YogaHub.com » Allistair Santiago

Yoga for the Terminally Irresponsible

Allistair Santiago — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:24:47 +0000

This past week, things have come to a bit of a head and I’m suddenly finding myself remembering what it’s like to have five teachers, each of whom believe their class is the most important. That’s right, it’s mid-term season – the worst part of the school year. Some might say finals are the worst, but at least a final exam heralds the end of class and the beginning of break time. After a mid-term, however, you’re right back in class the next day with more assignments to do and no end in sight. So for this last fortnight, I’ve been going slightly batty attempting to keep up to date with the never-ending stream of projects and deadlines.

This year, however, is the first year that I’ve been practicing yoga while in school. I’ve been finding it difficult to get to the evening classes I like, so I’ve been trying to use The Gift of Yoga DVD at least once a week. The upshot of this, however, is that this is the first time I’m noticing exactly how de-stressing yoga can be. And the results are nearly immediate.

Last weekend, for example, I was tearing my hair out over a lengthy and complicated animation exam. Our teacher asked that we do it all the old fashioned way: pencil drawings and flipbooks. Before continuing my work on Sunday morning, I decided to procrastinate with a bit of yoga. The workout was intensely relaxing. I finished the workout, lying in shivasana, feeling refreshed and ready, if not eager, to hit the drawing table.

Apparently, the half-hour yoga session turned my irresponsible stalling into an academically responsible course of action.

Since then, I’ve been inspired. Yoga has become an incredibly useful technique in a manner I didn’t expect. Not only does it provide me grounds for procrastination, but it makes my dawdling worthwhile. It’s perfect. Anything that can actually make me ready to work while slightly gratifying my laziness is an invaluable life technique that must be preserved and explored further.

Tags: yoga for irresponsible, shivasana, the gift of yoga dvd, yoga at home, yoga dvd, focus, school, yoga class

Off the Wagon, Again

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 16:05:32 +0000

Recently, this has become an altogether too common and perhaps tired observation, but – things are stressful! Many people I meet are saying the same thing. And I, for one, can’t remember the last time I had a proper night’s sleep, or a day where I didn’t spend at least some time working at school on a project or assignment, or just trying to master a new technique. It’s been overwhelming and I’ve unfortunately turned to old habits to help bear me up.

I’ve managed to start smoking again.

I know, I know. I hear the litany in my head every time I step out for some “fresh air.” This is dumb and I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop. I keep trying, and I never make it for more than 48 hours. Heck, I’m lucky if I make it that far. I get cranky and snappy and cease social functioning within a day of quitting, so I usually make some excuse to myself and either buy or bum my way back to my habit.

Really, though, the long and the short of it is I need to quit. Now. Yesterday, in fact. Last time I quit was after being sick with a cold. The congestion was frightening and I basically scared myself out of smoking. However, this time, lacking any sort of similar motivation, I’m able to lie to myself at all the right times. And I continue to give in.

It has been a month since I last attended a yoga session, and I suspect resuming regular practice would help immensely in this respect. I must resolve to attend regular sessions again and see if I can’t kick this god-awful habit. Again.

In the meantime, if anyone has any ideas, tips, solutions, or magic spells, do let me know. I’d appreciate it.

Tags: smoking, habit, busy life, yoga session, cigarettes, quit smoking

The Power of Belief

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 16:46:55 +0000

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about a newspaper article. This year’s unusually high military suicide rate had sparked a radical new approach to soldiering, whereby yoga was being offered on the frontlines to manage stress. I came down – rather hamfistedly – against the theory and principles behind this development.

Predictably, however, since posting the blog, a heated discussion has ensued regarding the propriety of yoga for soldiers, with many people suggesting I had been hard-nosed and unfair.

Respondents, it seems, are unequivocally in favour of this change of program, sympathizing with the traumatized and often shell-shocked purveyors of violence. And they’re right in their sympathies. Perhaps I was not clear enough on this point earlier, so it behooves me now to agree wholeheartedly with these sentiments. Violence is a terrible, stressful thing that shouldn’t need to be dealt with. Period. And it follows, therefore, that those gung-ho, passionate individuals who recognize the necessity of violence for defense are entitled to their mental health. They selflessly place themselves between society and danger in order to protect the former from the latter, and for their dedication to such a cause, they should not be punished. Agreed.

Now, I don’t aim to re-argue my point here; I’m not hunting for converts. In fact, I’m not even going to continue evaluating military stress management schemes. There seems to be more to this issue than simply solving soldiers’ stress disorders. You see, all the responses banked on the same “fact”: violence is necessary. I agree, but only to a point, and that’s where we diverge.

The necessity of violence is a funny thing. In fact, necessity itself is a funny thing; things are never unqualifiedly necessary. They are always necessary for something. Breathing, for example, is necessary for living. Justice is necessary for society (and here we get into some gray areas). But since we think violence is necessary, we must determine what is it necessary for? Automatically the response is defense. The only time violence can become necessary is to protect your natural rights. But even then it’s only necessary up to a certain point. We have a concept of violence as something that is sometimes necessary to resort to once other avenues have been exhausted. I mean, let’s face it, no one wants to get hurt, right?

So violence is truly necessary only under certain circumstances. More specifically, if we were to explore the various avenues open to us, I believe we would further discover that violence is only necessary to defend against, or prevent further violence. It’s cyclical. All it takes is one instance of belligerent aggression to kick-start the cycle and suddenly it spins out of control.

But there’s still more to it than just that. Violence is a thing that people partake in. It isn’t a force in and of itself; it must be perpetrated by someone, and that someone usually doesn’t act on the necessity of violence in that instant, but on the belief in the necessity of violence in that instant. Necessity doesn’t move people. Belief in necessity does. If you believe violence is necessary, you will do violence. If you don’t believe it’s necessary, you will not. Simple.

I therefore urge everyone to examine their own belief systems. We all believe violence is necessary to a certain degree, but all it takes is one. If a single person believes in the necessity of violence (in any given instant) and acts on it, the only necessary response is further violence.

The hopeless idealist’s take: The only thing that makes violence necessary is the belief that violence is necessary.

Tags: power of belief, combat yoga, violence, yoga for stress, yoga for military, army yoga

I’m Animated!

Allistair Santiago — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 14:20:49 +0000

In my last blog a couple of days ago, I mentioned how returning to school – albeit animation school – has been a real kick in the pants for me!

When I was an undergrad, I used to suss out what classes were really mandatory for me to attend and what classes I could skip. As long as I kept up with my assignments and took (and passed!) the tests, I’d be fine just cruising along.

Not so with animation, I’ve learned. But it’s not because of the course work – which itself is considerable. And it’s not even that I didn’t expect the program to be this involved; I simply didn’t realize how eager I would be to get involved. Weird, I know, and unlike me, but that’s the way it’s turning out. Honestly, I’m not sure anyone can feel unmotivated in this program.

You see, I’m with the same 24 students every class of every day and we’re already getting to know each other’s work. And when you’re working this closely with super-creative people, not only do you want to keep your skills competitive but, more importantly, enthusiasm tends to be catching.

In one short week, we’ve done two short animation exercises to introduce us to the basics. We’ve done several character designs from scratch and compared them publicly. We’ve studied six hours of cartoons (I’m not kidding about this). We’ve started tackling scriptwriting. And we’ve attended ten hours of life drawing.

Every day has been a whirlwind of creativity and imagination. If we’re not in class, then we’re in the studio working on the unending series of next assignments.

It’s been insane, but great, and I’m really looking forward to the rest of my two years in this program…provided it doesn’t kill me first.

Tags: animation school, assignment, cartoon, screenwriting, drawing, studio working

Back to School

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 15:09:11 +0000

What with the eerie – and not altogether unwelcome – quiet during the week, you’re all probably already aware that school’s back in session. For me, the last few Septembers have come and gone without so much as a nod.

Since finishing my undergrad studies, they have had unusually little effect on my life. September was marked only by the fact that the mall I worked in would become a haunt of the elderly rather than of teenagers.

This year, however, marks my return to school – albeit animation school. It’s been three years since I’ve studied anything, and this September has been nothing shy of a swift kick in the pants.

Traditionally for me, the first week of classes was for sussing out what courses had really mandatory attendance. I mean – and we’ve all been there – all professors say that attendance is mandatory, but if they can’t teach their way out of a wet paper bag, one is often better off catching up on sleep than attending their lectures. Seriously. So, provided you keep up with your assignments and are adaptable in a test situation, you’re away to the races.

But not this time. Animation school is a whole other ball game that’s really got my creative juices flowing. I’m finding it challenging, exciting, and frustrating all at the same time.

I’ll tell you all about it in my next blog.

Tags: back to school, animation school, challenging, exciting, frustration, classroom

A Chance Encounter

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:33:51 +0000

I’ve been a nervous wreck for the last week and a half. A little over ten days ago it hit me that animation school was starting really soon – too soon, in fact. I’m not ready. Well, I don’t feel ready, anyway.

You see, despite my getting into the program on what was apparently a worthy portfolio, I’m still not confident in my abilities. I’ve never been an art student. I’ve always passionately considered it, but I never enrolled. And I’ve always been self-conscious about my drawing.

The anxiety reached its peak over the weekend. I was madly going to every life drawing session I could find in an attempt to improve. However, well on my way to burnout even before the semester began, I wasn’t so much learning anything as I was going through the motions, frantically, and becoming less and less confident with each session.

But a funny thing happened yesterday. I found myself in Staples attempting to get a copy of my application portfolio printed out. They were particularly busy for early on a Tuesday afternoon. The clerk had handed me the first set of prints and had gone to queue up the second when a rather bold, bald Englishman accosted me. He had been shoulder-surfing glimpses of my portfolio as I leafed through the proofs. I let him page through the stack of 11″ x 17″ sheets, somewhat wary of his intentions.

“These are good,” he said, nodding his head and handing back the sheaf, “you’ve obviously got some natural ability.” To my surprise, he seemed genuinely impressed.

The ensuing conversation took up the better part of the next half-hour. I found out he was a drawing teacher at Capilano University. He found out I was about to become a drawing student at Capilano University. We exchanged contact info and after another unwarranted battery of praise for my work, we parted.

Since then I’ve been feeling better. I went to a life drawing session later that day and came away with mediocre drawings, but a new perspective. School is just five days away now, and, while I’m still nervous, I’m feeling more confident about it than I have before.

And it’s all because of one perfectly timed chance encounter.

Tags: confidence, portfolio, drawing teacher, capilano university, artist

Soccer Hooligans

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 15:55:45 +0000

It finally happened. It was just a matter of time, really. To be fair, we lasted longer than any previous year, but now it’s official: my fellow hooligans and I have been kicked off of the public soccer fields again.

It happened at last week’s game. We were playing on one of North Vancouver District’s public sports fields. We had been there no more than an hour when a district truck pulled up. It sat for ten minutes, the driver visibly scribbling something in his notebook. The truck rocked violently as the driver then extricated himself from the driver’s seat. His silhouette dwarfed the truck considerably in the setting sun as he plodded across the field towards us [pardon the continued editorializing. ed.], occasionally suspiciously snapping shots with a small cameral.

Having noticed the gentleman, our game had ground to an unceremonious halt by the time he reached us. Already knowing what to expect, I addressed the man. Ignoring my greetings, he ham-fistedly thrust me a printed email addressed to an unknown someone.

“Read this out loud,” he said. Bewildered and put off but unwilling to escalate the situation (just yet), I did as told. I had read no more than three words aloud when he triumphantly snatched the page back from me.

“Oh, good” he declared, “so you can read.”

I narrowed my eyes, understanding what had transpired. “You’re a clever man, big guy” I said.

His porcine features contorted satisfyingly in a grimace of dislike, and I decided I had somehow already pushed my luck to its brink. Leaving my friends to deal more elegantly with the offensive gentleman, I headed for the sidelines.

The lecture was the usual. I overheard it. Coaches are complaining that we’re ruining the fields that they and their players pay for. Fields are closed to “groups practicing.” Possible fines. Possible police action. Get off the field now or else. The usual, again. So we left, again.

So, this keeps happening. Every year, sooner or later we get kicked off. And I’ve tried being nice and responsible about it. I’ve tried to chase down the specific bylaws, but found only a bureaucratic labyrinth worthy of Theseus. It turns out that the proverbial left hand has no idea that the right hand even exists, let alone what it’s doing.

No one seems to know the exact rules of public field usage and no one seems to know anyone who might. The District sent me to the City; the City sent me to the Parks Board; the Parks Board sent me (back) to the District; the District said they were wrong the first time and sent me to the Rec Commission; the Rec Commission sent me back to the Parks Board. Having already learned my lesson, I didn’t bother chasing it further.

Since then we’ve been renegade. We’ve been underground – a small group of resistance fighters, clandestinely striking out against sports-related injustice, and exercising our rights (pun fully intended).

In all seriousness, though, I’d like to ask for some help with this problem. If you’re reading this and have any ideas as to how to proceed, I’d love to hear from you. I’m not clear on what the specific rules are in this case and to what extent a public field can be used by the public, so any pointers would be appreciated.

The bottom line is that, as a taxpayer, I feel entitled to certain returns. It feels like I do my part to pay for the field’s upkeep and should be allowed to use it once a week for a ten-player, pick-up game of soccer. But the only definitive response I’ve been given has been an overweight man in a truck saying “I want people to exercise; I value exercise. But you gotta get off this field or I’m calling the cops.”

Tags: soccer, exercise, public ground, soccer practice, soccer game, soccer field

Meteor Showers and Murphy’s Law

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 22:55:33 +0000

This is rapidly turning into one of the busiest summers in recent memory. Once again, I have just returned from a trip, this time to my friend’s dad’s cabin near Kamloops, BC. This time I didn’t plan it; some things, though, you can’t say no to.

Two weeks ago, I received a call from my oldest friend, Scott, inviting me and several other friends out to his dad’s lakeside cabin. Now, in the twenty-odd years I’ve known Scott, I’ve been to the cabin countless times and I was under no illusions as to what I would be getting myself into.

Having been built somewhat inexpertly by Scott’s grandfather several decades ago, the cabin cycles constantly through various states of disrepair and lists more and more to the south-west with each winter. The plumbing is negligible, necessitating the particularly spider-friendly outhouse, which itself boasts a new glass door. Yes, that’s right, there’s a full-length, perfectly clear window in the middle of the outhouse door – but it’s got a great view of the lake.

So you can see why, ordinarily, I diplomatically decline these invitations. And I suspect Scott knew I was preparing to do exactly that when he added “There’s gonna be a meteor shower.” And that’s really all he needed to say. I was in.

Now, I would hazard that everyone is inexplicably fascinated by the night sky, especially the dramatic night sky. I, myself, felt a childlike thrill of glee at the thought of actually witnessing a real, live meteor shower. And so it was with mounting excitement that we set out last Tuesday morning.

The first night was the best. It was only the beginning of the meteor shower, but the sky was perfect and the night was crisp. The five of us sat on foldable deck chairs in the middle of the floating dock, taking care to keep the weight distribution even, lest we submerge the rickety apparatus. A live version of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon played softly from my iPod as we watched the occasional meteor streak its suicidal course through the upper reaches of our atmosphere. It was perfectly clichéd.

The second night was somewhat more disappointing. The meteor shower was supposed to be at its peak, so we anticipated a real show. All day I pestered my friend Donegan – a bona fide rocket scientist – with questions in my fervour. Then evening came, and just as we sat down for dinner, it clouded over and began to rain. The rain continued until just before sunset, leaving us with an angry sky blotted with turbulent clouds. We watched the sun go down from the dock, woefully music-less in the damp. We stayed there for a short time, teased by the glimpses and flashes afforded us through the rare breaks in the clouds.

Soon, however, frustrated and cold, we headed inside, lit a fire in the woodstove and watched a VHS copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey. This was a first experience for me, and I don’t think I care to comment on it.

All in all, the trip was great. I was with four of my oldest and closest friends and I got to see something I’ve never seen before. Honestly, what we saw of the meteor shower was fantastic. But ultimately what we couldn’t see was frustrating, which is why we left the cabin the following morning with the iron resolve to return next winter to freeze our butts off for the next big meteor shower.

Tags: meteor shower, murphy’s law, Kamloops, canada, camping, cabin, trip

A Eulogy of Sorts

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 15:42:26 +0000

Alright, there’s good news and there’s bad news. In my limited experience the bad news always comes first, so I see no reason not to follow the tradition.

Mike is dead. My all-time best friend and very first car has passed on.

It was sudden, but not altogether unexpected, I suppose. He was an old car, having served faithfully for nigh 20 years, and he rather understandably had his problems. Two weeks ago, he had to be towed to the shop as he had developed an unhealthy sounding rattle. The verdict was swift and grim. Write-off. The hyphenated phrase a car dreads hearing. He was done.

I grieved for a time, wracked with guilt over my friend’s demise. If only I’d checked his oil more often, taken better care, or driven him less, I thought. But no, it occurs to me now. He died well. He was old, the oil wasn’t filtering through his engine properly, but he was driving right up to the end. I think that’s how he would have wanted to go…if he were capable of wanting anything. Either way, he had a good, adventuresome life and he will be missed.

But there’s good news yet.

Reluctantly, I went to the lot where he had been towed to retrieve his effects and my belongings. He was taking up space and needed to be towed to the scrap yard.

I was sombrely emptying the corpse of my car when one of the mechanics approached me. He didn’t speak English terribly well, but I understood him. Other than being dead, the car was in good condition, he felt, and it deserved a better fate than retiring to “cubesville.” Offering only the $150 cash he (almost suspiciously) had stashed in his overalls, he told me of his plan to make Mike a project car and get him running again. I hastily agreed.

Though he paid me less for the car than the scrap yard would have, there was no contest. I took the opportunity to ensure that Mike would be reborn – that he would triumphantly return to the road.

So while he is still gone to me, I know that somewhere, sometime, he’ll be back.

Tags: eulogy, car, Toyota Tercel, sick, tow-away, written off

The Twilight Zone

Allistair Santiago — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 15:57:21 +0000

So I was away this weekend. I went to Vancouver Island on work, ostensibly. My friend Stu, a talented musician and audio engineer, was hired to rig the sound for a gig on Quadra Island, a small island just off Vancouver Island. And since he was taking a full professional sound rig with him for the band, he needed help running cables, setting up speakers, and driving a 3 ton U-Haul. Scenting both adventure and Rock-and-Roll, I hastily agreed. I was, however, unprepared for the manner of adventure I was about to have.

It was a long drive out to Quadra and the upcoming show was a bit of a mystery. Anticipating the trek, our benefactor – a singularly wealthy man, Stu assured me – provided us with accommodation in Parksville at the V.I.P. Hotel (said his email). After the long, arduous process of zeroing in on the address, we discovered that there had been an error. It was actually the “V.I.P. Motel” – a bit of a misnomer as there wasn’t anything remotely V.I.P. about it. We would later discover to our grim amusement that the name was actually the “Vancouver Island Parksville Motel.” Ha ha. Yes. Very funny.

As there was only one bed, I spent an uncomfortable night on the floor and Stu spent it wracked with guilt over getting the only bed. So, both disenchanted and horrendously sleep deprived, we made our way for Quadra the next morning.

The venue was a 100-year-old seaside inn, and the show was to take place on the front yard overlooking a pebbly stretch of beach. Arriving bleary-eyed and behind schedule, we were immediately accosted by a mob of men sporting the same aggressively vibrant yellow and orange tie-dyed t-shirts. Clearly unable to pick our employer out of the company, Stu tactfully addressed the entire group, asking where to put the equipment. Scanning the clusters of people on the lawn, it soon became apparent to me that they were all in the same t-shirt. It was surreal and I was confused. Then it dawned on me that this was one of those Family Reunions you hear about – a big, massively extended, family reunion – not a rock concert at all. I could see the same thing had occurred to Stu, who previously had visions of three stages, multiple bands and raging crowds. Nevertheless, being professionals, we got right to work.

That afternoon set the tone for the rest of the weekend. It was characterized by a lot of heavy lifting, tedious cable-running, and finicky sound-checking – all against the backdrop of what looked like a clone convention.

It became obvious early on that the whole family had money. They had the entire inn and marina booked and new guests would arrive by yacht periodically, their t-shirts, worn like uniforms, visible for miles off- shore.

Obviously figuring our work wasn’t challenging enough, our employer delegated his 14-year-old headstrong nephew to test us. In the name of “helping,” the boy set about unplugging things seemingly at random, claiming to be a sound techie. I suppose his company was amusing enough, but he proved to be more of a nuisance and a liability when it came to work. He too sported a smaller version of the blazing tie-dyed t-shirt.

It also turned out that we were not there to set up for a rock star, but for the family band. Headlined by our employer’s three twenty-something-year-old daughters, and backed by their father on guitar, a pianist whose name I did not catch, and the original drummer from Heart, the band had a pop-country-rock sort of a sound to it.

The 300-strong crowd of family members had a blast and stayed dancing through three long sets. The show’s highlight, a tribute to Michael Jackson, was both skilful and energetic, but overall the quality of music proved to be inversely proportional to the amount of alcohol imbibed – which was considerable. By the finale – a rousing and occasionally meandering, 22-minute-long version of “Hey Jude” – it was beginning to look like they had forgotten how to end a song. But the crowd, fuelled by their gaudy t-shirts and having matched the band drink for drink, revelled in the closing number, savouring their last opportunity for boisterous whooping and cat-calling.

We got home a day late with a sleep deficit of 20 hours or so. All in all, I’m not sure what would have been a stranger adventure, the rock and roll weekend I was expecting, or the elaborate and strangely quaint family reunion. It was, at least, a weekend of interest and variety. I got to go places I haven’t been before, see a show from the techie side of things (kinda), and experience familial insanity qualitatively different from that which I’m accustomed to. I say again: it was surreal.

Tags: Vancouver Island, musician, audio engineer, Quadra Island, Family Reunion, Michael Jackson[