Over the space of the past two weeks, I have been keeping a small, random and rather strange blog about nothing in particular called This Fever To Tell. I have blogged on a variety of topics, such as life as a dancer, my personal life, a movie review, and so on. I typically write in a sarcastic, mildly humourous tone. Part of the blogging assignment included advertising my blog and attempting to gain as many views and followers as possible. After posting links to my blog around four times onto my facebook account and harrassing my closest acquaintances to visit the page, I now have a marvelously grand total of four followers and four-hundred-and-eight-four page views. I'm quite satisfied.
Something I recently learned about was the 'Klout' concept, which is virtually a calculator of your personal imprint on the internet. This score includes traces you leave on sites such as facebook, twitter, tumblr, etc. The more influential you are to other people (a.k.a. the more you promote advertisements and social networking on a large scale) the higher your Klout score will be. Essentially, if you score in 50 or above, you are deemed considerably important, involved and influential. The Klout concept, to be honest, is completely inconsequential to me, yet my score is actually a 43. This is because of this blog, my tumblr account and my facebook account. In an article I read on the Klout site, actually, a man who was obviously well learned and perfectly qualified for a position he was being interviewed for was inquired about his Klout score. He had never heard of Klout and lost the position to someone with a high score. Judging a person based on their so-called influence on the web is completely ridiculous. What about qualifications? What about real-life experience? What about raw talent? What has happened to judging a person based on what they say and do, rather than what they type? I personally do not understand.
I find that, over the course of the past two weeks or so, my writing style has evolved and loosened, somewhat, to fit the casuality of the internet. I feel that I am not writing something terribly important and serious such as an essay and so often and comfortably use slang and informal terms. I have grown to enjoy blogging. If you look through my blog entries, you will see that there are several entries which talk about dancing. Dance has always been a significant part of my life, so it was only natural for me to want to write about it. I also reviewed the film, 'The Fifth Element'. This was at the teacher's request, however. My personal favourite was the entry I wrote classifying concert-goers. I received a great deal of feed-back on that entry, so I interpreted that that was most likely the most popular. That particular entry was inspired by my attendance at a concert a few weeks ago.
Anyhow, I predict that I will most likely continue blogging, to an extent, although I think that my focus will be primarily directed towards trying to publicize my own art. I hope to attend university for art and this is why modern-day technology is extremely useful. Regardless of the elements which make me want to say that I disapprove the concentration around technology in our society, there are so many things that we are now capable of doing because of it. Especially in the world of art and literature, blogging is an easy and convenient way of making a breakthrough which, only a decade ago, would have been far more difficult. The access we now hold in such a tiny handheld object to the entire world is truly incredible. Because of this, I must say that I rather like blogging. That is my final word.
Friday, 4 May 2012
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Growing Up As A Lady
It's something I've been hearing my entire life, every day, even. Whenever I don't sit poker straight, whenever I trek mud up the stairs, whenever I have belching competitions with my brother (I usually win); 'Iona Skye Howie, act like a lady. We did not raise you to act like..like a hoodlum!!'. Story of my life. I am the eldest sibling in my family. I also have a younger brother and a younger sister. My brother, however, was not born for almost four years after myself. This meant that I spent the first portion of my life as an only child. Being in this position, I was therefore exposed to very little of the real world. It was completely up to my parents to deem what they thought was important for me to know and what I should be shielded from for my own safety.
On the first day of kindergarten, I met a boy. For all intents and purposes, I will call him Fred, although that is not actually his real name. Anyways, Fred and I were sitting fairly near one another during snack break and he was eating baby carrots. I guess the carrots were pretty hard to chew or something, because this kid started yelling and screaming at them, saying they were stupid idiots. My eyes were immediately saucers; my jaw dropped. Did...did he just use the word...st-stu-stupid?? That is such a bad a word, I can't believe he just said that. So there sat little five-year-old me, in complete and utter shock that this boy, who was so obviously a hooligan, had just sworn in front of me. I told on him. He laughed at me. Then he started dissing Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Not. Okay. After an intense debate about whether the cartoons I watched were lame or not, I realized that the world was not what I had always believed. My good old pal Barney....was suddenly uncool.
Regardless of the fact that singing purple dinosaurs are awesome, I was in fact aware that Barney was not real. That was something that my father had decided was important for me to realize. When I was little I used to spend a lot of time down at the local library. One day they had a special guest - I'd like to say Barney, but I think it was just some random giant plush character that children loved. The name is not important. Anyways, I remember standing in line, waiting for a hug and a lollipop from this giant fuzzy creature - and the little girl in front of me turned to me and started chattering about how she was so excited she could pee herself. Or something along those lines. I just remember looking at her for a moment, my mind absolutely puzzling this way and that. Then I simply said to her, as though she were a fool, 'What's the big deal?? It's just a man in a suit.' In those few moments, I saw the fire in her eyes die, the smile on her lips fade and the excitement vanish. She burst into tears and rushed into the outstretched arms of her mother. I blinked. Then puzzled some more.
Something that puzzled my parents, however, was the fact that I was virtually a little boy as a child. My hair was short and curly, I didn't like bathing, the only clothing I liked were my patent red Dr. Martens and my dinosaur t-shirt.....I'm sure you can picture it. I wanted to be a paleontologist. I could rhyme off every species of dinosaur to ever walk the Earth, I had plastic models of each - a whole basket of them. I had every dinosaur picture book ever published and playing in dirt was one of the greatest joys in life. My parents just couldn't figure it out.
Let me give you some history on my parents and why they raised me the way they did. My father was raised by a very English mother and a Scottish father. There were set times for every meal, etc. and, as you would suppose, it was a very strict upbringing. My mother, on the other hand, who was also raised in quite a strict Scottish family, was just naturally a goody-goody - always had been, always would be (still is). While she was in labour with me among a handful of other screeching ladies, the only thing she said over and over again was, 'Oh my gosh, oohh my gosh, oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gooshhh'. Meanwhile the ladies surrounding her were screaming profanities unknown to humanity, cursing at their husbands for this awful thing they had done to them. Etiquette and poise are important to my parents.
You can't change the way a person thinks. Not truly. Isn't it far better to just embrace a person for what they are, who they are and everything they are, anyways? That is why I gave up long ago trying to loosen my parents' views on raising a child. In spite of this, I see them shifting their opinions and tactics when dealing with my younger siblings, making their lives wayyyy easier than mine has been. I guess that's just a natural aspect of family dynamics, though. I know that one day, when my parents have to deal with another generation of rug rats called grandchildren, they will spoil them rotten and be the coolest grandparents ever. But as for the present, when I belch at the dinner table and laugh in my strangely-low-for-a-girl-bellow and they say in reproach, 'Iona Skye Howie!! We've raised you to be a lady!', I always answer, 'Nope, you've raised me to be Iona!'.
On the first day of kindergarten, I met a boy. For all intents and purposes, I will call him Fred, although that is not actually his real name. Anyways, Fred and I were sitting fairly near one another during snack break and he was eating baby carrots. I guess the carrots were pretty hard to chew or something, because this kid started yelling and screaming at them, saying they were stupid idiots. My eyes were immediately saucers; my jaw dropped. Did...did he just use the word...st-stu-stupid?? That is such a bad a word, I can't believe he just said that. So there sat little five-year-old me, in complete and utter shock that this boy, who was so obviously a hooligan, had just sworn in front of me. I told on him. He laughed at me. Then he started dissing Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Not. Okay. After an intense debate about whether the cartoons I watched were lame or not, I realized that the world was not what I had always believed. My good old pal Barney....was suddenly uncool.
Regardless of the fact that singing purple dinosaurs are awesome, I was in fact aware that Barney was not real. That was something that my father had decided was important for me to realize. When I was little I used to spend a lot of time down at the local library. One day they had a special guest - I'd like to say Barney, but I think it was just some random giant plush character that children loved. The name is not important. Anyways, I remember standing in line, waiting for a hug and a lollipop from this giant fuzzy creature - and the little girl in front of me turned to me and started chattering about how she was so excited she could pee herself. Or something along those lines. I just remember looking at her for a moment, my mind absolutely puzzling this way and that. Then I simply said to her, as though she were a fool, 'What's the big deal?? It's just a man in a suit.' In those few moments, I saw the fire in her eyes die, the smile on her lips fade and the excitement vanish. She burst into tears and rushed into the outstretched arms of her mother. I blinked. Then puzzled some more.
Something that puzzled my parents, however, was the fact that I was virtually a little boy as a child. My hair was short and curly, I didn't like bathing, the only clothing I liked were my patent red Dr. Martens and my dinosaur t-shirt.....I'm sure you can picture it. I wanted to be a paleontologist. I could rhyme off every species of dinosaur to ever walk the Earth, I had plastic models of each - a whole basket of them. I had every dinosaur picture book ever published and playing in dirt was one of the greatest joys in life. My parents just couldn't figure it out.
Let me give you some history on my parents and why they raised me the way they did. My father was raised by a very English mother and a Scottish father. There were set times for every meal, etc. and, as you would suppose, it was a very strict upbringing. My mother, on the other hand, who was also raised in quite a strict Scottish family, was just naturally a goody-goody - always had been, always would be (still is). While she was in labour with me among a handful of other screeching ladies, the only thing she said over and over again was, 'Oh my gosh, oohh my gosh, oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gooshhh'. Meanwhile the ladies surrounding her were screaming profanities unknown to humanity, cursing at their husbands for this awful thing they had done to them. Etiquette and poise are important to my parents.
You can't change the way a person thinks. Not truly. Isn't it far better to just embrace a person for what they are, who they are and everything they are, anyways? That is why I gave up long ago trying to loosen my parents' views on raising a child. In spite of this, I see them shifting their opinions and tactics when dealing with my younger siblings, making their lives wayyyy easier than mine has been. I guess that's just a natural aspect of family dynamics, though. I know that one day, when my parents have to deal with another generation of rug rats called grandchildren, they will spoil them rotten and be the coolest grandparents ever. But as for the present, when I belch at the dinner table and laugh in my strangely-low-for-a-girl-bellow and they say in reproach, 'Iona Skye Howie!! We've raised you to be a lady!', I always answer, 'Nope, you've raised me to be Iona!'.
RAGING MOTHER OF DANCE
Due to the fact that I have been quite deeply involved in dance since I could talk, I am extremely familiar with dance competitions. At the studio I previously attended and trained at, dancing competetively was something that was very important to us. Although I no longer do so, today I would like to share with you the many joys of dance competitions - behind the scenes.
As with practically all other sports, parents like to be involved and because they are living through their children, to an extent, they can become more competetive than the children themselves. It is usually the mothers that play this role. I guess they just enjoy the feeling of being stressed beyond belief and suffocated by the constant concentration of hairspray afloat in the air. I will admit that it is an uncomfortable environment and predominantly revolving around jazz dancers. As a competitor in ballet, I remember often feeling slightly out of place. No matter what discipline of dance you compete in, however, there are certain inevitable and mandatory requirements which must be met by each competitor. First off, false eyelashes any shorter than an inch long are deemed unacceptable. The faces of the dancers must be caked so that under the bright lights of the stage, they look like masochistic, maniacal porcelaine dolls - or the female equivalent of Chucky. Firetruck-red lipstick is a must. Hair must be sleeked back with at least a pound of gell and hairspray until you could have a rock dropped on your head and not feel a thing. Ears/hair must be adorned with tacky costume jewelry. The more the better. As far as costumes are concerned, if it's hideous, over-the-top and uncomfortable, you're all set.
Something that you learn to live with in this environment is the terrifyingly intense rivalry between dance studios. These people are SERIOUS. If they don't win gold, life is over. The thing about the judging system, however, is that not only is it biased, but it is also essentially meaningless. Even if you're a weak dancer and your choreography blew, if you had a painfully cheesy smile plastered to your face, they'd at least still reward you with a bronze in your age category. There isn't only one bronze to win though- and one silver, one gold, one platinum, etc.....even if someone else has already won a bronze, you can still win one too. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Let me tell you about Highland Dancing competitions. If you so much as hesitate for a moment while dancing or turn the wrong way, you are immediately disqualified. That is the difference between the two types. So you could say that, by the time I started competing in ballet at these 'competitions', I was already used to something far worse - so I found it to be quite relaxing. In both atmospheres, something else that you become accustomed to is frequent cat-fights - between instructors, between mothers, between dancers...don't even get me started.
Anyways....that is my rant. Dance competitions bewilder my mind.
As with practically all other sports, parents like to be involved and because they are living through their children, to an extent, they can become more competetive than the children themselves. It is usually the mothers that play this role. I guess they just enjoy the feeling of being stressed beyond belief and suffocated by the constant concentration of hairspray afloat in the air. I will admit that it is an uncomfortable environment and predominantly revolving around jazz dancers. As a competitor in ballet, I remember often feeling slightly out of place. No matter what discipline of dance you compete in, however, there are certain inevitable and mandatory requirements which must be met by each competitor. First off, false eyelashes any shorter than an inch long are deemed unacceptable. The faces of the dancers must be caked so that under the bright lights of the stage, they look like masochistic, maniacal porcelaine dolls - or the female equivalent of Chucky. Firetruck-red lipstick is a must. Hair must be sleeked back with at least a pound of gell and hairspray until you could have a rock dropped on your head and not feel a thing. Ears/hair must be adorned with tacky costume jewelry. The more the better. As far as costumes are concerned, if it's hideous, over-the-top and uncomfortable, you're all set.
Something that you learn to live with in this environment is the terrifyingly intense rivalry between dance studios. These people are SERIOUS. If they don't win gold, life is over. The thing about the judging system, however, is that not only is it biased, but it is also essentially meaningless. Even if you're a weak dancer and your choreography blew, if you had a painfully cheesy smile plastered to your face, they'd at least still reward you with a bronze in your age category. There isn't only one bronze to win though- and one silver, one gold, one platinum, etc.....even if someone else has already won a bronze, you can still win one too. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Let me tell you about Highland Dancing competitions. If you so much as hesitate for a moment while dancing or turn the wrong way, you are immediately disqualified. That is the difference between the two types. So you could say that, by the time I started competing in ballet at these 'competitions', I was already used to something far worse - so I found it to be quite relaxing. In both atmospheres, something else that you become accustomed to is frequent cat-fights - between instructors, between mothers, between dancers...don't even get me started.
Anyways....that is my rant. Dance competitions bewilder my mind.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Meet Iona.
I'm aware that the topic of this entry is a little odd...but I feel like most of you probably don't know me that well, even those of you reading who see me every day in English class. I guess I just thought it would be nice to tell you a little bit about my personality, the things that I like, the things that I don't..and other random tidbits.
I am not a person who trusts very willingly. I tend to be a little aloof to people I don't know well because I'm shy..although I've been told in the past that I seem pretentious. Once I am completely at ease in the presence of a person, they usually realize that I am more than slightly eccentric and a little unusual. I like to laugh a lot. Loudly. I have a very dry and cruel sense of humour at times, but at times prefer slapstick. Once I decide that a person is interesting to me, I like to prod and question them until I understand their own personality and motives. Sometimes (always) this comes off as quite strange. I live for sarcasm, so don't be shocked at the things I come out with. Usually I don't mean them.
I love dancing, swimming, practicing yoga and hiking, but I am not exactly what one would call 'sporty'. I do not enjoy team sports. It's not that I don't like sports, it's just the fact that....they're not a good idea for me. You see, my friends, I lack something rather vital called hand-eye coordination. This means that when I play badminton I hit my teammate's head instead of the shuttlecock (Yes, I just used that word. I was raised by Brits). When I play volleyball I serve with my forehead. When I play soccer I kick and either trip on the ball or miss the ball altogether. So overall I just FAIL. I mean..if I was good at sports, I would definitely play them, but for the sake of preserving my personal dignity, I try to avoid them. Not only does this effect my non-existent athletic life, but it also poses problems for me in everyday life. I often get tripped up by my own feet, or fall down..and as a result of this the knees of every pair of jeans I own have holes in them.
I pride myself in my social awkwardness. I love the shape of my ears. I hate that when I laugh too hard I snort. I sing and whistle aalll of the time, so if you find that irritating, don't get to know me. When I find a spider in the house, I don't kill it. I put it back outside. The only creature that makes my skin truly crawl is an earwig. No matter how many times you flush them down the toilet....they crawl back up. I don't know how they manage it, but they simply refuse to die. I am a total nut about Indian food. What else..... I have a very bad temper but the only person who seems capable of provoking me to the extent of inflicting rage outwardly is my mother. Other than in these moments, I love her dearly and generally have a very laid-back, gentle personality.
My purpose in life is to create art. Painting with oil is what I love the most. I am also a huge fan of impressionism. Over the course of the years, I have come to the conclusion that I am never happier than when I am covered in paint. Once I've moved out, I will most likely doodle over my entire apartment and dress like a homeless person (no disrespect intended). When I become possessed by a piece that I am working on, I don't eat well, I barely sleep and I think about it constantly.
So...in a few paragraphs of rambling gibberish, I have explained, to an extent, the aspects, qualities and quirks which compose Iona.
I am not a person who trusts very willingly. I tend to be a little aloof to people I don't know well because I'm shy..although I've been told in the past that I seem pretentious. Once I am completely at ease in the presence of a person, they usually realize that I am more than slightly eccentric and a little unusual. I like to laugh a lot. Loudly. I have a very dry and cruel sense of humour at times, but at times prefer slapstick. Once I decide that a person is interesting to me, I like to prod and question them until I understand their own personality and motives. Sometimes (always) this comes off as quite strange. I live for sarcasm, so don't be shocked at the things I come out with. Usually I don't mean them.
I love dancing, swimming, practicing yoga and hiking, but I am not exactly what one would call 'sporty'. I do not enjoy team sports. It's not that I don't like sports, it's just the fact that....they're not a good idea for me. You see, my friends, I lack something rather vital called hand-eye coordination. This means that when I play badminton I hit my teammate's head instead of the shuttlecock (Yes, I just used that word. I was raised by Brits). When I play volleyball I serve with my forehead. When I play soccer I kick and either trip on the ball or miss the ball altogether. So overall I just FAIL. I mean..if I was good at sports, I would definitely play them, but for the sake of preserving my personal dignity, I try to avoid them. Not only does this effect my non-existent athletic life, but it also poses problems for me in everyday life. I often get tripped up by my own feet, or fall down..and as a result of this the knees of every pair of jeans I own have holes in them.
I pride myself in my social awkwardness. I love the shape of my ears. I hate that when I laugh too hard I snort. I sing and whistle aalll of the time, so if you find that irritating, don't get to know me. When I find a spider in the house, I don't kill it. I put it back outside. The only creature that makes my skin truly crawl is an earwig. No matter how many times you flush them down the toilet....they crawl back up. I don't know how they manage it, but they simply refuse to die. I am a total nut about Indian food. What else..... I have a very bad temper but the only person who seems capable of provoking me to the extent of inflicting rage outwardly is my mother. Other than in these moments, I love her dearly and generally have a very laid-back, gentle personality.
My purpose in life is to create art. Painting with oil is what I love the most. I am also a huge fan of impressionism. Over the course of the years, I have come to the conclusion that I am never happier than when I am covered in paint. Once I've moved out, I will most likely doodle over my entire apartment and dress like a homeless person (no disrespect intended). When I become possessed by a piece that I am working on, I don't eat well, I barely sleep and I think about it constantly.
So...in a few paragraphs of rambling gibberish, I have explained, to an extent, the aspects, qualities and quirks which compose Iona.
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
A WORD ON POINTE SHOES....and a couple other things.
For those of you who have no idea what pointe shoes are; in the most basic sense, they are ballet shoes. They are the ones that you see in fancy ballet productions that allow the dancers to appear to be breaking their feet, legs, body, etc. by standing, dancing and jumping on their toes. I happen to be a dancer and I happen to be trained en pointe. What I would like to do today is rid people of their ignorance of the profession of dance. If you're like my father, when you think of dancers, you probably mockingly press a fingertip to the top of your head and twirl around like a deranged ostrich. If it is your desire to continue looking like an idiot and believeing that dancing is lame, then do not read this. Otherwise, stay. I'd like to educate you.
Something you should realize is that pointe shoes are not kind, loving contraptions. They are beautiful and, by definition, are therefore also painful. The suffering that they inflict, however, is greatly exaggerated. From the outside of a pointe shoe, a dancer appears to be standing literally on her toes (yes, hers. Male dancers do not have the appropriate proportions to support themselves on the shoes), when in fact, all of the pressure and weight from her body is actually directed through the knuckles of the feet. This is why so many dancers are known for having unpleasantly hideous feet due to the bugnons that they eventually develop. Delicious, right?
A few nights ago my brother criticized me for complaining that my muscles were sore after four hours of dance class. He said that I shouldn't be such a baby because dance class couldn't possibly be a real workout. He claimed that Karate class is far more intense and that I was just exaggerating for attention. That was when I tore his soul out. Try making it through even an hour of dance class, never mind four. Not only is it necessary to have extreme stamina, but you must also possess unbeliebable flexibility. Add pointe shoes to that, and you've got yourself a thrill! In case you happen to think that dancing, particularly ballet, is inferior to team sports played in large stadiums and arenas, consider this: ballet is actually often used as a foundation for sports such as hockey. It teaches and engrains balance and poise, as well as amazing strength in muscles not normally used in everyday life. These are all necessary ingredients in a good athlete.
A common issue today, as always, is the lack of male dancers. There is a popular stigma that comes with a man who chooses this profession: that they are inevitably homosexual. This is, of course, nothing but a stereotype. It is false as often as it is accurate. Unfortunately (and because men all seem to have an underlying masculinity complex), a lot of guys seem to think that by dancing, they are diminishing their so-called 'manhood'. ...Honestly?? Let us analyze the male mind for a moment. Men love women. A man can prove how 'manly' he is to other men (apparently) by the number of girls he can...ahem...catch. For all you guys out there; I'll let you in on a little secret. Dance class is a magical place where masses of sweaty girls work out in skimpy clothing. Need I say more?
Anyways, in case any of you are interested, this is an absolutely amazing choreography by Wade Robson, performed by Cirque du Soleil on So You Think You Can Dance. A friend of mine actually showed it to me. Enjoy!
http://youtu.be/PNSw9bRP5n4
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