2. 96815 vs. 60564: The Art of Comparison

After leading a rather mundane Midwestern life, I decided as a senior in high school that Hawaii was where my first and most important adventure needed to happen. I remember getting the flier from Hawaii Pacific University just thinking this is it.

If I'm really honest with myself, Hawaii is it and more. It’s an island of broken history and modern ingenuity ; of gorgeous high-end tourist traps and poverty stricken valleys. It's a melting pot in the purest sense of the word: the culture-rich Chinatown is nestled comfortably next to the bustling business of the downtown Honolulu area.

There are often days where most of my friends are working or already have plans. These hard times are also the days where everything productive I could have done to fill my friendless hours ( i.e. homework, laundry, wallowing in self-pity and remorse) have already been finished. (These proactive measures are not so unusual: I like to have time to go out, so I do my homework early. Only to sit around. By myself. Doing nothing.)

I'm not bitter. I swear.

Comparison is an art: the difference between a good and bad decision is usually determined by the "eye of the beholder". Sure, there are the obvious.

Smoking ? Bad.
Studying? Good.
Desert before dinner? Bad.
Saving a baby from a burning building? Good.
Bush? Bad.
Obama? Worse.

But really, comparison is an imperfect science. In fact, it’s the farthest thing from science. Comparisons are made by a combination of (imperfect) observations, personal experience, current mood, and whether or not there is an outside stimuli that may sway your opinion. ( Take my friend Jamie: she had a boyfriend. She met a new guy. He was rich. Jamie dumped her boyfriend. Rich boy took interest in Jamie. Jamie has a new necklace. Yay.)

Today I was supposed to head to Hanauma Bay with friends. Said friends completely bailed. Evelyn was left alone.

And this is where my comparison begins. In Illinois, Evelyn would have picked up a game controller and immersed herself into another lifestyle, fraught with danger. She might have taken up a shift at work if she needed the money. She could have started (and finished) a book. Hell, she'd probably go to the computer and write something like this.

In others words, her day would have sucked.

However, Evelyn lives in Hawaii now. So she walked around, searching for adventure, and came upon tropical garden cradled by the cozy (cue eyerolling) Waikiki. It's a small patch of land filled with hibiscus and mahjong enthusiasts. The garden is a part of a series, donated to the people of Hawaii from their last royal, Queen Kapiolani.

Once I found the place, the songs on my Ipod took a happier turn. Think Sara Bareilles, Colby Callet, and, of course, the Beatles. I also got a bit camera happy, so enjoy!

The view from a branch in the pagoda.

A hibiscus. They're everywhere.

Me!

If only I were a bee...

Mahjong players. I put my three bucks on the guy in the Nike jacket. He didn't win, so I had to walk home instead of taking the Bus.



A path of flowers- a ground shot.



The end of my journey found me at a graffitied bus stop, tired and annoyed that people would write all over a public bench...until I found this.

You'd never see this on a Chicago bench. I can guarantee that.

1. The Point: Retracing My Steps

1. The Point: Retracing My Steps

My name is Evelyn Thompson and I am not an artist. I cannot draw or paint. I'd probably whack off my thumb if you handed me a caliper and you should hit the deck if I'm within five feet of a box cutter. I was a decent singer until I choose to keep my voice confined to my very narrow shower walls and inspiration for the written word comes too erratically to call myself a writer. My photography skills are limited …and the ability to identify the location of a camera in which I commit my woefully poor attempts at the medium is almost non-existent.

For a long time, I still considered myself an awesome creator, despite my obvious lack of skill in any of these departments. I've been writing fan fiction for videogames for years, a few poems have been published in the free-for-all anthologies that are sent to twelve year olds through email, and my school literary magazine published a piece of mine about my Grandpa dying.


(The truth is that I never finish any multi-chapter fanfic I start, my poems are the first lines of other poems I read in order to appear ambiguous and deep, and my (favorite!) Grandpa is very much so alive and well.)

My (very brief) story is that of a girl who hadn't realized what a self-centered lifestyle she led until she was dropped in paradise, surrounded by people who were not intimidated and in love with the idea of her. She realized there were people, places, and things that were more interesting than the things she was, saw, and thought. She had to work hard to remain (as) humble (as she could) in the face of such things; she had to strive to earn the right to picture and talk about such things.

And even though I know I probably still have not earned the full right to say what life is about according to myself and others, I still like to think that what I have to say is valid.

Try as I might, I can't change. I still think that I'm awesome and that the majority of people I meet should be dazzled. I know I'm not super skinny, I'm not super smart, and I'm not super heroic, but I am super observant and I will put that skill to use.

So this blog will serve as the microcosm for how I came about to this discovery. Let's starts from the sand up, yeah?