery). The feel of cold, crisp fall air is the sweetest in my lungs. I often forget or forsake breakfast, unless said breakfast involves raspberries, crepes, or strawberry milk.
2. Back in seventh grade or so, I began to pride myself, rather obnoxiously, on not liking Twilight because of the sparkly vampires and blatant lack of plot. Unfortunately, this whole hipster image was shattered when I discovered the web-series Carmilla and distressed my whole family with such obsession over it. As it turns out, my aversion to Twilight is because of the blatant lack of character development, inaccuracy to lore, and the horrendous writing style that is wholly reminiscent of a sixth-grade fanfiction. I say I hate romance in all forms but still read things like Fruits Basket and A Little Something Different.
3. My bucket list includes riding an ostrich.
4. Thai food makes me horribly nauseous, but I eat it anyways. This probably says a big something about my appetite, as do these two other things-- I've seriously considered a career in Culinary Arts, particularly as a pastry chef (but am now pursing Naturopathy) AND about once every few weeks I get a new craving and fixate on it until it's fulfilled. One particular recurrent craving has earned me the infamous title "Cinnamon Roll Princess". Also, I get hangry a lot; poor Cody.
5. I usually leave parties early and either fall asleep or get sick every time I go over to a friend's house. My best friends tend to be those with whom I feel no social pressure-- the casual, quiet hangout is my ideal. Still, I love theme dances and elegant dinner galas. Usually my social usefulness is as the "constantly in the kitchen hostess"; food, decorations, tending the bonfire, and hiding out in the room with the pets. 

And, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Crivens, More Rambling!

It was by the charity of the universe that my friend Anne introduced me to the author Terry Pratchett, through his book We Free Men. This guy is basically about as INFP as you can get, and it's amazing down to every last dripping morsel of sarcasm. The allegory is hidden well and some points and rather conspicuously at others, in the name of humor, but its rather poignant. I've gleaned quite a few quotes that hit me like a frying pan over the head. And of course, because I'm me, I went through the whole book Myers-Briggs typing all of the characters.

I've got four to present to you today, cognitive function theories and all: Tiffany, Granny Aching, the (general) Nac Mac Foogles, and the Queen of Dreams. But first, a little bit about my thoughts on the book as a whole.

My two main reasons for enjoying this book are as follows:

1. I have never found a character more relatable than Tiffany. Seriously, the whole book I was reading through thinking "I don't remember myself doing this, but hey, proof of samsara."
2. Frying pans were used as weapons, seven years before Tangled.

That should be more than enough basis for me to force you to read this book. If you're not running to the library right now (darn you), I'll talk for just a little bit about the metaphor of the book itself. The major theme of it all is that we, as humans, walk through our lives seeing only what we want to or think we should see; a comatose state in which we cannot truly comprehend the wondrous nature of experiences we might have if we only were to open our eyes and wake up for real. However, being mere mortals, we could not begin to comprehend or exist in such a state of consciousness. It's the paradox and malaise of humanity.

All this, from a book whose every other word is a curse in some pictsie language.

There are some doubtless profound quotes, though. They contemplate religion, alternate realities, susuristic silence, hyperawareness, and of course, hypnagogia. I won't say it's my favorite book, as I do tend to prefer texts that leave me questioning my existence in near psychological breakdown state, but as for things that may or may not leave you in existential crisis, it's pretty dang good. Thank you, Anne, I'd recommend it too.

Also, thanks to this book, I now have a halfway decent Scottish accent under my belt.

I went ahead and researched the painting it was loosely based on, The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. Incidentally, the artist went insane and killed his father, whom he thought was the devil in disguise. His caretakers at the insane asylum encouraged him to keep painting, and thus, commissioned by one of the doctors, this was born. He also produced the Sketches to Illustrate the Passions, which are pretty cool. They're actually quite lovely, although some are a tad morbid. 

In my mini research project, I also discovered that Queen wrote a song about this, with the same title of The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. It suddenly turns into Nevermore, and I think the lyricist was high as a kite. Anyways, here's a link to the song. Now, onto our main feature: Myers-Briggs typing!! :D

First up, Tiffany Aching. She's a pretty fun main character to tag along with, and though I initially saw her as INFP, I later questioned my prior judgement and came to the outcome of a solid INTP. Let me explain why, first with the original MBTI and followed with cognitive functions.

Tiffany is most definitely an introvert. She reveled in silence and thoroughly enjoyed her alone time, which was one main reason why that little jiggit was Granny's (unofficial) favorite.

Secondly, we know she's intuitive because of the many references to "First Sight and Second Thoughts", which are among other things a fancy way of stating that she doesn't rely on what's expected or normal. Half of the book takes place in her thoughts, and she's not one to rely on those of others.

In deciding T or F, it got a bit harder. I went with T, for the primary reason that while she's an emotional person, she's decidedly very calculated about it. She used her little brother as monster bait-- with definite Perceiver-style impulse-- and decided not to cry about her grandmother.

It was definitely a harrowing issue to come to the conclusion that Tiffany is not, in fact, an INFP. My tears stain the keyboard even as I type, ect. There could be a definite debate to this-- for one thing, I see a lot more Fi than Fe. It's entirely possible that she's a well-rounded INFP, and this is my fervent hope and prayer. I don't like to rely too much on cognitive function theory, since it usually muddles things, but it's useful for explaining a character's thought process.

Introverted Feeling (Fi): Tiffany relates the outside world back to her feelings, and uses her sense of morality to guide her actions. It's often controlled, as she decides through a set of inner values what is worth her emotions. She doesn't worry too much about what others think of her, but rather, what her actions will cause her to think of herself.  For example, saving her brother. She doesn't think, "I have to find him, or how will my family feel?!" but "I need to save him because he's my brother, and if I didn't love him, what kind of person am I?" In spite of this, I typed her as a Thinker and not a Feeler, mainly because of the scene in which she confronts the Queen. While the Queen is using classic Fe manipulation strategy, Tiffany logically insults her instead of playing on her emotions. However, she's able to read the Queen quite well based on war she knows about her, enough to know her crucial emotional weak points. That smells of a Fi vs Fe contest, and a pretty well-written one at that.

Extroverted Intuition (Ne): Tiffany is open-minded, abstract, idealistic, insightful, and flexible in thought. The majority of her emotional reasoning sources inside (Fi), but she bounces her ideas off of others in order to fully grasp them. She likes to be present where possibilities exist, readily grasps foreign concepts, and seeks out creative solutions-- such as marrying Rob Anybody once a bird grinds a mountain down to a grain of sand. By the hundreds of obscure connections she makes throughout the book, it's easy to type her as a solid user of Ne. 

Introverted Sensing (Si): While Tiffany often lives among her thoughts and is wrapped up in her own imagination, she's also quite the sensor. She notices when things are off in her environment-- the unreality of the Drome's creations, Jenny Greenteeth appearing subtly, the slight noises of the pictsies-- and reflects heavily on the past as a guide for current actions. She's quite sentimental over her memories and they comprise a good portion of the book. She's consistent, hard working, and uses her routines to find comfort in daily life (This is offset by her rampant Ne, which pushes her into exploring everything). 

Extroverted Thinking (Te): Logic is a driving weapon at Tiffany's disposal. Once she's reasoned through her emotions, ideas, and sense of morality, she steps right into doing whatever makes the most sense. This could be using her brother as monster bait or defying the Queen by coldly playing her deepest insecurities, but once she's decided what the right thing to do is, she'll go by whatever means are objectively necessary. She makes decisions quickly and decisively.

Granny Aching

What we know of Sarah Aching comes entirely from the dialogue of the Nac Mac Foogles and Tiffany's memory. This is ~~SPOILER~~ because she's already deceased, but nevertheless she remains crucial in the underlying plot, up to the climax, and is therefore deemed by me a major character. I'll try to keep this profile a lot shorter. Granny Aching is an ISTJ. She was undeniably an introvert, relied on a strong moral code of right and wrong, worked within the law, nurtured both her sheep and any person in need duly with a spirit of moral obligation, worked hard unceasingly, and did her best to fill the traditional role of a "grandmother". On top of this, she stubbornly refused to leave the Chalk and clung to her constant values.

Nac Mac Foogles

The  Nac Mac Foogles (pictsies) seemed to have one general, shared personality. There were, of course, deviants, but as a whole, they conformed to a broad cognitive structure. The Nac Mac Foogles are ESFPs. And they were so, so fun to type. We know, for starters, that they're extroverts-- you never see one alone, their idea of heaven is endless parties and beer (as well as rampaging), and they're quite loud and exuberant. As SPs, the Sensor-Percievers, they're full of hedonism and are lively, fast-paced, skilled in battle, and based on their interpretation of common sense. They also tend to cry "Waily waily" on everything, though they can be serious on some rare occasions, and have a strong compassion which drives them to be the Robin Hoods of the fae world. They're ready to rush into both danger and fun, have a strong instinct to protect and fight for others, lack long-range vision, and can never seem to take the logical path.

Queen of Dreams

Let me just say right off that I love this character. It's fantastic development, even though it seems superficial at the surface. Fi vs Fe clashes are some of my favorite moments in literature. This one comes across as Harry Potter meets Chronicles of Narnia, in the worst way, which is alright I guess, but not ideal. There's not a lot of of information to go off of, but I just had to type her. The Queen screams ENFJ to me. For one thing, she's definitely got extroverted feeling at a max, and it's been corrupted to villainry. Her back story involves being left by her King, following which, her happy summer kingdom descends into eternal winter. Writers just love characterizing xNFJs as the harbringers of winter-- Elsa, Ingrid, Queen of Dreams, etc. It's such a trope, but I love it. 

Anyways, when a Fe-Ni combo goes off the deep end, you have some of the most manipulative and fantastic, poignant, gray-area villains. By this I mean, it's oftentimes hard to not fall into sympathy for them. The Queen's warped NF typing is blatantly present from the moment we see her: One, kindap children because she just wants to care for them; Two, fall into the classic primary Feeling function of "your mistakes are not your fault, but that of your circumstances"; and Three, her response to losing who we can only assume was the love of her life.

She's an extrovert because she must always have company and doesn't withdraw into solitude (additionally, because of her primary Fe function), and the J/P difference comes from the cognitive function stack. Again, in order to have that extroverted feeling, she fits with the classic ENFJ villain. Other example of Fe is Hans, from Frozen, and another pseudo-villain of NFJ-ness is Elsa from the same movie. The ENFJ vs INFJ difference in supposed evil is obviously present.

An important point to remember: Functions display differently for every individual.

This concludes my massive text on Wee Free Men! I checked out the one copy, but it's soon to be at our local library :P If you'd like to follow up on more book recommendations, simply click on my tag #bookreviews. If you enjoyed this book, you'll probably like Simon Bloom: The Gravity Keeper by Michael Reisman.

It's humorous, action-packed, profoundly intuitive, and most certainly makes you go about the world looking for suspicious textbooks. A couple years back, this was the book that made me enjoy reading more than I could express with words. Simon Bloom was the novel that started it all, and I will forever be grateful.

If you'd like to purchase the book, it can be found on Amazon here.

You can thank me later ;)

Crivens, what a long post!

I conclude with one of my very favorite quotes:

"We sleepwalk through life, because how could we live if we were always this awake?"

(Okay okay I'm sorry, here's a link to the actual song.)

The Curious Case of my Outdoor Ineptitude

When I was little, I sustained fanciful visions of living alone in the woods in my Hobbit hidey-hole. That was a pipe dream, and I very much thank my strange little four-year-old self for it. Well, I also had some ideas then that were not so fantastic-- for one example, part of that whole "living in the woods" thing included me being a captive princess, adventurer on an exotic undiscovered island, or a cat. Possibly a caticorn.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I've always loved the idea of peaceful solitude in nature, of existing free from societal conventions and interpersonal toxicity. Once, on a "where do you see yourself in ten years" paper, I wrote, quite literally, "living alone in the woods with my pet green conure, named Rue, and a baby hedgehog." Now I have the conure, but she's named Tango. And much to my chagrin, no hedgehog. Additionally, I've realized that I'd die of agony in under a week if I didn't have access to strawberry milk or takeout Chinese food.

This, of course, was an extremely distressing realization. I'm plenty skilled in the art of cooking, as it pertains to preparing my boyfriend a different strain of pasta each week; but in terms of outdoor survival skills, I'm the kind of person who sets priority on decorating the stick tepee and tries to snuggle the fire because it's just so warm and cozy. Now, if you know me personally, you'd laugh at me being tormented by this because I've also studied herbal sciences rather extensively and would be reasonably adept in a survival situation, with that and my general study of outdoor skills.

But to me, it just isn't enough.

To be outdoors, out in the wide expanses of earth's embrace, the ground trembling with the heartbeat of all existence, and unconstrained air in your lungs; you cannot feel more alive than when you are one with the world. It isn't, for me, a matter of survival-- it is of mutual growth. Fighting against nature grants us the possibility to survive, but immersing ourselves within it inspires us to truly thrive.

If I sound vaguely like a Druid by now, I can honestly say that I have practiced as one. This philosophy of oneness within the self and the world is intrinsic to my view of life. Withdrawing from the universe pulls me into grueling bouts of depression and a lack of connection to my inner self utterly destroys me. That being said, and knowing that some existence of solitude at the least is of the utmost importance to me, I do find incredible value in reflections with others. My general thought is this: The purpose of the soul is for true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means. Nevertheless, I'm possessed with this "living alone in the woods" vision. Maybe I won't be alone alone, but I definitely get a little snappy when someone else invades the quiet serenity of my morning walk.

My point is, if I want to exist in this natural world, I have to know how to. My one big problem is that while I can basically forage for any edible plant and discern or apply its medicinal properties, I am downright AWFUL with plants. Honestly, I write up hundreds of garden plans but I can't keep one little sprout alive for more than a few days. The root of this problem (*humorous snort*) is that I treat plants like sentient beings (Trees of Cheem) and have a propensity to over-water so they "won't be hungry". I've combated the soil quality issue with my little worm farm, but I still have that nasty residual proclivity to smother every living thing within a mile radius with affection and warm cookies. With plants, this kind of doesn't work. Whatsoever.

So, there are a few things I want to do to acquire skills in this particular area of passion: grow a mini garden, renew my first-aid license, make homemade cheese, spend the night sleeping under the stars without a tent, go solo hiking, and create a collection of herbal remedies to store for later need. My little explored mission in life, the desire of my heart, is to immerse myself completely into the beauty and peaceful entropy of nature. I hadn't realized until lately how strong a facet of my personality this is-- until I noticed that my idea of an amazing life is and always has been existing in perpetual awe of the world around me (or, of course, being a caticorn).

From my fixation on naturopathy to my possible non-violent pyromania to the bizarre impulse to get truly lost in the forest- if only for a few hours-- it is evident that my greatest happiness comes from harmony with nature. In both solitude and close connection I find my joy. It's the paradox of human nature, the craving to be at once so close and distant from those around us. Perhaps in the delicate balance of this, our hearts are most aligned to all the world around us and to ourselves. It is in this equipoise that our souls are set free, unburdened, and we are most truly alive.