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...