Creative Gala

After tonight’s second creative gala, I wanted to post some pictures of my group’s display, as well as to show my own poster. Mine is the “When Imagination Prevails, Creativity Sails” poster. I thought the project turned out fabulously and we managed to pull everything together to create an effective product. The other groups’ projects were wonderful as well and the whole experience of the gala was inspiring. It was a lot of fun to be able to see what the other groups had come up with. Congratulations to everyone on a successful term!

Underworld

Following our first creative gala on November 23rd, I began to think a lot about one of the projects: Postcards from the Underworld.I thought about the controversial aspect of this project and wondered where the group came up with such an idea. In tutorial, we discussed the negative impact that this project may have had on the audience members due to the sensitivity of its subject. Some people were offended by the concept of creating fictional stories about real people, particularly people who were no longer around to tell their own story. Some people had concerns about someone in the audience possibly knowing one of the individuals used in the video. I agree with both of these problems but was also very intrigued by the idea. I was not offended by the project but rather inspired. While I understand the emotionally harmful effect that it may have had on certain viewers, being a writer I was inclined to think more of the techniques of their stories. I thought that they created extremely intricate and detailed lives for these people and did so through a variety of ways. I thought it was very effective to begin from an infant and travel through the stages of life. The project inspired me to try my own hand at this idea. However, I did not want to be at risk of offending, or possibly hurting, someone so I have changed the name of the person who’s life I created. Also, instead of visiting a cemetery, I decided to use a name that I found on a plaque on a park bench. The bench had been left in memory of that person. I hope that this will be less offensive to those who found the original project to be rather insensitive.

 

 

I tugged on my mother’s coat sleeve, my gloves slipping on the smooth leather. Tears streamed down her cheeks leaving stains that lined her face like wrinkles, making her appear well past her years. She stared straight ahead, hair blowing in a frenzy of grey wisps, like dust blown off an ancient book.

 

            “Mama,” I said softly. “Mama, don’t cry. He wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad.”

 

            The slow, somber music pierced the air and I pursed my lips, annoyed. No, this was not what he would have wanted. This didn’t feel like him. I rubbed my arms, shivering in the crisp October air. I wished I’d worn pants. My stocking-clad legs were covered in goose bumps the size of mosquito bites and the material of my dress chafed my skin. A soft rain showered down, enough to make the grass beneath my feet sink a little more with each movement. I stared down at the gravestone and took my mother’s hand in mine. She looked down at me, but didn’t really see me, as if her eyes were the lens of an unfocused camera. She opened her mouth to speak but unable to find any words, closed it again. She gave my hand a slight squeeze.

 

            I remember wondering why I was so much more composed than my mother. I’ve been told that the experience of losing a child is far more traumatic than a sibling. And I was sad too, of course, but I had prepared myself for the blow long before it had happened. I was eight years old when my brother died. At least, that was when he died to me. He had gotten sick and fallen into a coma due to some superbug he’d picked up on one of his adventures. The doctors told us he wouldn’t wake up and I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that he would. At first, I think I was mad. I resented him for leaving me alone in a world he’d barely begun to teach me about. It wasn’t the first time he’d left me, however, and I resented him for that, too, but he always remembered to send me a postcard. I had one from everywhere he’d ever been. Being 14 years my senior, he had been places – Argentina, India, Amsterdam, Australia – places I could never have imagined. He had been all across the globe and, although at the time I never would have admitted it, I was proud of my big brother.

 

            Mark was built like a draft horse. He stood tall, sturdy, solid – like a boulder. He was this immovable force that grounded my existence. He towered over me like the timber he used to haul at the lumberyard. He was thick with muscle, toned from working long hours there for countless summers, earning money for his travels. For as long as I could remember, he had been saving up. His “escape fund,” he’d called it.

 

            He used to tell me about all of his trips. In Thailand, he’d said, the vast expanse of azure stretched over the earth, a rolling blanket of water, unobstructed, unlimited. Then he would speak of the ability of Notre Dame to make you see your place in the world, with its intricate architecture and high arches. Thousands of tea lights, lit by the visitors, illuminated the cathedral, he’d told me. I would consume his tales like they were oxygen. I longed to live the life he led but always tried to conceal my jealousy.

 

            “Why would you want to be away for so long?” I would say, wrinkling my nose and shaking my head. “I would never want to do that.”

 

            And he would lean back in his chair, smirking, and cross his muscular arms across his chest. “Lana,” he would tease, cocking his head to the side and peering at me as though I was transparent. “You’re telling me you don’t ever want to travel? You want to be stuck here forever, in this small town life?” Then he would lean forward and the smirk would vanish. Hands on his knees, he would get right in my face. “There’s so much to see, Lana. You can’t stay cooped up here forever, one day you’ll see. You’ve gotta live your life.”

 

            “Live your life,” that’s what he always said. And that’s what I read as I stared down at his gravestone. As I read it that autumn day, standing shivering next to my mother, and listened to the reverend read scripture, and the music continued to drone on, and I pressed my hands tight over my ears trying to shut it all out, I realized he was right. He had believed more in those three words than I’d believed in anything in my entire life. Yes, I may only have been ten by that time, but I still envied the purity of his respect for life. My brother was able to teach me, even in death, about getting what you want out of life.

 

I remember my mother rushing Mark to the hospital one afternoon after he’d returned from a three-month excursion through Kenya. I had been attempting to creep into the kitchen for a snack, neglecting my homework as usual. He had only returned the night before.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he’d said, pressing his palms over his eyes. He sat down and rested his elbows on the kitchen table. “What the hell is going on?”

 

“Mark, for God sakes, don’t use that language with Lana in the house,” my mother said. She turned away from the dishes, elbows deep in water the colour of vomit. “She’s only a baby.” I scowled from my post on the staircase.

 

“Mom, I’m serious. I can’t even see.”

 

My mom dried her hands and put down the dishtowel. She approached him and rubbed his back, eyebrows furrowed. “What can I do?”

 

He winced, squinted his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mom, something’s not right.”

 

My mother told him to get in the car and was about to call for me to come downstairs when she found me already there. She grabbed my hand and coat and hurried me outside. The three of us had then rushed to the hospital. In the passenger seat, Mark had jammed his knuckles into his temples, moving them in slow circles, attempting to relieve the pain in his head. He mumbled something about it feeling as though his brain were too big for his skull. I remember placing my hands on my head and squeezing, trying to imagine how that would feel.

 

Once at the hospital, I wasn’t included in much of the discussion with the doctors and nurses. My mother sat me down in the waiting room and a nurse gave me a lollipop to keep me distracted. From the snippets of conversation I overheard, I remember phrases like “swelling of the brain” and “induced coma.” Of course, I didn’t understand what they meant at the time but my gut told me I wasn’t going to see my brother alive again.

 

I remember my mother crying as she took me in her arms and held on like I was the last thing she had on earth. I guess I was. If my brother were to die, I would be her only link to anything of the life she had created. My father had died six years before from a heart attack and my brother had told me that the impact on my mother was almost fatal in itself. My dad was the last person anyone would expect to have a heart attack. He was fit, a runner, and always encouraged us to exercise and eat well, too, so we could get the most out of life. One day, while out on his routine five-kilometre run, his heart failed. He died instantly. My mother was never the same after that.

 

I suppose it was my father who inspired Mark to travel in the first place. Dad was a motivational speaker who advocated an active lifestyle. He would talk to high school kids about how to capture the essence of life and reach the goals to which they aspired. These speeches had captivated Mark and, after our father’s passing, he vowed to live the life our dad had always promoted. I’ve been told my dad was an inspiring man. I was only two when he died. I only have vague memories of him.

 

At his request, the doctors had gone ahead and put Mark into a coma. They anticipated that it would reduce the swelling of his brain. What they hadn’t expected, of course, was that Mark would not wake up. In an attempt to help my brother, the doctors killed him.

 

For two years, my life felt like a game of Yahtzee; the pieces were scrambled and shaken, and spat back out again in an unpredictable mess. How things would turn out were beyond my control. Some days, the dice would come out okay, and on others, they were a failure. My family, which had once had four, had been reduced to my mother and me. Her eyes, once a vivid blue, had transformed into vacant hallways, the ends of which I could never see.

 

I spent my days cooking breakfast for her, and then rushing to the bus stop to try to make it to school on time. One third of the days I would miss the bus. Teachers would call my house asking to speak to my mother and I would have to tell them that she was unavailable. I became my mother’s keeper. I cooked for her, I cleaned for her, and I made sure she bathed and slept. The only times she would leave the house were to spend hours at the hospital. She would take me with her sometimes but most of the time I didn’t even want to go. I didn’t want to remember my brother like this; I wanted my memory of him to be of the strong, protective, supportive brother he’d always been to me. I couldn’t bear to see him in his comatose state. Seeing him reminded me of the first time a saw an open casket at my grandma’s funeral. It made me feel as though I was being shoved through a wood grinder, like the kind Mark had worked with. No, most of the time I didn’t want to go.

 

On the days that my mother couldn’t endure the pain of going to the hospital, she would lie in bed for sixteen hours of the day, curtains closed, all light barred from the room. She imprisoned herself in her own mind, shutting everyone out. The deaths of those she loved weighed on her heart, crushed her lungs, took away her breath. I know because I felt it, too. I had been so young, though; it was easier for me to cope.

 

“Mama?” I asked one day, pushing the door open a crack. “Can I come in?” Her bedroom was like a cave. Dark, cold – morbid, even. I remember being almost scared to enter.

 

“Hmm,” she replied. “Yes, dear, what is it?” In the gloom, a shadow moved on the bed. Her form, a dark mass in the blackness, appeared as a ghost rising from a grave. Being only ten, my first instinct had been to run. But she was my mother. She needed me.

 

I tiptoed across the carpet, scared to make any noise, lest I awake any other sleeping spirits. Climbing up onto my mother’s bed, I lay down beside her and placed my head on the pillow next to hers.

 

“Mama,” I repeated, hesitant. I chewed on the nail of my index finger and tucked my legs up to my chest, pulling the blanket up to my chin. “Are you ever going to come back?”

 

“What are you talking about, Lana?” Her voice was barely audible. “I’m right here, dear.” My lip trembled. I heard a faint drip as a tear fell from my cheek onto the pillow.

 

“No, mama,” I choked. “You’re not here. My mama isn’t here anymore.” I slid off the bed and tore from the room. I remember locking myself in my own, too alone and too afraid of what would happen if my mother continued on like this. I stared at myself in the mirror for hours, with tears like warrior paint streaking my face.

 

The next day, I awoke to the smell of greasy, fried meat wafting in through my now open door. I padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes, to a plate of bacon and eggs sitting on the table. I had run to her and thrown my arms around her waist. Burying my face into her wool sweater, I inhaled the deep scent of the breakfast that had caught on her clothes. “Mama,” I whispered. “I missed you.”

 

My mother had then sat me down at the kitchen table. She explained that the doctor had called that morning. She smiled somberly at me, silent tears falling from her eyes like rain. She clutched my hand on the table and took a deep breath.

 

“Lana, I know I haven’t been here for you.” Her foot jiggled in time to some unknown beat. “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” The tears flowed more freely now.

 

“Mama, I know,” I said, rubbing her hand in between mine.

 

“It’s all over now, Lana.”

 

I looked straight into my mother’s eyes. She smiled again, stronger now. I didn’t need to ask. I knew what she meant. She pulled me in and locked her arms around my small body. Her heart strained against my chest and I could feel the weight lifting. Mark had finally let go. And now we could, too.

I am original and I have value – I am a creative being.

Coming to the end of this course, I have been thinking a lot about how it stared: with Ken Robinson’s beliefs about creativity. He says that creativity is the process of having original ideas that have value. In our discussion, I remember we talked about certain questions that arise around Robinson’s theory. What is value? What is original? And for both of these, To who? We decided in tutorial that for something to have value, it depends on the perspective. Something can have value to yourself, the creator, and then cannot have any value at all for someone else. We also discussed that it varies throughout time and culture. In my opinion, I think perhaps “value” is used by Robinson to maintain the ambiguity that surrounds creativity. For something to be original, I believe, it simply has to be something that you, the creator, have never done before. Original things are things that have never been done in that way before, therefore making everything we do creative. We all have different perspectives and ways of doing things so no two things done by different people will ever be the same. Doesn’t this then mean that all things are creative, in accordance to Robinson’s statement?

For this creative act, I wanted to use something that had been used before but put my own twist on it, therefore making it my own original piece that has value, to me. I decided to use the lyrics from various songs to compose an original piece of poetry.  I think that by using words that have already been put together in certain ways and manipulating them to make something original for myself I am able to prove that although things may not be original or have value to someone else, it can still be a creative act because it is something that you have never done before. It is a new way to do what has already been done. Below the poem, I included the songs that I used to form the work. Hope you like it!

When you left me 

The night had already begun

You didn’t know all the ways I loved you

I broke your heart and I let myself down

I come from a long line of sinners like me

Everything inside never comes out right

You don’t have to call me

But I believe that lovers should be tied together

Heaven forbid you end up alone

Honey, I love your love the most

1. No Surprise, Theory of a Deadman
2.  Soft Rock Star, Metric
3. Cry Me a River, Justin Timberlake
4. Lost and Found, Randy Rogers Band
5. Sinners Like Me, Eric Church
6. Sorry, Buckcherry
7. You Don’t Have to Call Me, Taylor Swift
8. A Perfect Sonnet, Bright Eyes
9. Heaven Forbid, The Fray
10. I Love Your Love the Most, Eric Church

No such thing as randomness?

Amy Tan’s video interested me in more ways than just her definition of creativity and her theory behind the creative process. What she said about her mother also intrigued me. She spoke of how her mother did not believe in randomness. Her mother had a strong faith that everything had an explanation and refused to acknowledge the possibility of something occurring simply out of randomness.

 

This is an interesting concept to me that I suppose I haven’t really thought that much about. In some cases, I believe that things do happen for a reason, but for other things there cannot possibly be an explanation. For example, I believe in karma. I think that if something horrible happens to someone after they have done something horrible to someone else, then their own horrible act instigated the thing that happened to them. In this type of situation, and of course in others, the event happened for a reason. On the other hand, certain things merely happen because they happen, such as unexplained illnesses, as mentioned by Amy Tan.

 

For my creative act, however, I wish to focus more on the concept of randomness. Random things are unexplained, erratic, and merely happen by chance. Is this possible? Can things really be simply random? As I pondered over these questions, and tried to think of things that were random, I found myself finding explanations for every example I came up with. It seems to me that it is difficult for something to happen out of randomness.

 

To attempt to create something out of randomness, I decided to use every fourth letter of the alphabet. I then opened a dictionary at random and chose the third word on the page. From these words, I have written a story.

 

These are the words that came up:

1. cable
2. fabulous
3. idiosyncrasy
4. lacerate
5. offense
6. ringmaster
7. unbearable
8. xenophobia

 

The ringmaster snapped his whip, lacerating the lion’s back. Its skin broke open and blood dripped down its side, staining its tawny coat.  The lion roared in pain, shaking its fabulous mane. The ringmaster laughed and turned to the crowd. He tipped his hat and bowed. The audience was silent, taking offense at the man’s brutality. His embarrassment unbearable, the ringmaster hastily announced the next act.

 

The tightrope walkers prepared themselves, high above the ring. They had no net, nothing to stop them from plummeting to their deaths. The three were from France and the ringmaster had terrible xenophobia, and therefore would not allow a net. The youngest of the three approached the taught cable first. It was one of his idiosyncrasies, always needing to be the first on the rope. The others never complained, especially not in this circus. Although they would never say it, they were terrified of the chance of falling now that they did not have the safety of a net. If the first of them were to fall, then the circus would not continue. They would never have to put themselves in the position of falling at all.

 

The youngest took his first tentative step out onto the rope. It didn’t take long for him to realize that someone had tampered with the rope. It was not tight enough. It would not support him. With his first step he sent himself plunging downward, the faces of his comrades twisting in horror. The audience held its breath, no one made a sound.

 

The youngest tightrope walker smashed into the ground in the centre of the ring, his mangled body an indiscernible mess. No one moved. All was silent. And then, from behind the scenes, came the excruciating sound of the ringmaster’s cackle.

Creating something out of nothing

In Amy Tan’s video on ted.com on her outlook on creativity, she said that her definition of the word is creating something out of nothing. She believes that this is a key aspect of creativity and a dominating component of the ability to create. I agree with this notion, as to create, by definition, means “to bring something into existence.” However, I believe that in our creative processes, we gain inspiration from outside sources, or possibly internal sources, and use them to produce something profound. In saying this, we are not necessarily creating from nothing; we are drawing from other forces to motivate our creativity. Still, in my processes anyway, we are generating something from intangible inspirations. I found this take on creativity interesting and wanted to see what I could create out of nothing. To do this, I asked a friend of mine to come up with simple, unsophisticated sentences. I, in an attempt to develop something creative, transformed these sentences into a scene of fiction. This is what I was able to come up with…

 

 

1. Original Sentence: He waited for his son.

 

He stood tall and solid, like a boulder. His hands were clasped behind his back and he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His beard and hair were speckled with grey and his glasses sat firm on his nose. His grey suit was faded and worn but he stood proud and waited patiently at the harbour.

 

He could see the boat approaching. He smiled beneath his moustache, still rocking back and forth, like the water rolling in the sea. The boat docked.

 

Young men and women filed off of the ship, in uniform. They lugged their baggage behind them as they trudged down the ramp. There he was. He stood tall and solid, like his father. As he stepped out into the misty ocean air, he scanned the throng of people waiting for their family members to return from the war. The two men’s eyes connected. The young man slung his pack over his shoulder and marched through the crowd. He stopped directly in front of his father and dropped his bag to the ground. He raised his arm and saluted.

 

“Father,” he said, bringing his arm back down to his side. He stood with his chin raised and his chest puffed out. He maintained a stoic expression, waiting for his father’s acceptance. He had fought for this respect, he deserved it.

 

“Son,” his father said, grasping his son’s shoulder. His son looked him in the eye, his composed facade wavering. A tear rolled down his father’s cheek, disappearing in the tangle of his beard. His son had never seen him cry. His father pulled him close and they embraced. “I have never been more proud.”

 

“Thank you, father,” he choked into his father’s neck. “Thank you so much.”

 

2. Original Sentence: I would miss her if she left.

 

She was going to leave. She was heading to the airport as I sat there in my room, wallowing in self-pity, doing nothing to stop her. Slouched on my bed, leaning against the wall, curled up, lights off, completely silent – I made no effort. I shivered, rubbed my arms. The phone rang. I shot upright. It rang again, the sound blaring out against the silence like a foghorn in the mist, as a ship makes its way home following the beam from a lighthouse. I heaved myself off the bed and glanced at the caller ID. My heart skipped a beat. My hands shook as though I had drank six cups of coffee.

 

“Shelley,” I breathed.

 

“Tom!” she exclaimed. That voice, that musical sound, was like warm cocoa on a winter day. I exhaled, closed my eyes.

 

“Shelley, don’t go.”

 

“I’m not,” she said. “I can’t. Meet me at our spot.”

 

“I’m on my way,” I told her. No hesitation.

 

I felt like I was floating as I flew down the stairs and out into the chill of the November air. The rain poured down in sheets. My t-shirt soaked through in seconds and clung to my skin. The intrusive bullets of rain pelted my bare arms.

 

I ran as fast as I could, propelling myself forward, closer and closer. She got there first. As I approached I saw her standing next to the lake on the grassy spot where we’d spent countless summer nights. I remember stealing expensive bottles of wine from my parents and driving down to the lake with her. We would drink from plastic cups, too young to recognize the quality of the wine for what it was. It was the first place I had ever kissed her.

 

She turned and saw me, her face illuminating like the beacon of light guiding me back to her. I kept running. She ran to me, leapt into my arms, and threw her own around my neck. Clinging to me, she whispered, “Never let me go.” I promised I wouldn’t.

 

She leaned back, still in my arms, her eyes twinkling like the stars we knew were hidden beneath the clouds showering us with rain. I recognized that glint, that mischievous grin. I nodded and placed her gently on her feet.

 

She tore off her coat and kicked off her shoes, already running towards the lake. I laughed, loving her more each second. How had I almost let her go? I dove in after her, the freezing water clawing at my skin like hungry wolves. But I didn’t care. She was here. I was here. And that was all that mattered.

Altered Ending

In her lecture, Sandra Meigs spoke about her art (specifically paintings) and how she found the creative inspiration to do them. She said that is a gap between a work of art and the viewer and she strives to bridge this gap. She also said that the viewer projects emotion onto a painting, and she hopes her paintings will give the same effect back to the viewer. Meigs believes that a viewer has a particular experience when examining a piece of art and that the artwork itself gives this experience. While this may seem obvious, it is not as clear-cut as it initially suggests. I’m sure I can’t be the only one to admit that some pieces of art are completely lost on me. What I mean is that sometimes perhaps a painting will be beyond my intellectual level. No, I am not ashamed to admit this. I am only saying what many people refuse to admit. But, to return to what Meigs said, it is the job of the painting to deliver an experience to the viewer. It must draw the viewer in and captivate him. The mere fact that it is a painting is not enough. It must do more. Meigs focused on the gap between the canvas and the viewer, however, and how to draw these two things closer. One example of how she has done this comes from one of her collections (unfortunately, I cannot recall the name) that comprised of paintings with glass balls added to the canvas. She said that her purpose for doing this is because the glass spheres create different facial expressions in the viewer. Also, according to Meigs, the glass balls have the ability to “capture the viewer within themselves.”

My creative act this week is my attempt to bridge the gap between art and the viewer. Not being a painter myself, I decided to focus on what I do as an “artist.” I am a writer so, in order to bring the reader closer to the work, I wanted to rewrite an ending to one of my favourite novels. I feel that this bridges this gap because it gives the reader (me) a hand in the plot of the story. The novel I chose was Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. The story is about a woman in her 50′s, Clarissa Dalloway, and is set in London. Clarissa is preparing for a party while also recalling the people she once loved. She feels alienated from society and is unsatisfied with her life and the decisions she made in the past. In a parallel plot, Septimus Warren Smith has returned from the war and, after not having any emotional response to his friend’s death at the time it occurred, is on the verge of insanity. Septimus’ day intersects with Clarissa’s, although the two never meet. The past, present and future are all brought together in the story. In the original ending, Septimus Warren Smith commits suicide, leaving his Italian wife, Lucrezia, all alone in London. Clarissa relates to his death and sympathizes with him. The story is written in stream of consciousness, letting the reader in to the innermost thoughts of the characters. I will do my best to adhere to Woolf’s style. If you have read the novel, you will understand certain allusions in my ending. My version follows below.

 

 

Clarissa stood in the entranceway to the room, discontented, not knowing why – no, no, she did know why, she just did not want to admit it. Why, she practically couldn’t stand the sight of all these people, here at her party yet barely one of them saying a word to her. Of course, it was her husband’s party, or at least it was for his benefit, or the benefit of his career, but no. It was her party, that of Clarissa Dalloway. And yet she felt like an unwanted guest.

She went into the small side room and shut the door. I can be alone in here, she thought. Yes, she thought, walking over to the window and peering out. Yes, I can be alone, she thought again. Fear no more, she recited in her head, Fear no more. Clarissa pushed back the curtains and stared out into the night. What a beautiful night it was, calm, clear, this beautiful June day drawn to a perfect close. There would be no other moment, Clarissa thought. It must be now or not at all. She opened the latch. She pushed open the window. Looking down at the ground, she smiled to herself. What a pleasant evening! she said to herself. It was a perfect time. Yes, she regretted not saying goodbye to Richard, but so be it. There would be no other moment.

And what a surprise, it was Peter who sprang into her mind as she flung herself from the window! How very like him, Peter Walsh, to show up at such unexpected moments. Down, down, down she fell, until finally her misery was ended in a single moment. No more would she feel alone in this world, no more would she feel unappreciated, no more would she be humiliated, no more, no more, no more.

And right before the final moment, Fear no more, Clarissa thought.

 

 

I chose to end the story with Clarissa’s suicide, rather than Septimus’, because I felt it was a more ironically fitting conclusion. It creates a sense of surprise but also a deep understanding of the true nature of Clarissa’s unhappiness. While the reader would most likely expect Septimus to be the one to kill himself out of misery, Clarissa’s suicide bridges the gap between sanity and madness, which was Woolf’s intent in the first place. In my version, while I in no way mean to diminish the quality of Woolf’s work, I feel that the story has a more satisfying sense of catharsis.

FREE HUGS

After doing the personality test suggested by Madeline, I received the result of I S F J. I was not at all surprised by the fact that the test said that I am an introvert, as I am very obviously an introverted individual. I have always been able to relate more with myself than others. I enjoy my own company and am comfortable being alone. I am, for the most part, very in touch with my feelings and emotions. The sensate aspect was also not too much of a surprise as I very much need to physically interact with things in order to understand and appreciate them. I was also aware that I would mostly be of a feeling personality. As mentioned previously, I am aware of my emotions and know how to deal with them through experience. I have a close relationship with myself, further enforcing my introverted nature. The analysis of my results reveals that I am a “protector” or “guardian.” The primary interests of protectors are “the safety and security of those they care about.” According to my results, “protectors have an extraordinary sense of loyalty and responsibility in their makeup.” This analysis seems accurate to my personality and I am satisfied with what the test discovered. It was an interesting thing to do and helped to reinforce my own perspective of myself. 

For my creative act, I wanted to tap into the aspects of personality that are not predominantly in my character – specifically being extroverted. In order to do this, I decided to undertake the task first started by Juan Mann: the Free Hugs Campaign. Juan’s goal was to reach out to others and brighten their days through a simple act of kindness. He believes that, “Sometimes, a hug is all what we need.” He began the campaign when he returned from London back to Sydney and felt out of place in his own town. He wanted companionship and thus the Free Hugs Campaign was born.

I wanted to attempt this experiment not only to access the extroverted side to my personality (however small it may be), but to also see that aspect in other people as well. It doesn’t only require the one initiating the free hugs to be extroverted. It also takes courage on the part of the person welcoming the hug.

After doing this, I felt liberated and opened up to the love that other people have to offer. I really was able to reach into myself and understand more about why I am introverted. It was a somewhat therapeutic exercise for me to complete, as I was given insight into myself. It also related to my sensate and feeling personality because it was a physical and emotional activity to take on. I enjoy direct interaction with people and the responses I received were very touching.

Although many people believe that this experiment is widely overdone, I strongly disagree. Hugs are a very encouraging, supportive, and emotionally affectionate thing to experience and I cannot understand how they could possibly be overused. Juan Mann is a huge inspiration to me and I am glad that I got the chance to further his campaign by applying it to my own life.

Live Your Life

On Monday, October 26th, Brian Hendrix from the UVic Writing Department spoke about being yourself and being true to what you believe in. I felt that the spontaneous way in which he approached the lecture was effective in holding my interest. It was a more honest and engaging way to speak to us, and to include us in the lecture. It was more of a conversation than a lecture, and I feel that this was a more appropriate way to take on a class such as this. This type of lecture was more like what I was expecting from this class so I thoroughly enjoyed it.

For my creative act, I wanted to show a little bit of myself. I am from White Rock and went home for the weekend so I decided to go to White Rock Beach, a place where I find a lot of creative inspiration and somewhere where I feel completely relaxed and at ease. I took some photos and wrote a poem about the beach and how it makes me feel to be there. I also took some photos of Cadboro Bay, where I have also been able to explore my creative energy. Being near the water is something that is extremely important to me and has been a major influence in my life so far.I have always been the first one to jump in the water when the opportunity arises, or even if I just feel like taking a plunge. I feel that the beach represents a lot of who I am so I wanted to display that for my creative act this week. The poem is below.

Rippling, flowing, rolling
      constantly.
Yet glossy, still, reflective
I see myself
      in the surface of the water
I see myself
      in the gentle, natural waves
I am the water,
     rushing, always moving,
But tranquil.
I am motionless,
     save for the rippling of my life.

Dream Analysis

For my creative act for this week, I decided to try to interpret one of my dreams. In the lecture, Madeline explained that we can access our unconscious by analyzing our dreams. We discussed dreams in the tutorial and I was intrigued by what I could learn about myself from my dreams. I decided to work with one that I had this past week.

In my dream, it was a beautiful, sunny day and I was in Victoria near the UVic campus. I was with my sister and we walked from campus down to Cadboro Bay. We were walking together and talking when we came across two guys that I do not know, but in the dream we seemed to know each other. Their faces were blurry. The four of us kept walking to the beach and stopped at the liquor store to buy some wine. We then continued on to the beach and, once we arrived, laid out an enormous blanket and the four of us sat down. I cannot recall exactly what we talked about but I remember there being a discussion about the water pressure of the showers in my residence building. We sat at the beach for a while and nothing especially interesting happened that I can remember. Then, one of the guys spotted a seal swimming so he ran into the water to try and catch it. After that, I cannot remember what happened.

My interpretation of this goes as follows:

I was with my sister because I very rarely get to see her, as she lives in Toronto. We were talking and catching up because, once again, we very seldom get the chance to do so. The two guys, I believe, represent each of our boyfriends, from whom we are both separated. Her boyfriend lives in Ireland and she only gets to see him every three or four months, and mine lives on the mainland. I feel that the two guys we came across in the dream are a representation of them because I think the dream was supposed to be a longing for some kind of reunion between us all. We purchased some wine because my sister and I come from a wine obsessed family, including ourselves. In my family, we tend to bond over wine tasting and wine drinking. I also came across a website that said “to dream of drinking wine, symbolizes festivity, celebration, companionship, satisfaction and success. You are content with the way your life is going.” This is very accurate to how I feel about the dream and my life at the moment. We were probably at the beach because it is one of my favourite places to be. I do not know where the talk about the showers came from. I looked online to try to find out what it may mean and discovered that it may be representative of some kind of “physical renewal” or forgiveness. This is accurate in accordance to a talk that my boyfriend and I had last weekend when he came to visit me. The same website also said that “to dream that you are relaxing on a beach, signifies that the coming weeks will be calm and tranquil.” I hope this will be true. The presence of the ocean is meant to signify the transition between one’s conscious and unconscious. As for the seal, I found out that “seals are a symbol of good luck, success, and spiritual understanding. It also signifies prosperity, faithful friends, and security in love.” I feel very secure in my relationship with my boyfriend and am very happy with the way things are going for me right now, as also represented by the wine. Seals are also seen to indicate one’s playfulness and ability to adapt in situations. The guy may have been trying to catch the seal in order to obtain the same happiness that it was experiencing.

By doing this exercise, I really was able to tap in to some of the aspects of my unconsciousness that I did not know I could access. It was a therapeutic activity for me. It really opened my eyes to some of the things that are going on in my life. I feel more in tune with my emotions. I will continue to interpret my dreams in the future. I definitely agree that it helps us to become more connected with our unconscious’.

Oedipus Complex

I have read the story of Antigone, and I am familiar with the tale of Oedipus, and I very strongly disagree with Sigmund Freud’s theory of the Oedipus Complex. While I value the ideals he prososes, I do not feel that it was Sophocles’ intent to suggest that all developing males are sexually attracted to their mothers and have the desire to kill their fathers. His opinion, although possibly a valid conclusion to draw from such a story, neglects to discuss the rarity of the event occurring. In the story of Oedipus, he and his mother are brought together by chance. It is not their objective to be married and procreate together as mother and father, but as husband and wife. They are unaware of the fact that they are parent and child. Thus, I fail to recognize that this could mean that they unconsciously knew of their relation. It was a mere coincidence that Oedipus faced his father and, ultimately, killed him. Freud argues that this instigates a sexual attraction to his mother and an immense urge to kill his father, whereas I am inclined to believe that this is not so. In my opinion, the story was not meant to be taken literally. I am not naive enough, of course, to think that Sophocles did not have a larger intent than just to tell a story. What the greater meaning of the tale of Oedipus is, I am still unsure. I do think, however, that Freud’s theory is inaccurate and far too literal from the story.