The dark house is once again mine. It doesn't matter who's house I'm in, the darkness and the silence are the important parts. I am sitting in the computer room of my grandparent's house. It is late and the house has gone to bed. Except for me. The nighttime is my own. I am limited only by my imagination, bound only by the silence that I must not break. The silence is soothing, comforting. I am trying to figure things out (always a dangerous thing to do, especially late at night). I've been trying to figure things out all day. Nothing has come. The future is a strange thing, indefinite and inexorable. It will be, and yet it is whatever we make it to be. I have too much running through my head, all of which would make even less sense than what I've already put down does. I wish I had the ability to speak freely, to say whatever is on my mind, anytime and anywhere. It seems that it would be easier to learn to control what one says, than to learn to speak. The words are rarely there when I want to say them. Perhaps that is why poetry comes rather easily at times. What I cannot vocalize I scribble down on a pad of paper, halting and impassioned.

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you.

 

 -Robert Louis Stevenson, novelist, essayist, and poet
(1850-1894)

Something to remember during these hectic days of family visits, and holiday merry-making...

My love and prayers to you all during this blessed season. I am looking forward to rejoing the computer world again...it is getting just a tad lonesome without you all.

 

It is amazing what one can miss while sleeping in the car. The California wine country is alluring (trying to expand my vocabulary) in its own way. Green rolling hills, and vineyard streaching away from the road and up the hills to the north and west. I have somehow managed to be asleep through that streach of the drive the last few times I've been up this way. I was reminded of the movie A Walk in the Clouds with Keanu Reeves. There is something rather appealing about vineyards. (I think I've watched too many movies)

I am looking at close to three weeks of internet deprivation, and I can think of nothing to write. Finals are over, and I don't really want to revisit them, even to complain. I am not really sure what to expect from the break, so I'm not going to go on about how wonderful it will all be. I plan to keep something of a scribble book so I'll have plenty to say after the fact. I am feeling strangly emotionally void and not very much inclined to ramble on about things.

However this will not prevent me from wishing you all a blessed Christmas and a happy New Year. Mayhap I will be on sooner than I expect and and in a more holiday mood.
Ciao...

All pau. done. finished. no more. And strangly enough, no feeling of relief, no sense of accomplishment, just a tired feeling of "I really could have done better."

I think I am going to wait until Sunday to post anything more, or I'll simply sound depressed.

Three down, three to go.

Now for some sleep.

FINALS!!!!!!!!

And that is all I have to say....for now.

(excerpt from letter written 9 Dec)

I stopped by the Career Center this morning after classes and talked to M. K. for a bit about grad schools. I told him that I was looking at environmental sciences, but I really don't know where to look for them. He said a web search would be a start and that he'd look into it as well. I know it's kinda early to start looking, but judging from how quickly this past semester went it certainly won't hurt. From the way the grad program requirements look, I will probably have to get a B.S. before being able to get an M.S. But who knows, perhaps a BS will be enough... I haven't looked very extensively, but it would be likely that I'd stay here in Cali (San Fran State University has an interesting Biology department, although I'm sure that it is extremely liberal...)
K. also said that they are planning to expand the summer internship program, so I might be able to get a job in the field I am looking at, which would be great. Not only would I be able to see if I would really like it, I'd also have something really good to add to my sparse resume.

It was so gorgeous yesterday afternoon. the fog had rolled in, thick and high covering the hills and creeping up the mountains 'til they were gone, getting caught in the trees and the hill crests. It looked as though the hills themselves were rising out of the mist - so surreal. I looked out and felt as though I didn't belong to the mortal world at all, the slight wind, the cool dampness, the colors beyond description. Perhaps those poor people who think they are actually elves have something to their claim... I wanted to step through whatever barrier it was that kept me tied to the ground and within this humdrum, prosaic little circle of things, and walk into the beauty I was seeing, become one with it... (just fancy that, plain brown me, part of the breathtaking aching beauty of nature. you know something, I think that is why I want to go into environmental science...so I can perhaps find a way to do just that...) I'm so ridiculous, but it hurts to remember how awe inspiring it all looked...

sigh, and now back to your regularly scheduled reality...

The rain is coming down soft and gentle. Outside the window of my computer haunt, the hills to the west are opaque through the mist that is rolling up the valley. I feel tired but relatively happy. There are no classes tomorrow, and seminar tonight was "postponed." I should feel disappointed that I won't get to discuss the end of Augustine's Confessions, and see how the book all ties together. But that would require cramming to finish it without falling asleep...as it is, I will finish it tomorrow, at my leisure.
Finals begin on Saturday. I don't know how I am going to do. We have not gotten any review guides, and I am feeling extremely undirected. I go back over the year in my mind, and think "We haven't done that much... No wait, we have - I just don't remember it all..."

*sigh*

However, the paper is over, seminar is canceled, and there are no classes tomorrow...
I don't have a care in the world...

*sigh*

Four months of work have been brought to fulfillment in a mere hour and a half. Why is it that things you work so hard for pass so quickly? Take a meal for instance. You can spend an entire week preparing and cooking, and the whole thing takes perhaps a couple of hours to eat (the conversation lasts, hopefully, much longer than that). Well, its the same way with a concert. You practice and practice, and just because you of course don't have anything better to do, you practice some more. You listen to the work on CD for extra re-enforcement. And then the big night, and suddenly you are up there in front of everyone and the music starts and you murmur a silent prayer that you can remember all of the entrances and don't hit any wrong notes (especially in that one number that has been giving you trouble...) You stand, watching and listening (trying not to let it show on your face that your feet are now ready to commit suicide in protest for putting them in those ridiculous shoes). Look out at all the people, seeing who is interested, who is just there. Glance at the clock, amazed that you are almost done, it is the last song, and you still feel like you just walked up onto the risers. Heart still beating hard, the last note held and cut, all in unison. And then the applause, heralding an odd, sad-ish feeling into the very bottom of the heart. Its all over, bow. Sing the encore. Bow, its all over.
There ought to be more to show for all that work...something I can hold and keep (other than a sore throat ;-)

Just for the record, I am planning to do something else with my time next semester... piano lessons perhaps, or judo...

I'm curious...

There was a rainbow on the table in class this afternoon. I'm not really sure where it came from, though I think it was lost. It looked so small and forlorn, and rather undernourished, come to think of it. Perhaps it lost its way on the journey south for the winter and was taking a rest in the warm sunlight, inside safe from the chill wind. I watched it for a while and gradually it seemed to brighten and pick up a bit more color. Once it felt better, I watched it wander back out the window and continue it's travels south.

And the break is over...how does time manage to pass as quickly when you are doing nothing as it does when you are filling every moment of the day with activity?
The drive back down her to SoCal was nearly as random as the drive up. This time the music was provided by Maedhros, resulting in a rather ironic dive. I've never known (and can't really imagine) our driver to listen to anything other than "well ordered" music (all though I don't know if this is actually the case). And so perhaps you can imagine my amusement when the Sprit called out for Flogging Molly's Swagger as the first album of the trip (I'd almost forgotten how much I liked that CD). Flogging Molly was followed by Bela Fleck (a wonderful choice). However by this time most of us passengers had dozed off and our lovely driver took over the control of the music, replacing the Flecktones with a children's choir singing Christmas carols. (I was very tempted to think, as I was roused from slumber by Joy to the World, that it was a means of gentle revenge for subjecting her to Flogging Molly, but charity got the better of me...) However, the heavenly voice of Gillian Welch and the picking of Doc Watson more than made up for the hour and a half of (shrill) children's voices. Pink Floyd, The Who and Talking Heads rounded out the soundtrack of our drive back.

~ ~ ~
I am coming to realize why Toque is so in love with California. The rolling hills and mountain bases along US 101 are at times breathtaking, at others restful. At one along the highway, the road rolls around a bend through the hills and suddenly you are presented with the vast expanse of the sea.

(randomness of the evening: the Sprit just walked into the computer haunt dressed in a black, green, orange plaid skirt, a green/blue plaid flannel shirt, topped with her 'traditional' red, grey, and green plaid jacket, with a grey scarf, and an orange beannie. "It's SOOOOO cold!!! Oh, this is my protest outfit," she says by way of explanation. As she sat down, I saw bright teal socks peaking out)

Now, I grew up on an island. I've been surrounded by and and in sight of the sea all my life. Yet, as I was staring blindly out the window of the car- not seeing anything of the passing hills- the moment the sea came into sight, I felt something akin to...I don't know how to describe it. For that one instant, I knew what the elves felt when they saw the sea. It is a knowledge, and a longing, and a pain, and something more, itself lasting only an instant or two, but the remembrance of it lingers, coloring your view of everything else.

It is 1 am and the house is very quiet, the only sounds are of the two computer sitting on the table in front of me, and the occasional tapping within the wall of an idontknowwhat. I am waiting and hoping for a phone call that I doubt will come tonight, but one thing hope has never been accused of is being reasonable.
I rambled this off a few nights ago, and could not come up with the end of it until last night in front of a dying fire. At first it was simply to or perhaps about someone, but as it went on it took on other aspects as the material before me changed and grew. The more I wrote, the more apparent it became to me that the poem was also to Someone, the lover of souls. When you first hear that phrase, you think of a Being with a love for souls, but not so much as a lover of souls. But this is not what seems to me to be meant by the phrase. If you hear that a man is the lover of a woman, you know it is as a lover that he relates to her, while someone who merely has a love for another does not have this same relationship. (I am not sure that this is making sense, but I've been thinking about it and the house is quiet and I am not thinking about my paper). In any case, the poem below is not only addressed to someone, but is also to Someone.

~ ~ ~

Silent was the night
that saw you come to me.
Trepidation fills me to the point of tears
echoed in my trembling hands.
Moonlight streaming through the cold clearness
witnesses the ache and the emptiness
welling up and consuming the night.

Ah, this foolish foolish heart-
Jack of all and master of none!
Still you seek after my true self,
hidden closest to my inmost heart.
As from afar, I watch as you seek to enter.
I long for you, to be with you,
for oneness where I am whatever I am
desiring to become so entirely part of you
that I am continually dying within myself.

Yearning for, while still fearing
the fulfillment of the emptiness,
my tears, the scorned heralds of
the weary conflict, fall upon the
heedless page. Why can I not
find the courage to place my
trust in You? What have I to fear
in the flame of Your love?
For Your love is Truth itself and
the consummation of myself will yield
only greater Love.

I've been thinking recently about duty to family and friends. How far does the law of charity extend? How much are you bound to place them before yourself? When do you have a responsibility to yourself that comes before your responsibility to them? I'll think about it for a while, perhaps ask someone I respect and come to a clear opinion of how things work. Then I'll talk to my family, or talk to friends who are wondering about many of the same things and all of my nicely ordered opinions become all disheveled.
There must be a point at which we are no longer immediately bound to our parents, and this in all likelihood varies according to situation. It makes sense that this transition point would be when we reach achieve the ability to support ourselves. Talking to a friend about this earlier, she pointed out that we actually have a responsibility to prepare for our vocation, whether it be the married life or a religious vocation. This is not possible if you are feel that you are "stuck" supporting your family or "fixing" their problems.
With friends the questions become a little different. Simply washing your hands of them with the attitude of "they are grown-up and ought to take care of themselves" seems to me reminiscent of Cain's question of "Am I my brother's keeper?" And while the tie between friends is no as strong as that between family, charity demands something...the questions is what? With family, the question is easy in one respect, it becomes a matter of how much and for how long. With friends however, it's harder, because I don't know what it is I have to do anymore. When do I tell them that they are on the road to possibly screwing up their lives? That what they are doing is leading them away from the Church? My first instinct is to play the big sister and just tell them what they are doing wrong and what they need to do to fix it. But this does not work for the majority of people, and will most likely even make the entire situation worse. My next reaction (which also happens to be my current position on many things), just letting whatever it is go while still being there for them to seek out for letting off steam or sympathy or whatever, doesn't seem right either. I just don't know anymore (I'm not sure I ever did...) and I feel like I am wandering around in the dark with my hands out in front of me to ward off the worst of the stumbling blocks...
But then I suppose that is life...

I am away finally way from school. I havn't fully comprehended this yet, but I think it's real. The drive up from SoCal was an experience. I think I will remember it simply for its music: early 50's doo-op, Baroque, U2's new album, Hyden, hot Cuban jazz. All played randomly and for indescriminate amounts of time. The only thing that could have made the drive better would have been being able to read. I was looking forward to three uninterupted and guilt-free hours of Huck Finn, only to discover that I no longer possess the talent of reading in small moving vehicals. I can read on the train just fine, but the car is just a little too small. So I caught up on lost sleep ("O wonderful wonderful, most wonderful of wonderfuls" to quote a bit of the Bard) and watched the hills slide past while listening to occasional snatches of the conversations of the others in the car.

~ ~ ~

The Sprit has just fluttered in and informed me that the computer has a curfew of midnight tea time, which if not strictly observed (and enforced) will cause said computer to implode or explode, which ever is most convinient for the Sprit. And because the aforementioned time is now passed by seven minutes, I will be closing this...

Just a thought...

Books are like imprisoned souls till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.

 

-Samuel Butler, writer (1835-1902)

 

 

Some friends asked me the other night how I managed to appear so calm and at peace. "You study too much to be at peace...you don't sleep enough to be at peace! Why do you look peaceful?" "Well, I am," was all I could say. Any explaination I could have offered then would not have removed the confused and bewildered looks from their faces. How does one explain that true peace in life is not found in relationships with other people, or in satisfaction in one's classes or job, or "knowing yourself" or in any thing else that relies on you or anyone else. Peace come when you decide to be content with where you are in life right now, because that is where God wants you to be. It is a reliance on Him and a realization that your own efforts are not enought to gain what you naturaly desire from life. Peace is an act of the will (very much along the lines of love, in my experience). And while one may feel unhappy or restless or depressed, that act of the will, that grounding, remains.
Of course (and this is the Catholic upbringing in me coming out), one cannot find peace, nor will to be at peace, if one is in a state of sin. It just does not work. Our Lord is the only source of peace, and if one is turned away from Him, then there is no peace to be found in anything else.

"BANG...bang bang bang...BANG BANG"

Ah, I think to myself, summons from the other world. Wait, it is not late enough to be that... must be summons from the other room. I walk over to the intercom and pick up the phone. Nothing.

"thump thump bang thump BANG"

Cocking my head toward the continuing racket seemingly from within my wall, I wonder why she is still pounding if she does not want to talk. Perhaps, this summons is to her presence...
Open door, close door, open door. And behold, the source of the pounding is lying contentedly in bed, with a retinue standing round.

"You knocked, but didn't pick up," I say reproachfully.
"Yes, that's because I can't get out of bed once I put myself there," replys the Sprit.

She continues to explain, gleefully proud of her own ingenuity, that if she puts herself to bed, and knocks, people will have to come to her, rather than having to fly all over looking for the same people.

"I see."

Good nights are said and the girls wander off to their respective rooms.

Standing next to her bed, I begin to scold the Sprit for making such a racket so late in the evening, shaking my finger for emphasis.

"No more," I say with a poke in the general direction of her blanket covered mid-drif.
"squeak, giggle, squeak. But why not? It worked, didn't it?"
"Yes, but I have homework to finish." With another poke or two (perhaps a few more) for good measure.

This time there is no reply, because the Sprit has been reduced to a squeaking, giggling, squirming mass of hands and gasps.
Hmmm, perhaps this "once in bed, in bed for good" rule can be to my advantage....

"squeak squeak giggle gasp... I re-squeak-sent giggle gasp squeak being forced giggle giggle squeak squeak to make gasp giggle squeak these ridic- gasp-ulous noises squeak!"
"What's that? I can't quite make out what you are saying. Do try to speak more clearly, dear."

The Sprit glares at me as best she can between continued giggles and 'undignified' squeaks, pawing at where my hand used to be in a fruitless attempt to prevent any more tickling.
Pausing in my assault, she gasps out her former assertion.

"I resent being forced to make these ridiculous noises! And in my own bed, too!!"

Now it is my turn to laugh, happily clapping my hand and bending over in an effort to remain quiet.

"Ah mon ami, only you would come up with such a protest"

Through the leaves

my feet leave not a trace

scarce can a sound be heard

save the soft rustle

that marks my passing by.

Here, between the trees

shroud in bright gold,

Time seems to surround

and stop.

Stillness of air

silence of breath

running of water

always flowing, changing moving

dance among the rocks

never, never

still.

Perhaps this is Time

this small clear cold rill.

Different every moment

noticed and in the same instant

gone.

Perhaps the leaves are Time

moments passed and present

and those waiting to fall-

all eternity waiting

for me to walk by.

Perhaps Time is in my walking

steady pace, regular motion.

Passing over and by

all that I come across,

leaving it untouched

yet added to

simply by my step.

Perhaps the path itself is Time

for always running before and behind

bending turning out of sight

through trees, hills

across streams

drawing ever onward

no two moments the same.

Stillness in the moment

passing as a falling leaf

I wonder at the nature of Time.

Questioning through the trees

for answers to intangible searchings-

the rustling of the leaves

reminds me of my step

reverie broken, lost

I turn toward home.

I'd like to thank Toque for the pen and ink drawing that I've added... very reminicent of Gorey. I like it very much, it lends such an air to the page. With my ghost looking out past my right shoulder, I won't mind sitting with my back to the computer room door any more.

The sent of wood pulp is lightly filling the air. It reminds me of home and construction, long hours and hard work. It makes me happy.
I hate to seem like I am stuck on a particular topic, but the beauty of the fall keeps impressing itself on me and I need to speak of it somewhere...
I don't remember it being so lovely last year, with the colours and the cool nip in the air, even in the sun. A hint of wood smoke on the air, a layer of cirrus clouds high, high up making the sky look like blue marble streaked through with white. It's calling to me, the beauty, the freedom and openness. Unfortunately, my books, with their papery, rustling, throaty voices, are nearer and for the moment harder to put off and ignore. Soon enough there will be time...

It's been a while since I've written anything in the way of poetry... I was sitting at my desk the other day though, and this seemed to spill itself onto a random scrap of paper...

Musings From my Window
Green melts to grey
as my eye wanders
the edges of the hills.

Golden foliage draws
me down from the heights,
the splendor of a solitary tree
dressed for the season.

Soon and soon, the garb
will be shed
cast to the ground
to lay about its feet.

~ ~ ~

I've been realizing how close we are to the end of the year. Even though we have five weeks of classes left, every week-end from here on out is filled. Which means that the weeks are even busier. I keep telling myself that I can, really and truly can, handle everything on my plate, that I will not drop any of the balls that are in the air and speeding up. I've heard that will believe anything so long as you tell them often enough, I just hope it works on one's self.

INDECISION!!!!!!
I think it is one of my greatest weaknesses and failings. I can come the the conclusion that I need to buy or do something. And I am suddenly overwhelmed with uncertainty.
"Is this really the right thing to be doing?"
"Is there some way I could be doing it better?"
" Do I honestly need this whatever it is? I've gotten along up until now without it, what really makes me think I need it now?"
" How do I know that I won't be able to find a better one, or a comparable one for less money?" Right now, my indecision is stemming from computers, specifically the buying of a laptop computer. I am no expert when it comes to computers (as you may have gathered from previous complaints, I mean, posts). I know just enough to feel embarrassed about asking basic questions, because I feel like I know the answers.... very bad.
So what am I going to do? I am going to do what I usually do when confronted with indecision, walk away from it. Decide, not to decide on this laptop or that one, but to do without a laptop all together... at least for a while longer.

Ahhh, it is such a relief to come to some sort of resolution.... pathetic...

I found this passage and it seemed to answer unspoken questions...

"Since you walk in these darknesses and voids of spiritual poverty, you think that everyone and everything is failing you. It is no wonder that in this it also seems that God is failing you. But nothing is failing you... He who desires nothing else than God walks not in darkness, however poor and dark he is in his own sight. And he who walks not presumptuously nor according to his own satisfactions, whether from God or from creatures, nor does his own will in anything has nothing to stumble over or discuss with anyone...
You were never better off than now, because you were never so humble nor so submissive, nor considered yourself and all worldly things so small, nor did you know that you were so evil, nor did you serve God so purely and so disinterestedly as now, nor do you follow after the imperfections of your own will and interests as perhaps you were accustomed to do. What is it you desire? What kind of life or method of procedure of you paint for yourself in this life? What do you think serving God involves other than avoiding evil, keeping his commandments, and being occupied with the things of God as best we can? When this is had, what need is there of other apprehensions or other lights and satisfactions from this source or that. In these there is hardly ever a lack of stumbling blocks and dangers for the should, which by its understanding and appetites is deceived and charmed; and its own faculties cause it to err. And thus it is a great favor from God when he darkens and impoverishes the soul in such way that it cannot err with them. And if one does not err in this, what need is there in order to be right other than to walk along the level road of the law of God and of the Church and live only in dark and true faith and certain hope and complete charity... Rejoice and trust in God, for her has given you signs that you can very well do so, and in fact you must do so."
~St John of the Cross

I've discovered the genius of Mark Twain...allow me to demonstrate:

"Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it wil be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."

No kidding. He is awesome... it is a pity that I will be losing sleep again...

In my mind's eye I keep seeing a young man who reminds me of my cousin in so many ways showing me pictures of his kitten on his phone; a young man who left one with the impression of undaunted life.

Kind reader, pause a moment to remember Paul Levine in your prayers.

Someone once told me, in all earnestness, that you must play an instrument before you are able to fully appreciate music. I was crushed to the point of tears and well beyond words, for you see I somehow believe that this is so. I do not play any instruments, how am I to know for certain this is not true? Now, as I sit and listen to liquid beauty pouring over and filling me, these words rise to the surface and I wonder what it is that I am not hearing, what I am missing. Painful bewilderment seeks to overcome the beauty and the pleasure of the music. I feel the tears behind my eyes, pricking with almost as much pain as that in my heart. How could it be possible that I am not receiving all the music has to offer? Perhaps my capacity really is limited in some way... This beauty is too great not to be desired, sought, consumed... It pains me to think, to know, that there is some aspect of this beauty that I cannot receive...

It feels like fall...well, as much as these southern regions can achieve a autumnal season. The Chinese maples are turning crimson and scarlet, the sycamores are yellowing and the unidentified trees on the ridges of the hills have turned into bright golden splashes against a green background. For, because of the rains, the hills are still green, and there is grass growing on the mounds behind campus. The air, and even the quality of the light, is...distant, cool and remote. The winds carry on them a certain something, a sharpness not felt on the skin, but in the soul.
(I'm not making any sense, but that's ok...I am tired from trying to think about what I am thinking...I don't want to keep loosing my thoughts...)

My thoughts, when I manage to notice them, have recently been taken up by the ideas of time and life and death. Today in class, I was following my own train of thought (rather than the class discussion) and I managed to scribble the main, though still incoherent thoughts in my philosophy notebook: time...death...change...life...eternity...die to self leads to life; cling to self/life leads to death...openness to life brings love...pain...
In Mass the metaphor changed to wine, and the cup of life. I want to live...the desire is almost physical. I want life, to drink it to the bottom of the cup, to the very dregs, along with all that is contained within the cup. And He is that Life that I want...

I don't ever want to be a teacher!!!! No offence to all of you who happen to be teachers, I think you are awesome and I really don't see how you do it. But I would simply go insane. All that paperwork, I couldn't handle it. I have seven students now, and I only talk to them over the phone and correct some of their work. But to have to do all it, for upwards of 25-30 students... No, not for me. I figure if I pay my dues now, I will not end up in the small private Catholic school in the Midwest...

~ ~ ~

On another note, Henryk Gorecki is amazing. One of my tutors lent me Gorecki's Symphony No 3, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. I must have listened to it three or four times that first day... I sat at my desk, watching the rain pour down, consumed in the pain, the sadness, the sheer beauty of it. And at the same time, it is also full of hope. The very ending of the symphony, an A major third (I think), leaves you with a feeling of, I don't know how to express it...its almost a feeling of life, the indominatable spirit of man. And the text for the songs is heart rending.
Right now I am listening to Gorecki's Miserere. There are seven Polish folk songs on the album, and I am completly in love. I wish I knew more about my Polish ancestry. I suppose that is one downside of being an American, it is so easy to loose track of where you are from and who came before. Some day, I will learn...

The moon was so beautiful last night. Clouds had rolled up the valley and the hills were slowly being consumed. As the cover thickened, the moon would slip out and cast a clear and brilliant light down on grounds. The real world seemed to end just beyond the light up buildings, beyond was dark, shadows with texture and dimention. Gradually though, the clouds massed and the moon was no longer able to find the thin spots, and the darkness took on a different quality. As I paced up and down the only sidewalk on campus that seems to get a clear signal, I listened to a dear voice relating problems and heartache, choices and oppotunities. And I wanted to echo my request of the previous night, "Let me help. Please, give me something to do." There is little enough I can do, pray and keep watch. Why does this seem to not be enough? Indeed, it is all Our Lord asked of His own diciples on that night in the garden. So, with a heart heavy with love-shot longing, I prayed. Last night, today, hardly even conscious of it at times. I am trying not to think of what will happen when this longing abandons me, no need to seek out trouble before it comes to you of its own accord. Perhaps this, in part, is the answer to my questions of "why now..."

I just found this quote from JRR Tolkien, and it rang so true...
"I put before you the one great thing to love in earth: the Blessed Sacrament... There you will find romance, glory, honor, fidelity, and the true way of all your loves upon earth, and more than that: death: by the divine paradox, that which ends life, and demands the surrender of all, and yet by the taste (or foretasts) of which alone can what you seek in your earthly relationships (love, faithfulness, joy) be maintained, or take on that complexion of reality, of eternal endurance, taht every man's heart desires."

Something drove me off campus yesterday, an errant feeling of urgency come to find me perhaps. It was still raining, and cold-ish, with a wandering wind that seemed to reflect my unsettledness of spirit. I headed out to the hills behind campus, the old familiarity ensuring that I'd be able to walk without seeing and not risk wandering off a cliff. The churned up mud brought to mind tales of man's creation and earthly end. "Remember man that thou art dust..." "And the Lord took some clay..." I'd forgotten how different the very smell of nature is when it rains. I could smell pines, and something sweet and unseen. The stream was strangely sounding melancholy, though, which at the time did not strike me as odd, but now I wonder what was troubling it. The footprints of the hosts of hikers had been washed away, and I could loose myself in the wandering story that sprang to mind without reminders of the "real world." As I walked back, I stopped in the middle of the stream, letting the rain fall. It seemed to respond to my unknown request and gradually grew harder. Looking up to the trees and hills that surrounded me, I felt at one and the same time, completely foreign and perfectly in place. And so it goes...
~ ~ ~
Last night I walked outside and looked up, expecting to see the same fog and clouds which have covered the sky for the last few days. It was gone. I saw the stars, clear, bright and completely unexpected. They were absolutely breathtaking. As I continued walking, I saw that the fog had ringed the campus, was climbing the hills, and filling the valley off to the west, but for whatever reason, had cleared overhead. It was like the campus was wreathed with the fog and crowned with a cap of stars. The air was cool, but not the clinging, chill damp of the earlier day. It was such a delicious feeling to wander the sidewalks (avoiding the puddles filled with drowned worms) and see the fog drifting through the trees and look up and see the stars. You could almost feel the starlight drifting down, mingling with the fog.

It's raining here for the first time in months. And I think the wet, cold, gloom of it is making me depressed. This is very sad. I was estatic when it began, but now I am beginning to wonder if being here in the land of the almost perpetual sun had not in some way messed with my head. At home it rained nearly all the time and I loved it. Too much sun was boring and I would long for the rain. After living here for a year, and still longing for the rain, now that I have it, part of me wants the sun back. The sun came out for a bit yesterday, and caught the prism I have hanging on the window, sending faerie rainbows dancing across my walls. I was at one and the same time, thrilled to see the sun and my faeries, and sad to see the rain stop and the clouds breaking up. This is a wretched conflict to have in one's self...I don't think I'll be able to live somewhere it does not rain more often.

I wrote this last night, and had forgotten about it until just a few minutes ago...

Sitting on the outside
always looking in
Peter Pan without the safety
of Neverland to fly back to.

Think back, concider
am I guilty of the self-same fault
my heart accuses another of?
Feeling forgotten
glanced at and passed over.
"What does not happen
is simply not meant to be."
Would that my lonesomeness
believed this simple reasoning
No this is no more true
than to say "What is, ought to be."
For this is not always so.

Waiting, watching
listening, longing
there is naught to be done
quiet acceptance is all that remains.

The rain is falling all around...

I was sitting in class this afternoon and I made the mistake of looking out the window behind the tutor's head. The hills were completely swathed in fog and the rain was falling just hard enough to be heard on the roof...needless to say my concentration was shot. so I made the most of a sorry situation, and this is what came out.

 

The rain is falling

soft and steady

stilling all my haste.

 

My thoughts rise up

with the clouds in the valley

their object far, far away.

 

They wend their way

along the coasts, seeking

the sea - sad, dark, and low.

 

A cry, sharp and clear,

longing and freedom

personified in a single sound,

brings me back to the valley.

 

thoughts in the fog...
the wanderlust is growing in my heart, along with the ache of loneliness. ah, this familiar of mine, surrounded by gourps of people, laughing, talking. I know any of them would welcome me, but the sense of belonging is lacking.
i wish i could wander into the fog, through the fog, and come back somewhere new. i wish there were some way to hold the fog in myself...the calm, impassive quiet- i want to hold it close.
the shapes of the trees are bluring and melting. the oaks seem to possess a secret they will not share. they hold it secure in the branches with the fog to give them strengh.
there are roses in bloom all around me. their sent is perhaps on the air, but the faintes breex jsut woke up and is now making the flower heads to sway and nod.
what is the fog? the scientific account does not satisfy, is not enough. there it too much to be felt in the fog- damp, chill, stir of air, settling of sound, diffusion of light. it calls and calms, inviting confidences and introspection. everything is muted, life- its problems an pains- become less important.

~ ~ ~

So for a week I've been avoiding the paper I roughed out Sunday night. I was mad at the world and stung by the injustice of everything when I wrote it and I wanted to wait until I could reaproach it with some objectivity. The objectivity came last night sitting in the fog that blanketed the campus and is just now beginning to break up. I sat and scribbled, curled up in a patio chair, listening to the wandering conversations and random snatches of music...
Later hearing the warm voice of a friend excitedly telling me about the concert of the evening and the week-end's plans, I found the world shifting, ever so slightly, back into a more tolerable frame. The longing is a good thing, it keeps you searching and waiting and watching, never too settled in this life.

I was thinking about getting old today, of the possibility of someday having a husband and children, and grandchildren. It seems like such a strange and foreign idea. I remember when I was a very small girl, perhaps four or five, thinking that the eighth graders in my school were so very big. My circle of friends has always been made up of people older than me in age, but equals in other ways. But, I don't feel grown-up, I don't seem to think and feel in any way differently from how I recall thinking and feeling as a small child. Its so odd to think of having changed and not realize it...and that this unrealized changing will continue for as long as I live.

Goldfish are going to bankrupt me!!! I love fishes, they're so delicious! Cheezy I know, but so are the crackers....

My fancy was caught by a collection of Arabian poems in an anthology that my roommate picked up at the library book sale. I think I might be able to get it back if I post some of them. Things get rather lonesome without one's fancy...

Tears
Tears, ere they death, for many a one I shed.
But thine are all my tears since thou art dead.
To comforters I lend my ear apart,
While pain sits ever closer to my heart.

Thy Garden
My thoughts are as a garden-plot, that knows
No rain but of thy giving, and no rose
Except thy name. I dedicate it thine,
My garden, full of fruits in harvest time.

To Lighten My Darkness
To lighten my darkness,
I look for the red crescent of her lips
And if that comes not
I look for the blue crescent
Of the sword of death.

Oh, joy of friends gathered upon the cool meadow
To drink wine handed by white hands!

Flowers of Spring in the meadow
Between spread slim fingers!
You sit drinking the tulip-coloured wine
In the midst of this green earth
With all her waters.

Love
Love was before the light began,
When light is over, love shall be;
O warm hand in the grave, O bridge of truth,
O ivy's tooth
Eating the green heart of the tree
Of man!

And an Irish one for good measure...

Ideal

~Padraic Pearse

Naked I saw thee,
O beauty of beauty!
And I blinded my eyes
For fear I should flinch.

I heard thy music,
O sweetness of sweetness!
An I shut my ears
For fear I should fail.

I kissed thy lips
O sweetness of sweetness!
And I hardened my heart
For fear of my ruin.

I blinded my eyes
Any my ears I shut,
I hardened my heart
And my love I quenched.

I turned my back
And the dream I had shaped,
And to this road before me
My face I turned.

I set my face
To the road here before me,
To the work that I see,
To the death that I shall meet.

~ ~ ~
2 am is such a random time. One thinks the strangest things...and music sound better.

the one frustrating thing about this, is that you still cannot write everything here. you will still run into things and events that you just can't put up. and that's all i have to say right now.

My familiar has returned. I thought I could loose it in the bustle of school and work, but it found its way back to me. It prompts me to think cynically that when all others fail me, when they go off and leave me standing wondering where everyone has gone, it will still be here, tenderly caressing my already sore heart with thorny and bitter thoughts.

I am sitting here in my computer haunt with my tea cup Barker before me, staring
at the opening of a three day week-end with nothing in sight but a paper. The tea burn on my arm throbs, but the angry red streak is slowly subsiding. The public radio station, coming in over my little radio placed on the desk across the room, is having their fall pledge drive. Someday I will be in a finantial position to support public radio, but now I can only listen and be greatfull. I owe much to public radio, it was my introduction to music of all sorts - classical, jazz, blues - as well as a host of random programs and old radio shows.

I have decided to admit that I am not, or rather have not been, feeling well, and have actually been fighting off a cold or flu or something unpleasant all week. This convieniently explains the
aches in my back and legs and arms that make walking across campus with a bookbag full of Aristotle and Augustine and Ptolemy such a tiring chore. I don't think being in denial about more than one thing is healthy for mind, body, or soul. Of course this leaves the question, "What am I in denial about now?" but if I told, then I wouldn't really be in denial, now would I?

What do we mean when we say that time is dear, or that something costs to much time? Do we simply mean that we don't want to devote however much time we think it will take to whatever it is we were thinking about doing? I highly doubt that we are thinking about the fact that we have a limited amount of time in this life and there for must use it wisely. Time is our allowance from eternity, portioned out to us while we are here in this unglorified mortal body. And it really is limited, when you think about it. A friend of mine was telling my about his plans to hike the Pacific Coast Trail from Mexico to Canada the summer after he graduates here. He is expecting it to take four months and he is so very stoked, he positivly glows while he is talking about it. But he knows that if he does not do it that summer, then he never will. Time is funny like that, it never comes back to where it was, and while there is more of it in front of you, as far as you can tell, but you can't keep pushing back the things you want to do.
Tempus fugit, take it, live. If you are willing to take advice from one who is still figuring all this out.

I saw the Therese movie with my father this evening. It was very will done, and I enjoyed it very much. I admit that I cried at several scenes, particularly Therese's death, which was very beautifully done. I can't think of anyone I'd have rather seen Therese with, it made me remember again how much my own father loves me.

I was at a birthday party last night and someone started singing "Tom Dooley" with a very up-beat and happy sounding tune, instead than its own rather introspective and slightly sad feeling melody. This of course sparked much conversation at that end of the table, ranging from the ridicululousness of singing "Tom Dooley" to anything but "Tom Dooley," to whether Tom really killed Laura/Laurie or not, and if he did, what his motiveation was. So this evening, being Thursday, I went and found the lyrics to said "Tom Dooley." Here is the best site I found: http://www3.clearlight.com/~acsa/introjs.htm?/~acsa/songfile/TOMDOOLE.HTM. There were a few other sites with the version the Kingston Trio sings, but this site gave the most background info, as well as a few more verses.

Random thought of the evening: jasmine tea is wonderful. Just add a little raw sugar, a very little mind you. Sip slowly and listen to good music. It will cure a host of ills, real and imaginary.

Second random thought of the evening: small-ish black tea cups are enchanting. I have one named Barker. It is the perfect shape and size for sipping jasmine tea.

Third random thought of the evening (and this one is not connected to the previous two): I want to be like the sanctuary flame that burns before the Tabernacle. Always before the Lord, perhaps wavering and flickering, but never extinguished. Consumed by and at the same time consuming the purest form of Love.

One-sided conversations with my newly discovered fountain pen...as yet I have not figured out how to make it answer me...

"Hello? Do you work? Will you continue to work for me? I will use you faithfully if you will, for you flow as smoothly as my thoughts are wont and the idea of using real flowing ink is enchanting."
"Do you still work? I think so."
scratch -- scratch -- twist -- turn -- press -- hold higher -- bend lower hmm, write, think slower, you can't write as fast...

Fog's cleared, hills are still haze covered, the trees indistinct. I feel a quiet happiness and satisfaction at having figured out how to make this work. Now I feel as if my thought are as flowing and free as the ink that flows from the tip of my pen.

"Why don't you want to work? I want to use you in a fitting manner, perhaps take you to class, but if you don't behave and give me a steady ink flow then you are no good to me and it's back in the drawer with you!!!"
"It's very unkind of you not to behave on a regular basis. How am I supposed to learn to write beautifully if you won't work when I want to practice? It's all very, very unkind...Or perhaps its my fault, perhaps it that I don't know how to use you to the best of your ability. Because you seem to be working quiet nicely now...but then again it might e a fluke and I am just being deluded into thinking that I really have gotten the hang of this and you really are going to start behaving now..."

I wanted to write this one because I had been listening to some of the girls talk about their families. It was all very funny, and it made me happy to hear them laughing and talking together. I wanted to try and capture the mood, light and cheerful. But something happened while I was writing, and this is what came out instead.

Laughing talking
stories shared, all before my eyes.
Cold stone beneath me
reminding me of where I belong.
I love to hear others
yet rarely speak myself
longing to be noticed but unwilling
to draw attention.
Is not the joy of another enough
for me, what need for more
have I?
The moon is sustained by reflected light
why then should I seek
a source from within myself?

~ ~ ~
This one I was working on all day...it was one of those days. I warn you, gentle reader, I indulged the melodramatic portion of myself while writing this... Of course it may well have been the four cups of coffee and the fact that it was nearly 2am...

I cry to the Wind
the tears that pride refuses
to let fall filling my voice
"Where has he gone-
Can you see him still-
he that travels
the long road,
the road drawing him
continually away from me?"
"Hush, small one" whisks
the dry North wind
"he is here, coming
toward me now
to my deep, pine shaded abode."

The clouds that filled the sky
have been swept away,
swept along the floor of the heavens
as so much dust.
The stars shine cold
filling the very air
with their clear hazy light.
As the moon is slowly drawn
below the crest of the hill,
a chill finger of air swirls about me
causing me to shiver
shifting on cold stone
hearing again what is not there to be heard.
I sift through words thoughts
trying to piece together
what I had held so precariously
and let fall.
Gradually a simulacrum
of the sensible and practical forms,
and the wandering Muse,
who had kidnapped my bedfellow Sleep,
is appeased with the small stream
flowing from my soul.
Following that false semblance
and the shadow of lost Sleep
I betook myself to bed.

It's Thursday night, and that means it is time for another edition of "random thoughts" (although, I don't know that ever time for anything other than random thoughts).
Tonights random thought: people often, if not always, outgrow things and places before they can move onto something new. I find this to be very interesting. I know it was the case for me, before I left home to come to school. I had been ready to leave for over a year, but because of the way things were, I could not. A number of my friends here in the senior class have also "outgrown" being in school, but the year is not over, so they wait. Waiting is so frustrating sometimes. I do hope that I do not outgrow being here too soon...

~ ~ ~
Today is the feast day of St Pio (Padre Pio) who I was just informed is the (or one of the) patron saint for finding a husband...
well, be that as it may, Padre Pio, ora pro nobis.

Unfinished poem...

Sitting in a little room
that is not my own
the white walls looming, towering
I quiver with emotions
I do not feel
pain already cauterized
loss already accepted.
Distraction is sought
work comes with effort
desired not for its own end
but for the sake of the block
which is provides my words.

Kneeling in a little room
that is not my own
the cool silence pressing, close
I am still
offering pain and loss
seeking knowledge of Another's Will
beside me...

Ack!!! I have a problem: I am the oldest and I think like it which in turn means I act like it. Now this is ordinarily not a problem, but when my friends start acting foolish, it starts coming out. The urge to take them in hand and make them take care of their homework on time, or clean their room, or do whatever it is they are currently be moaning the lack of ability to do, is nearly irresistible. And so, in order not to come off as a bossy little so-and-so, I become rather insensitive and seemingly uncaring. This does not help them or me. And so I sit, while they complain about not finishing the work before class, and how much they want to take a break from class work, or how miserable they are because this person is avoiding them or won't talk to them, or... the list goes on and on. I don't know how to give advice in such a way as to not come off as telling them how to run their lives. The art of suggestion has yet alluded my grasp. Thus, I continue to watch them be unhappy and listen to them ask me what to do to make things right, all without the ability to make things better.
There, my big sister/mother needs/instincts have been taken care of, at least for the time being. I can go back to being insensitive and handing out flippant advice. Hurrah for instant publishing!

I went for a walk this evening around the perimeter of campus. I'd been feeling slightly sad and weary of heart, and having a good amount of studying to do this evening, it was all I could afford. The sun had just set beyond the hills to the west of campus and the ridges to the east were drenched with a golden pink glow that somehow masked the dead brown they usually are. The birds that I know are somewhere around here but usually see no sign of were out and singing to each other as they harvested their evening meal of insects. As I headed up the hill, I was reminded why skirts are usually abandoned when walking, but as I am lazy, I simply put up with having my stride shortened by nearly half. I round the corner and catch a glimpse of the near half moon, glowing with the light leftover from the sunset. My thoughts drift back to yesterday, the hike, sunset and moonglow, the sound of the birds chattering down on the lake shore in the small valley, the peaceful restlessness I had felt. I was brought back to the present by the ache and wobbling my legs as I headed down the hill. I was rather glad I was wearing a skirt then, being observed to have one's knees shake and feel like stiff jello is somewhat embarrassing (though telling about it afterward is not ;-). Wandering through the temp buildings that currently serve as offices for the school faculty, I heard the laughter of small voices from the field below. Walking up I could see a mother on a red blanket, with a little bit of a girl tottering in the grass beside her. Down she toppled, only to laugh, and again stand up, her red hair seeming to be a lost snippet of the sunset that was now fading from the hills. I stood watching, gratefully unobserved for a short period of time. I am convinced that sight has a weight of its own, for within a few moments the mother looked up, saw me on the hill and waved. Calling out to the precariously balanced tot, I waved in return and continued on, hearing the shouts and chatter of her siblings fade into the background silence. Now twilight and dusk both have given way to the night and the moon has her own proper shine. I can see little out the window, my reflection being tossed back at me through the blinds seeming to chide me for the time spent on this instead of my studies. Silly reflection, and almost equally foolish source, it will all get done in time.

What does it mean to "lose your self"? Something in me is telling me to "lose my self" and I am not really sure what it means. Self giving? Sacrifice? I feel as if I were caught by a bit of spiderweb, its just enough to feel, to know its there, but I can't quite shake it off. I need to figure this out. But, for now this need is not a weight, but a sense of being drawn along...hmmm, its becoming hard to explain. I think I will return to my books. It's so nice to be able to read what one wants for a day.

Random thought of the evening: angels love. Yeah, yeah, I know, that's along the lines of "um, duh?" but think about what that means. Angels are pure spirit, they have intellect, but no bodies, which means any motions (i.e. emotions) come from their will. They love, hate, have anger, all without feeling. Emotions have are based in the will. I think this is really cool, and very reassuring at times when I feel nothing, but know that I still love.

~ ~ ~
I am sitting in a small white room, listening to Indigo Girls, and waiting for phone calls that I hope will not come. I was reminded today that sleep is actually a very pleasant past time and perhaps ought not to be bartered so easily. It seems that as I become busier, when I need time I can always get up earlier and go to bed later. I mean, what else am I going to do with the time? As long as I can function everything is good. Until you start needing enormous mugs of very strong coffee to get you though the morning...
Its Thursday night - the week went by so quickly. I am still sorting out the events of last week-end, and have not yet gotten to the things of this week, and now I have another week-end looking at me over the head of Friday. I once heard somewhere that there is a theory that the speed of light is slowing down. I hope that is true, I can use all the time I can get a hold of.
Which brings to mind a song that I have always liked "Time in a Bottle." Poor song, its now trying to compete with the Indigo Girls, and is not making much headway. How does it run...? "If I could hold time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do, is save every day til eternity passes away, just to spend it with you..." I think the lyrics are on my door...if they aren't, they should be.
Closing thought: someday (hopefully soon), I am going to learn the art of letter writing. I don't think that its a dead art, its just moved into the underground...

Conversation Threads

While sleep beckons through the scent of leather
Voices murmur, ebb and flow
The crimson thread runs on before me
Gliding and dancing beyond my grasp.

Confusion piques interest
The thread for a moment is mine
Distinctions unravel the bit in my grasp
And it runs on again.

Wandering from here to there
Finding such depth in narrow passages
The crimson is lost among the shadows
Fading in and out of sight.

Agreements reached, clarified, revised
The thread appears tangled before my eyes
Then class is over and motionless it sits
The crimson thread waits to be taken up again.

All I have to say about class last night has been summed up quite well by one of my classmates.

Voids in Seminar
~Wyoming

One wonders where the void is
Within fluorescent rooms
It is amoung the bodies
And may await at tombs
Even more than here or there
I know where it lies
As I cease to really care
Void becomes my heart's cries.

~ ~ ~
On a brighter note, lab is getting cool. We got to play with fire today. Fire is good.

Why is it that the discovery of something so precious and beautiful can rock your world to its foundations? After Mass this morning, I found myself with my head burried in my arms, shaking with the desire to sob and not allowing myself to. I begged to be shown what it is I am to do, grasping the only sure thing I have left, my desire to do only God's will. (and I can't even really call that "mine," for it is only by grace I can even cling to that) No answer came, nothing but a feeling of having once again given myself over, a sense of surrender.

~ ~ ~
Freedom - love - trust - friendship
where does one end and the other begin? the lines, if there were any in the first place, are bluring, and they keep merging and melting into each other...

~ ~ ~

(and now for something completely different...)
To be sung to a low, jazzy tune:

Denique, meum amatum hic venit
meas tristes dies victas sunt
et vita carmen est.

by the Sprit, after studying Latin vocabulary on two hours of sleep.

And throwing myself into such illustrious company as I find out here, I too will share my offerings to the Muse...

Be still...

leaning back
encircled but not caged
close but not bound
free but held in place
warm skin, rough shingle
rest comes so easily
trees over head
stars above shining through
breeze stirs
sents mingle, tease
voices low, cease
the rest cannot be

~ ~ ~

(titles have never been a forte, and so this one will do without)

Hand move gently across my back
feeling the warmth through the fabric of my shirt
softly, softly drawing out
each deep sigh.

Head resting upon my knees
the heavy weight of hair thrown over my shoulder
work tempered hand caress my neck
tenderly pressing hidden pain into oblivion.

"Does it really go on forever?"
lying on the roof, hair filled with leaves
"I think so." Made by God, infinite in nature
ought not His cape share this too?

Stolen thoughts...

I wandered into my room last night and found these. I asked and was told I could do what I wanted with them...

Nicotine Spins
~Gigi

My dry lips stick to the paper
as I savor the fumes and heat
of my cigarette
I take off my shoes as the warmth
stretches past my toes
and the world around me
moves in nicotine spins
I see a dog rolling in the cool grass
and my bare feet covet the sensation
But my perfectly practical skirt
refuses to surrender to childlike impulses
So I sit, confined to my cigarette
And think of you
The smell of smoke
and the embers of a weak flame
mark the times we had
and the awkward moments we now possess
If I could love you
the way I want to
my feet would not move
in anticipation
ready to travel the great distances
it would have to take to touch your heart
I desire to frantically revive the dying and the dead,
the intense fragility
that fills the space between
my life and yours
and the last breaths of strange incense
but the weary organ that lives in this cage of flesh
beats against my compulsion
and stays my trembling hand.

~ ~ ~

(this one did not have a title...)
~Gigi

Perhaps it was the gin
and whiskey, when
in the first lighting of cold stars
I tugged impatiently
at your sleeve
pick me instead?
The tears flowed free
just like the liquor
and your hands touched my cheek
wiped away my tiny rivers
and cleaned new glasses with your dirty shirt
Maybe it was the moonlight
that caused your lips to taste
like the sweet savor of spring
to the tiniest of flowers
and the dark quiet of night
that transformed my plain face
into something of beauty to you
but just
as your love is a moon
whose cycles are ever changing
I am the sun
and while the warm rays of my arms
reach out to comfort your
wandering heart
the night has now turned to
day
and the mysteriously seductive light
has become the exposing and cruel
sun
and all that is left
is the smell of
gin.

The Sprit walks in yesterday and drops a note on the desk: "Come see me ASAP (take your time)" I finish up and wander down the hall. As I open the door, she says "Ok, let's go" I take in the bookbag, small cooler, the hat, and ask if I should change and bring a water bottle. Within 10 minutes we are heading down the highway, windows down and I am feeling free. I had no idea where we were going, but it did not matter. (I admit it was very, very hard not to ask, being the control freak that I am) Down the Grade, hit the beginning of town.
"Thats the road to Rich's house," she says.
"Yes, but can you get there once you turn on it?" I reply.
"Perhaps."
We continue on down the road. "We're going to Vons" she suddenly pipes up. Ok, I think, we're having bread and cheese for lunch. The required victuals are purchased and we go on. I still haven no idea where we are going to end up, and the curiosity is about ready to leap out of my mouth. So I calmly refrain from speaking, watching the houses and trees pass us by.
"Oh," she seems surprised "we're going to the beach."
How she can read my mind, and not know it, I will never fathom.
We drive up, find a parking space and pile out. The sand is hot under my bare feet. The salt spray, the sound of the sea gulls, the random yip of a dog, sing to me of freedom. We have 20 minutes to eat our lunch if we are to get back to school in time for classes, but we somehow make them stretch.
Sitting there, feeling the sun on my skin, the east wind running his fingers lightly through my hair, I could feel the tension of the week lifting from my shoulders, the tightness melting from my back.
As we drive back, I murmer "Thank you...I needed that so much"
"I thought you did. I don't know why, but I thought you did."

God is good.

Odd isn't it, how thinking about something you want or seek to be will make you so profoundly aware that you lack it. Until I was reminded that I must be content with where God has me at the moment, I was happy with how things are. Granted they weren't perfect, but then things never are. But since I've been thinking about it, I am satisfied with nothing. Not my habits and interests, not the things that up until a few days ago gave me pleasure, not even the distractions that I seek out. I wander around wanting something more, or something to change. Discontentment has planted itself with in my breast, and my efforts at killing it are failing. I look around at my life and there is nothing more I can do bring satisfaction. I have no more time to give, and I feel like if I give any more, I will have nothing left of myself to give either.
One slip - a small crack - a single doubt, that's all it takes for the Devil to get in and the fall begins once again.
ye gods, I hate falling....

I feel like I am drowning in a small, shallow pool of filthy water. I want to scream, but it would only hasten the inevitable end. There is no use in kicking or thrashing, there is no one to come and help.
The only time I really feel the desire to cause myself physical pain is when I am so frustrated I start to shake. Somehow the pain becomes something real and solid, something I can grasp and embrace. The tension that has built up in me finds release in the flow of blood. It gives me something to focus on, other than the thing outside me I can not grasp or fix or partake in.
I walked into that room this evening hoping I would come to understanding and increase knowledge. But there was nothing, mindless drivel. Is it my own stupidity??? Am I just not able to understand what is being said, how it applies to anything? How it is supposed to illuminate the material?

No, I did not actually harm myself... there is a reason I do not yet own a knife....

What is it about this mode of communication that makes people feel safe to write what they do? I've told more about myself in the last however-long it's been since I started this thing, to more people (I think) than I would otherwise tell in a year to my close friends... why is this? Is it the anonymity? Probably not, I have a feeling most of the people who read this know who I am. Interesting....
~ ~ ~
I went wandering over the week-end with my roommate, the Sprit and Toque. It was one of the most unique and enjoyable days of my life. I had only a vague notion of where we were headed and I didn't care. This was a great accomplishment for me, being the control freak I am. We went up mountain and down mountains, crossed deserts and drove through scrub forests. I saw some of the most desolate expanses of land I have ever seen, either driving or flying, and this includes some of the towns we drove through. I've always known I had the blood of wanderers in me, but now I can feel it.

(excerpt of letter written 2 Sept. edited for content)

 

Hey, you remember last night when we were speaking about “the familiar ache”? I’ve been thinking about what you said and what I said (for what it was worth) and listening to music (which often will conjure up the Ache as well as any sunset or silent forest) and it occurred to me that it what I was feeling was a sense of loss. But not a loss of something I had or ever possessed. A loss of a part of me, a weight on the center of my being, painful to the point of being a physical ache. Some times so strong I have trouble drawing breath. And yet, beautiful beyond words (which is exactly why I am trying to write now…hope springs eternal, and all that…)

 

perhaps this Ache (sorry, I see it in that way in my mind and so it appears on the page that way)Â…perhaps this Ache is part of what makes us human. When God made Adam, He saw that it was not good for the man to be alone. Mayhap, our first father shared this Ache, this longing for some the inexpressible (if it were possible for someone who sees God to desire something else). Perchance this is why God made EveÂ… it may be that this Ache is our desire to be united with someone is a way that is no longer possible because of the Fall. But because of our human nature, we still share itÂ….

 Why do we keep trying to explain what this is? What is it in us that seeks to know what we are feeling and why? Why canÂ’t it be enough to know that it is a beautiful and oh-so-very human yearningÂ…

 

Life is starting to kick into gear, well school life anyway. I haven't the foggiest what "real life" consists of; to me its this amorphous collection of things you have to do, places you can't go anymore, and bills. Somehow bills are always associated with the haze that is "real life". I was talking (random tangent: is there a difference between talking to someone and speaking with someone? I wonder??) anyway, I was mulling over a somewhat related thread with Toque last night. He said that no matter what state of life you're in - real, school, after school, somewhere in between - you need to stop every once in a while and just look around at the beauty of life and the world (I am not doing justice to his words...)
I think this year will be full of wandering and exploration. Campus and the hills around are beautiful and work wonders on a restless soul, but I want to see more. Its a good thing that the Sprit has Darling and that she is in decent condition. For the road is calling, and there is a tug on my heart that will not be ignored, and my feet have too long tread the same trail...
---
And now back to your regularly scheduled broadcast....

Words - so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
-Nathaniel Hawthorne, writer (1804-1864)

I saw this and I had to post it. Something to remember for all of us who write so much of ourselves into these sites.
~~~~
Life is so strange sometimes. You think you have a handle on it by giving it all over to God and that because of this, you are ready for anything. Which is true, in a sense, but some part of you is still surprise at how He has things work. I left for home thinking I had a pretty good idea of how things were going to be during the year, and when I got back I realized that things had changed and I had no clue. It hurt, the knowledge of having lost certainty about a situation, becoming uncomfortable and unsure around people you care about. But in the last week or so, I've found a new friend and renewed already established friendships. And while I am still not sure of how things will work out this year, I'm not going to worry.

School has begun and already I am feeling that there are things I must do. The summer is truly over. During summer I felt no obligations, I was not bound to anyone or anything. Sure, I had to work, but it was (for the most part) a pleasure. I went and did and saw who I wished. Now, I am bound, to my studies and class schedule, to my new job, even to my friends. Burdens I shed for the summer have settled once again upon my heart, things that I thought I could perhaps ignore and they would somehow resolve by themselves. Foolish, dangerous thought.
I spent the last real evening of the summer with the Sprit and Toque, perched on a hillside in the mountains of the surrounding area. I watch the sunset fade and the stars come out. The moonlight was so very brilliant. We spoke of truth and beauty, pain and forgiveness, and most of all Love. After the inquisition of the previous night it was such a relief to be able to speak what had been welling up in me in reply.

Freedom is such and heady and addicting thing, a single sip and it becomes so hard to set the cup down and once again take up one's duties.

I don't want to sleep. I should, I have an early morning and it is rapidly approaching. So why am I still here, looking at this screen, sitting in the corner of my quiet, sleeping house?

I was afraid today, and I could not overcome it. For the first time in a very long while, perhaps even ever, I did not- could not- make myself do what it was I feared. I backed out. The worst part was, I could have done it. I know I could have made myself do it - I just did not care enough. I climbed up and looked over the edge, and I stood there and said 'I can't' and I didn't care. I let my fear control me, and I didn't, and in a way still don't, care. That thought almost makes me sick. But if I were to be up there tomorrow, I would back out again. I hate that knowledge, but you know what, I tell myself that I don't care.

I HATE DIAL-UP!!! Funny, I seem to remember saying that quite frequently before I left home...
However bad the computer situation can be sometimes at school, at least once you do get on, you know you will be online for as long as you want. You don't have to worry about loosing the letter you've been writing for the past hour because the connection suddenly went sour. Ugh...

Now that that's out and off my chest I can move on to what I've been wanting to write since I got back from Sydney. Its not much, but I liked it, and I can still see the subject when I read it. So with no further ado:

(excerpt from letter written 2 Aug 2004)

"The sun is setting out at the horizon. Its out on the right and just ahead, which makes sense considering we're flying toward the southwest. It's slowly sinking, leaving the horizon a rainbow which runs parallel with it. The sky above is so very clear, the ocean below is hazy grey with white cloudy fuzz, stretching away to meet the red of the sunset. The sun's gone now and the colours are almost imperceptibly fading. You've heard of the green flash? It's said you can sometimes see it at the exact moment the sun slips below the horizon. Well up here there is a faint green band in the sky. I wish I could draw or paint, or that I were better with words, then I'd be able to show you what I am seeing. It's such a pity, most of the people around me still have their window shades down. They don't know what they are missing.
I am waiting for the first star. I'll make a wish - and being the practical and pragmatic person I am, I'll forget what it was I wished for in less than an hour. But the star won't forget, it will remember and hold my wish for me until I need it back... And there it is, just where the sky begins to darken to a proper night-time shade.
"Star light, star bright..." You know how the rest of it goes.
The horizon is still changing colours. You know, I think they actually became more brilliant. It's now an almost tawny orange yellow, nearly the colour of a small hot fire. It is so beautifully gorgeous. I'll have to take you on a trip somewhere, someday, just so you can watch the sunset from up here.
Another star has joined the first, about four fingers down and to the left. The southern night sky will be so very different from our own. The blue is deepening and seems to be pressing the horizon for the last bit of colour. The clouds are now glowing with the same shade of red/orange that I've seen cooling lava take and still it changes. Don't presses squeeze the strongest and most potent juice when it is tightest? The sunset is no different.
The red became a rosy warm coral and now is slowly dying. Each time I look, there is a bit less fire, and the band is a bit thinner. The Night sky, with her two stars, has deepened to a soft velvet black, speckled with pinpricks of light, which I can only see by pressing my forehead again the window. There is hardly any colour left now, the rainbow is beset by Lady Night. She is closing in on three sides, unwilling to share her realm with any who properly belong to the Day. A few more minutes and she will have prevailed. But I will have watched it go, slowly and gracefully, knowing it will return with the morrow."

As we drove, the wind swept past my face, calling up unbidden a now familiar ache. It's the same ache I feel when I'm on the trails behind campus or when someone's arms are around my waist. A feeling of both longing and transient security, a desire for something that I can fit no name to and am unable to fully describe. Sometimes I think that this sense of lack is a desire for the Divine, and at others, that it's simply depression. But then it passes, fading out undying like a candle slowly guttering, and I am left wondering what it was I was thinking while in the betwixt and between. My practical self will tell what's left that I am merely feeling self pity for not being able to obtain whatever it was I wanted but couldn't have. But then the ache will return, and I know it's not self pity. At these times, "lost" echoes through the empty space which the ache creates.

I am going home tomorrow. It will be good to be there, to see family and friends. I would be ungrateful if I did not feel so. But the knowledge that I don't belong anymore, and at the same time, that I have been irrevocably formed and will always carry some of it with me, will not be shaken.

We did discuss living vs survival the other night, in the welcome darkness, with our cups of hot drink.  Survival can produce nothing but life, and that alone. The rational soul desires to live, to create, to do something beyond the mere functions of survival. This is the reason for even the most primitive societies have music and dance, art and story. Man has something within him which presses him to do more that simply survive.

I wish I could make this do what I want it to.  I know nothing about web page designing, what am I doing with my own page. It's like having your own flowershop and not knowing anything about flowers or having a cafe and not knowing how to cook. I want to move things around and I can't. My usual method of fixing something is to mess around with it until it either breaks beyond repair (this rarely happens) or I figure it out. But here, its not working. Can somebody tell me how to move the stuff at the bottom of the page (the profile, recent posts, archives and links) to the right sidebar. I just can't make sense of the template. Bother and balderdash...

Crazy for feeling so lonely...

I'm sitting here with Patsy Cline running on repeat through my head. I wish I
paid enough attention to get the whole song stuck, but I've only got a few
random lines.

I just found out that a number of my classmates are not coming back. I knew it
would happen, but somehow this made it sink in. Some I did not know very well,
but a few were friends of mine. It hurts to think that I won't be seeing them
in the fall. Its all very well to hear about people not coming back in other
classes; it's easy to say that it's for the best and whatever else comes to
mind. I'm finding that its another story for dealing with your own class - odd,
how that makes a difference. I've been told it is inevitable, that the trend
will continue. Now I have a better idea of what he meant when he wondered who
in his class would make it to graduation. I guess I can let myself miss them
now...

Earlier today I was listening to the radio and a song came on that made me
start wondering: what is the difference between surviving and living? Just to
hear it, surviving connotes getting by, hand to mouth, making it but just
barely. No time for music, or art, or relaxation; no time for pleasure in
general. You are just too busy keeping body and soul together, as it were.
It seems that life ought to be more than this. I think I will bring this up
while I drink tonight. 

Questions

Why are people nice?
 
Why is dancing fun?
 
Why do people want to grow up? And why do they look down on people who stay like children?
 
Why do some let others annoy them?
 
How do people change? Why do they change?
 
Why do people ask questions they know they will never get a satisfactory answer to?
 
Why does the answer "that's life" make so much, and at the same time, so little sense right now?

 
 I gave a friend a massage last night. Nothing unusual about that, except I felt like I knew what I was doing. I really don't, I just try to do what I think would feel best if I were the one being massaged. This mind set of doing what I would like to have done if I were in their place seems to be my innate guiding philosophy.  It doesn't always work, individual idiosyncrasies manage to get in the way sometimes. I don't even really think about it, I'm not sure I every consciously did.

I'm almost ready for the summer to be over and school to begin. There are so many things on the brink of happening, things I am looking forward to, and others I am not. Work, classes, relationships - Change and changes I can see, that are beginning, or are nearly ready to begin. I feel as though I were poised on the edge of a cliff, about ready to jump into the pool of water below, but not quite there. Only Time will bring me to the edge, and beyond.

What is time? I don't think I want that question answered.

Letter

(written on 17 July. Edited for content)
 
Regarding our ongoing topic, I think you have some good points. Your point about man being composed of both natural and supernatural and only then being fully human sounds true. And the ruling of the lower nature by the higher is definitely true. I still think that there is something to what I am trying to say, I'm just not saying it correctly or fully or whathaveyou. I do agree that responsibility plays a huge role in the growing up process, and it is how the weight of responsibility is handled that determines the grown-up-ness (for lack of a better word) of a person. But it seems there has to be something more...Perhaps I am looking at growing up from an emotional level, when is someone emotionally grown-up? I know people who can handle various tasks and duties wonderfully, but are still not really grown-up. Even maturity is not a guarantee of being grown-up...it perplexes me. I will wonder on it some more.   
 
To throw in another topic for discussion, I've been thinking about ends and purposes. How necessary are ends? Let me clarify, how necessary are definite ends, that you can see and understand? Is there any merit or benefit in working toward an end you cannot see or understand in any way? Or working toward an end that you know to be impossible, at least at this time, if not forever? I keep trying to put order into my life, and I look at the things I do and I wonderwhat am I doing this for. I remember hearing the life of a saint, I think it was St. Philip Neri, who asked a young friend of his why he was doing something and what would happen next. The young man had a ready answer for the first few questions, but the saint kept asking "And then?" Eventually the young man answered that he supposed he would die and the saint said something to the extant of "Exactly! And where will you be having spent your entire life working toward material ends?" I look at what I do and ask myself "To what end am I doing this, where will this leave me?" I know I am to work toward God and His Will, and all my ends are to be in line with His...but its hard for this to transcend from the realm of my head to the realm of the heart...Isn't it odd theway you can know something in your head, know that it is something you ought todo or be doing, and it still be totally foreign to the way you think and act?

Reply to musing of mine

(reply to foregoing letter, dated 13 July. Edited for content) 
 
First, I just want to say that I was of the same opinion as you till I thought about the subject after sophomore year. I'm not so sure that it is the wrong way of thinking in principle, and if it is wrong, I (which I believe it to be now)it is  an error in defintion.The reason I say that is because we are composed of a body & soul, the animal & the supernatural, and that is what makes us human. If we separate the two, weare no longer human. Hence the resurrection after the last judgment. Yeah,we're perfectly happy in heaven w/o a body, but we aren't human, strictly speaking. Then there's the problem of ruling. The higher power should always rule the base. Therefore the animal passions of man, good by its nature (God has that peculiar problem - he can't seem to create anything deficient) should not rule man, who has a higher power. Original sin destroyed the natural order, and we are left struggling. But to say the two should be separated seems to me to bethrowing the baby out with the bathwater; besides, we are no more able to accomplish this violence against our nature than to make a man out of dust, if you take my meaning: God made nature; thus we can only pervert the order of nature, not change it.
------------------------------------------------
I suspect there is no simple answer. What you were calling detatchment I called mastery in my last email, denying that really could be detatchment properly speaking. I still hold to that position. And since mastery is only gained by the denial of one's self, hence what has been called detatchment. (so called detatchment [strictly speaking] appears to be gained by a perverse attatchment. Perhaps that is right, perhaps wrong. It's something to meditate on. It could be, looking back on what I'm saying, that I just take the word detatchment a different way than you, and hence we can be both right. I'm not in a position to argue things straight. However, what I said should at least be food for thought. But an answer to the question every child begs his mom: whenwill I get older? I think common opinion (always a good place to start) has it that you are grownup when you can show yourself responsible. Lack of responsibility is what proves a man to be a child, and responsibility proves a child to be a man. That is why mere children could be entrusted to take care of their mothers when their fathers died, and could fight in the Civil War. That is how boys become soldiers in our military. I can only speculate what responsibility is. Does it come fromthe virtues? which ones? Or does one need merely a certain percentage of virtues to be considered a man.

How, gone?

W is back in town. I have not seen him since school let out. He left without saying good-bye, without a word. After saying that, because of a year of smiles when he needed them and a few acts of kindness, he'd be "my friend forever." I don't doubt we're still friends, but his leaving hurt so much. Why? Because of his (perhaps) careless words, and I believed them, silly and foolish girl that I am. Why did I let it mean so much, why let it matter??? Because I wanted a friendship that was safe, that I could count on not changing around me. When everything else was in danger and changing, I wanted to have someone I knew would be safe. I believed him when he said that anytime I needed someone to talk to or just someone to take me away for a while, that he'd be there. I believed because I wanted to, and then he was gone.
Now W is back and I am not sure how to act. I knew him a year, less really, a school year. I have no claim on him, for friendship ought not to be such a burden. So, lost I was and lost I will remain.

This is another test of the remote publication service...

I am really beginning to wonder if I will be able to get this thing off the
ground. It seems like the establishment is conspiring against me, preventing me
from accessing a computer and the internet. Too many coincidences...
It would be so easy to become a paranoid conspiracy theorist...

Today in History

Today is Bastile Day. Seven prisoners freed, and the entire garrison slaughtered. A truly great day in history, marking the beginning one of the most influential events in modern times, the French Revolution. Vive la France...

Letter...

(This letter has been edited for content. Written on 13 July)

'lo John,

I saw Signs for the first time this evening. It was rather good. I can see why
my dad liked it. The real story was not the one you'd tend to focus on while
watching the movie. The renewal of faith of the main character was the real
plot, the rest was just the manner in which it was accomplished. I don't think
that his faith was really dead or gone, if it had been he would not have been
saying "I hate you" over and over while they were in the basement. His faith
had been thwarted and twisted such that he thought that he really did not
believe anymore. But the Providential asthma attack of his son while the alien
was holding him and his subsequent recovery, was not enough to bring back a
faith that was totally gone. It would have been enough to show him how badly he
was twisted though. Perhaps that was what his wife meant when she told him to
"See" just before she died... (I do hope you've seen the movie, because I've
just given away the end)


Time for a serious topic. What makes a child grow up? What is the difference
between a child and an adult, in the truest sense of the word, not simply
meaning "having achieve a certain number of years". I've been thinking about it
and I thing that it is a level or degree of detachment. Let me explain what I
mean by detachment. To me (how Mr. Collins would be grimacing at this)
detachment means a separation of sense perception and basic feelings from the
intellectual and spiritual workings of the soul. I guess, in a way, its
separating the rational from the animal in the nature of man. (I know I really
don't know what I am talking about when I bring up nature, but I'm thinking
aloud, as it were) Granted this separation cannot be total or men would not be,
well, human. I think of it more like a sieve...Anyway, I think this detachment
is the ability to control how the things you sense and feel affect you on a
deep emotional and spiritual level. (Does this make any sense? I've been
thinking about it for a while, most of the summer, but have not really had to
express it very much. Funny how things make so much less sense once you put
them onto paper or try to explain them.) As a child, the smallest things can
make you cry or be happy. And I'm not saying that we should loose our childlike
qualities. But we have to be able to control them, see what things ought to have
a real and lasting effect and what things ought to be let go of.
I'm still thinking about this, so I will probably be bringing it up again.


And now its late. Good night, God bless.

Sleep is a faithless mistress. She will desert your bed at the first sign of trouble, leaving you to toss and turn in the wakeful darkness of your room. Days later, once you have worried your trouble like a bone, shaken it down and given it some semblance of order, she will return, softly, oh, ever so softly. Gently she will hold you in her arms, arms smooth as marble and soft as fine silk. Sweetly, Sleep will kiss your weary eyes, inviting you to relax and forget the cares you have so tediously worked to reduce to naught. She will caress your face, and run her hands down your neck and over your shoulders. You forget to chide her for leaving you for another, for abandoning you in your hour of need. Gradually, you secumb to the invitations of Sleep and, in the end, rest your head on her breast, forgetful of her infidelity, knowing only that your nightly mistress has returned.