Perhaps the saying that absence make the heart grow fonder is true, but time and distance also work wonders on a worn and weary heart and soul. I have flown away from SoCal to the snow laced woods of the Shenandoah Valley and at the moment I have no desire whatsoever to leave. I went sledding this afternoon in the fading winter sunlight down a relatively shallow hill. The snow was all iced over and there were tufts of grass breaking through in random places. Tholnar's coment was that it was like being in Narnia at the end of the Witch's reign. As I looked up at the surrounding hills, letting my eyes wander over the brown tree branches up to the pale blue sky, (and except for the drop in temperature) I couldn't have agreed more...

My postings will be rather spotty and random for the next few weeks. But I will be going into DC a couple of times and midnight mass and hiking and shooting and reading and talking and watching Tholnar milk the cow twice a day - in short just being happy. And then I'll head down to the fey Wandering Minstral's home for more adventures over New Years...
Right now life - for the most part- is good.

Hey I've passed 200 posts... pity I am too worn out to write something long and substantial to commemorate it... other mile markers, my car is (mostly) fixed thanks to the mechanical genius and patience of Toque. I looked down at the odometer last night as I was driving back from the beach and realized that I will not be the one driving when it rolls past 150,000 miles and the thought made me sad... The beach was breath taking last night and not because of the cold. The moon is waxing and the tide was wandering in, long breakers taking on an almost bluish shade in the moonlight. I wished I could have been there by myself instead of with 8 other people... but if not for them I would not have gone at all so in the end it all balances out.
I am in a rambling mood but to no avail, lab final studies are demanding my attention. We'll see what becomes of my writings over the next few days...

A bit of something for all of us coming up on finals...
"The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in.
The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens; it is the logician who
seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits."
~Chesterton

Music, song, laughter, drink - everything one need for the perfect evening...
And it very nearly was. It has been too long since those nights of last year
spent singing until the throat was raw and the voice hoarse. I've missed it so
much more that I allowed myself to realize. How many more such nights lie
ahead? Time moves so quickly, carrying all of us in so many directions. It is
so easy to forget the beauty of the people and the places and time right before
us at this moment while working toward the future...

So I and four other girls are in Flagstaff at the moment. It has been a long eventful day, following upon a particularly long and rather sleepless night. I will share a bit of the day with you thru the medium of photo mostly because I am too tired to write out accurate descriptions of everything that has happended. (I am also too tired to make this come out in chronological order...) The top one is of the girls singing at the top of their lungs to something playing on my computer. The next one down is of the brush we had a "run in" with somewhere between Barstow and Kingsman (my car lost an eye in the encounter...) Then there is the nearly mile long train... and then a testimony to the girl's addiction (seriously - this place was closed and we followed the signs for the next "fresh jerky" shop for well over 100 miles, not that it took us out of way but we were watching the signs...) So tommorw's plan of opperation find a mechanic who can tell me what is wrong with my car (other than being filled with juniper twigs and cactus paws) and fix it for a price I can afford, and then the Grand Canyon (the original reason for this escapade...) More on what happens latter.

If I were the rain that binds together the earth and the sky, who in all
eternity will never mingle, will I be able to bind the hearts of people
together?

It's over and done. This small sheaf of papers waiting to be stapled and laid
outside the prefect's door, the summation of weeks of thought and writing,
seems to be too little to show for all of the work that went into it. But it is
done now and I have a week before I have to start thinking seriously of finals
study.
*sigh*
Time moves far too quickly...

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.
-Ernest Hemingway, author and journalist, Nobel laureate (1899-1961)

This is such a true observation of the "hermetically sealed bottle" we live in. Why is that???

life's noblest lie:
Amor omnia vincit
...it hurts.

I will not attempt to argue with the good senor on his point that I would not have remarked thus if I had known love. I have and it is reflection on this love that lead me to this statement. But that does not express the reflection in its entirety (neither will this though...)

In the end it all depends on the direction one is looking from... from the perspective of mortality and change and imperfection it is true. Men change and thus necessarily so does their love. It waxes and wanes, finds new direction and looses intensity. It is everything man is, it reflects him in all his faults, it is imperfect - it dies. It is the doom chosen for all human things at the moment Adam took the fruit from his wife's hand.
However, in the end, that is not solely what love truly is. From the perspective of the immortal and unchanging and perfect, it is perhaps our closest conception of what God is in Himself. It is all that St Paul described- patient, kind, bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things, never failing, never ending. This is what man was intended for at the first creation and lost in his fall. In the re-creation of the Cross, it is offered to him again but this time with a requirement attached. Man must enter into the sufferings of the Cross, sharing in its the pain and sacrifice in a spirit of submission and willingness and humility. Man's love becomes his cross, drawing him in two contradictory directions, toward heaven and across the earth. And even then the fullness and perfection of love desired cannot be achieved in this life, it is only seen from a distance as Moses saw the Promised Land from the peak of the mountain but could not enter into it.
Man, acutely aware of his passing-ness and imperfection, craves the unchanging and the perfect. And every fiber of his being tells him that this desire ought to be satisfied in goodness, truth, beauty, and most especially in love. It could perhaps be described as his recognition of what was lost in the fall. Man, being the mixture of the mortal and mutable with the immortal and perfectable that he is, is neither able attain the love he desires in this life nor condemned to the merely mortal affections proper to the flesh. He is given both, mortality with the promise of perfection. Change and death are inexcapable and are yet able to be overcome.
Hence I feel justified in saying that man's love fails - it does. But that is not the end of the story because to be true love it must be God's and that we are assured never fails.

Quote of the morning:

"Oh man, the sun is so sunny...and glorious."

hehehehe - what a night of papering can do to one's power's of articulation.

It's so wonderful to be loved... Upon confessing to Sir Jeo that my familiar had
blown in on the winds and had set to work to make me depressed, I was informed
that if he happened upon that unfortunate creature it would be preemporally
shot and then kicked about upon the ground. "Things that make you depressed
ought to be shot!"
"Life goes on," he said "You've got friends, and school, and beautiful
weather...so no frowns. Smile, come on, corners of the mouth up...that's it."
How can one refuse? So I will try to give my familiar a bit of a kick to
dislodge him from his wonted location- entwined about my ankles- and move
along.

Shortly forthcoming, further thoughts or perhaps a modification of my rashness
of the other day.

I've been promising to share my plans for the future for about a week now and the thought occurs to me that I should perhaps give you something to make up for the blatant misery of the previous post. (In addition it gives me a break from my philosophy paper...) I was reminded of them (my daydreams, I mean my plans) again when the lovely student worker from our campus career center tracked me down to subject me their current junior survey. So in simple, humble terms I will lay forth for your perusal my thoughts for my future...

After graduating I plan to wander the world, beginning in Europe and working my way east, staying as long as my money (what I have, what I can make while I'm there, and what I owe due to loans) holds out and perhaps a bit longer after that. The reason for this period of wandering is not entirely frivolous, but I'll come back to that. After the year or so of travel, I am hoping to continue in school, hopefully on the graduate level, but if I have to take some more undergraduate classes that will be fine. And the field? Not theology or philosophy (though I will always study in those areas- its gotten into my blood, its how I think now). I am going to go into conservation and research, so a degree in conservation biology, ecology, or natural sciences is the general aim right now. I need to do more research in the specific degrees, but that is the field. Where is such a degree useful? Government work to begin with, National Forest service, Department of land and natural resources; within the private sector there are conservation agencies and organizations.
Now back to the year or so of traveling. I have noticed that while being here in school will expand one's mind regarding the intellectual life, it can cause a rather narrow view of the world as a whole. Given the way technology and global economics have been developing in the last decade or so, there are few things that happen in one corner of the world that do not affect other parts of it in some way. I want to be able to see how this works first-hand. Further, if I want to enter a field that is concerned with the world as a whole, it will give me an advantage to have a feel for it and some first hand knowledge of it. In addition, I have seen that within the conservation movement, people tend to get dropped out of the big picture. In the more extreme views mankind is seen as a plague upon the earth. I see no danger of this happening to me, but I want to know the people in these areas that are so "crucial to the salvation of the earth."
What draws me to this? Various reasons. I love nature and the outdoors and abhor the idea of being trapped behind a desk as a career. I see the world not as being a possession of man, but as a stewardship entrusted to him for the greater glory of God. Destroying it will not give Him glory and I do believe that we will be held accountable for it in some way. Thinking less theologically but along the same lines, it makes no sense to destroy what has been inherited from our fathers; rather we should strive to be able to had down to innumerable future generations. I find the workings of economics and politics on all levels ( global, national, local) fascinating, and conservation seems to be an apt way of combining many of the areas I am rather passionate about.

So that, in brief, is the direction I'm headed in. Its the "what I want to do when I grow up," modified and refined, that I've had since I was about 12 or 13, having only gotten stronger as time went by. I honestly have no idea where or how a husband or family work into this, but right now I don't have to worry about that...
I do need to start looking into grad schools and degree requirements and grants and scholarships and - but all of that can wait until my paper is finished...

~life's noblest lie:

Amor omnia vincit.



it hurts...

Closing time, open all the doors
And let you out into the world
Closing time, turn all of the lights on
Over every boy and every girl
Closing time, one last call for alcohol
So finish your whiskey or beer
Closing time, you don't have to go home
But you can't stay here

I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
Take me home

Closing time, time for you to go out
To the places you will be from
Closing time, this room won't be open
Till your brothers or your sisters come
So gather up your jackets, move it to the exits
I hope you have found a friend
Closing time, every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning's end

I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
Take me home

Closing time, time for you to go out
To the places you will be from

I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
I know who I want to take me home,
Take me home

Closing time, every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning

So yet another evening has gone by, full of potency and expectation of accomplishing plenty... with little to nothing to show for it. However I have a few more dollars in my pocket and a bit more perspective on the beautiful little bottle I live in most of the time, so perhaps it was not as fruitless as all that.
"Tiny Dancer" is playing on the internet station in the background... I need to aquire some Elton John... I do like his music...
I need to write to you all my discovery of actual plans for the future... it was an exciting discovery on my part I can tell you. But the baristas will be giving me dirty looks soon...

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to
write one story, and writes another, and his humblest
hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what
he vowed to make it.

-J.M. Barrie, novelist and playwright (1860-193o)

Take The Quiz Yourself!


ok I am going to go out on a limb and admit that I am totally into this series...perhaps addicted is a more accurate description....

How I spend my Friday afternoons...

I have lost all sense of home, having moved about so
much. It means to me now - only that place where the
books are kept.

-John Steinbeck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1902-1968)

~Notes from the exile wandering the balcony (ok, its a patio but that does n't
sound as nice) behind the rose hedged wall...

Ink splotches on fingertips
damp blacknes that smears on
everything I touch and then
it dries and will not come off for
love or money or hot water adn soap.
Yes, good quality ink
it will never fade or run or
come off my hands.

A dry heat has settled upon us, apparetly coinciding with the jump to daylight
savings time... I have no idea what the two have to do with each other, but
seeing as they came together I have no reason to think they don't have some
sort of causal relationship.
I've been reading Alice in Wonderland and am caught up in the myriads of
equivocations and puns that I didn't noticed the first time I read it through
years ago. I knew all this education would come in useful somehow...

..and now back into the heat of the day with productivity in mind...

Here's the deal:
1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing. (concider yourself tagged)

Here it is: 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.

Beach day... I remember it well. And to think we were running away in the same car that Toque was driving in his tagged account. Too weird...

Funny what you will find by hitting the blogs of note button on the blogger home page...

------
Another for the List
I stood at her door, wearing saggy pajama bottoms and an oversized men’s t-shirt, barefoot on the cold linoleum, in the dark. Waiting. Got chocolate? I asked when the door finally cracked open. She grinned and lifted a pillowcase filled with Halloween loot.

We were college freshmen living on the same floor of an all girls dormitory. At first, I would pass her in the morning bathroom rush – we’d nod and smile with towel turbans on our heads and toothbrushes poking into our cheeks. For all of our passing and nodding and smiling - it took my insatiable need for a peanut butter cup at midnight to bring us together. We sat in her room for hours that night, until her roommate kicked us out in search of sleep. At which point, we slunk out to the hallway and sat on the hard floor with our backs pressed against the cool concrete walls.

We spent most of that year up late, talking. We talked on long walks or while stitching designs on thrift-store pants and eating microwaved potatoes dowsed in salt and vinegar. We talked about anything. Growing up. Families. Home. Why we were there. Where we wanted to wind up. Everything unfolded effortlessly between us over plates of potatoes. Later, in letters from home, she would refer to us as soul sisters.

She is the latest one that I’ve lost. We haven’t spoken or written in over a year, and I’m not even sure how to contact her. She has vanished.

And she’s just the latest in a growing list of people who have wandered deeply into my life, only to disappear. There's the boy who sat with me in our cafe, sipping coffee, reading scripts and planning how we'd spend our lives together, playing here and there - never settling down. There's the adolescent flirtation that grew to an intense friendship and then became my last kiss, just two weeks before meeting my husband. There are too many; the list is long. Sometimes I sense them slipping and I simply let them go. Perhaps that makes me to blame: I don’t fight for my friendships. I welcome them, I love them, I listen and share and I wait to be needed. But, I don't poke or prod them like a fire needing to be stoked. I let them evolve, as they inevitably will. And I cherish the ones that remain. (italics mine)
--------
I know this so well, but don't know if it is right or not. Love in all of it's forms must be freely given and recieved with no holds or expectations. At the same time there does seem somthing right about fighting for something beautiful and true and good. I am so often at a loss as what the best thing to do is...

Poetry is the clear expression of mixed feelings.

-W.H. Auden, poet
(1907-1973)

A thick fog has completely enshrouded the campus. It lies all around, as far as
the senses reach - surrounding trees and enclosing buildings, softening all
their edges and corners until they only remain dark nearly indiscernible hulks
in the dim lamplight. The dampness is tangible, but not weighty or sticky. I
love it. I can not remember if it was like this last year, somehow I think it
was not. I prefer to think such weather is unique and strange and new. There is
something about a fog that makes it, and the area it is spread over, seem at
once strange and foreign and yet similar to every other fog in any other land.
Perhaps that is why I love it so much, it is so much easier to imagine I am
somewhere and somewhen else.

I rediscovered my fountain pen recently. My palms and finger tips at the moment
are splotched and smeared with ink. Apparently it is the good sort of ink that
does not run off one's page if it happens to get wet because it does not want
to wash off at all. I don't mind though - it is a reminder to use the pen more
often. I am sure that it only bled all over me in punishment for its long
period of neglect. In hopes of preventing such desperate acts on its part,
again I bought fresh cartridges of ink this evening, a lovely green colored
ink. It has been quite a long while since I wrote in green ink...

I just did one of the scariest things I have ever had to do. I bought plane tickets for my holiday travel plans. Now all of the talk and promises are real and waiting for me to pick it up from the printer bay and hold it in my hands and show it to people and... It's odd I feel stuck and commited and bound in. It will pass I know, as soon as I tell Lady Gatekeeper that I have my tickets and the Sprit and JM that we are good to go. But while the rather large implecations are settling in... I just need to breath and not ever check on said flights again for fear that I will find something cheaper.

In other news, I remembered that I do have quasi-internet access down the hall, so I can actually post whenever the muse so dains to visit me. Since the realization she has not graced me with her presence but when she does...

My inner child is ten years old!

The adult world is pretty irrelevant to me. Whether
I'm off on my bicycle (or pony) exploring, lost
in a good book, or giggling with my best
friend, I live in a world apart, one full of
adventure and wonder and other stuff adults
don't understand.

How Old is Your Inner Child?
brought to you by Quizilla

Boot day
rain downpouring
puddle stomp along streaming sidewalks
ragged clouds swept up achingly green hills

crash bang flash boom

storm day
hats and coats
rush scatter hurry to cover
out from under the sheets of water

~ ~ ~

Did I mention that it is raining?

Don't You Fall

Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention

I gave away my heart before
And it only caused me sorrow
How could I think of loving someone
Today or tomorrow

(Chorus)
I've been so long confused
Was I loved or was I used?

Now the sun goes up and down
And the weather rains and shines
I lost my heart somewhere
Oh I need to take more time

Don't you fall in love with me
Don't show me your affection
I can't give you what you want from me
I don't want the attention
No I can't give you what you want from me,
I don't want the attention

"Don't You Fall"
The Be Good Tanyas

Perhaps I should have taken this as a theme song months ago...
So much can change in three months.

The semester is half over; there are times I feel as though I've been here as long as some of the tutors think I have been.
The tips of my fingers are finally starting to show the effects of my guitar playing.

And now for homework... it almost feels like old times.

mostly written Friday 7 Oct
The day has managed to slip by in a wonderful semi-daze of warmed over exhilaration brought home from the concert last night. I sat in the back seat of the Sprit's chariot this morning breathing deep of the sea tang in the still cool morning air caught up in my own reflections of the day before...

It was so hot driving out, over 100*, and the four of us packed into my little car. The excitement was tangible, running like threads between us caught in grins and glances, reflected in the music we listened to on the way down. The traffic meant nothing, we were on our way.

I spent the morning wandering in and out of the thrift stores of this seaside town. The wind was deciding whether or not to pull up the blanket of fog or to pretend it was still summer. We were ruling them out as a possible source of wedding related dresses. In the midst of laughing and joking about married life as only three unmarried girls can, something else remained stilled...

Driving around Hollywood gazing at the glitter and glam of the lights, mixed about and juxtaposed with the low and dirty I was struck by the irony of going to see Gillian in the midst of all this. Her honesty and clear disdain for materialism is such a contrast to everything this facade covers.

Classes were hazy this afternoon. I was thinking too much of everything else going on this week-end and next and the one after that... I was glad to get into my still messy car and head back to the mist shrouded town, driving and not thinking. Getting out of the car across the street from Val's apartment I inhaled deeply of the salt laced air, feeling it filter down deep. The little one was alternately happily distracted and dismayed at the absence of his parents. Holding him in my arms, with his fussing rising to increasing decibel levels I glanced out the window and saw the fog.

Finding the theater proved to be something of a task. It is small and unpretentious when seen from the outside. We managed to arrive just before the already high parking fee was increased by half. This town is unbelievable. Will call provided a few tense moments, enough for me to begin envisioning the four of us sitting on the street curb, robbed of the ticket cost...Then the tickets were in my hands, really and truly there, and we were through the big black doors.

Out the door and down the stairs, into the cool breath of the wind and the softness of the fog. The little one's cries subsided almost immediately. We walked and walked, wandering up and down the small streets of suburbia. Modest houses with well kept yards held in by white picket fences passed by in a general perception of motion forward. I kept waiting to feel the familiarity of sleeping weight in my arms but he was not interested in slumber so we kept walking, up and down the sidewalks. There were birds in the trees, chirping to one another about the chill fog and the early dimness. It was odd to hear so many birds that far away from the country.

The sound of the people once inside was like the rush of wind in a tunnel or the sea from far off or the roucus chatter of birds roosting at sunset. The walls, carpeting, ceilings of the foyer were all black, the lighting yellowed or black giving the large space a surreal feeling. I was vaguely surprised not to feel cramped and smothered by the dark décor, but either the high ceilings or the excitement and anticipation made up for it. The boys decided to stake out a claim up front by the stage, the right “elbow” as the Sprit called it. The floor was gradually filling up with all manner of people, aging hippies, well to do yuppies, college age kids like us looking about as poor. Women in skirts and dresses, some in jeans looking all too “put together” to be the random favorite pair out of the closet, the rest dressed comfortably. Men in dress pants and designer shirts, jeans and t-shirts, most somewhere in the betwixt and between.

The afternoon was wearing away toward evening and he was no closer to sleep than when we first walked out the door. Indeed I had tried going back to the apartment, but as soon as we walked in the door the wailing began again. The coolness of the day had been sharpened by the setting of the sun, and I was loath to go back out unless he were warmer. So adding a layer, we headed back out into the fog.

Without warning the house mix of canned music was cut, and Gillian and David were walking up the stairs behind us, striding on the the stage. They seemed to be sharing some inside joke, just between the two of them. They said nothing as they walked up to the microphones, made last second tuning checks, then began. And the world fell apart. Song after song poured over, the words familiar, worn into my mind by hours of listening and wishing to hear it for real. And there we were, and there they were.

Coming home from work traffic was light within the neighborhood, but I could hear that the number of cars of the freeway running just beyond the trees had increased from when we first began walking. The light was beginning to fade and I began to watch for Val's return.

Perhaps at first glance they are not much. She is tall and thin, light golden hair and grey eyes, and ivory skin. And then look closer, the eyes are intense, the mouth easily finding pleasure in a smile, and her hands, my oh my, her hands are beautiful. Long fingers curved around the neck of a guitar or banjo, catching lost strands of hair and leading them back into place, white like marble or ivory. I could have watched her hands all night. He is taller, with a warm shy smile and a manner that seems to want to be any where but in the center of attention. And then he starts to play and you can almost see the world fall away from him. Each note seemed a real tangible being to be found and thrown into existence.

With her appearance the little one was all smiles for me. His world had returned to its right order. Watching him nurse I reminded myself in passing that I was really and very very honestly not ready to be married. Val invited me to stay and having no other plans I did. We fell to talking, all through the rummaging through of cabinets to find recipe books and the deciding of what to make. I asked what I could do to help with the making and was informed of my “guest status”. Laughing I returned to the vast couch flipping through the ancient GE cookery book that came with the equally ancient range and oven. Our conversation meandered from business to music and she put on one of her favorites.

As she played, her red stitched cowboy boots kept time with the music in a almost dance-like manner. Watching I found myself close to laughing in pleasure at it. On the intros and bridges of the songs she would bend low over her guitar focused entirely on her creations, a look on her face I have seen and felt – one of a lover beholding her beloved.
Requests were called out and acknowledged in one way or another, sometimes played, others not. They played through two sets, songs I knew, songs that were new to me. The time passed far too quickly.

The night wore on. We sat on the couch, supper finished and the dishes done, glasses of red wine in our hands talking about love and life. This lead again to music and she began playing the “do you know this band” game with me. So much music. The Pouges came out, along with the Moldy Peaches. She was thrilled to have someone who knew something but not enough to make them a “musical snob.” I laughed.

And all too suddenly they were saying thank yous and good nights. Calls of encore followed them off stage and twice brought them back on. And they were gone, the last notes of the last song still settling in, the reverberations of the applause and calls and whistles echoing. The house music came back on and I wondered how I was to describe the evening in words. Sitting on the couch with my computer on my lap nothing seemed adequate then...and three days later nothing seems any better. So the words go down, sticking to the page through force of habit and desire to capture the memories in a set stillness. And perhaps that is enough...

Love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonley than happy with somebody else

You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else

There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue

I want you love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
There’s no love for nobody else

Say, love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonley than happy with somebody else

You might find the night time the right time for kissing
Night time is my time for just reminiscing
Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else

There’ll be no one unless that someone is you
I intended to be independently blue

Say I want your love, don’t wanna borrow
Have it today to give back tomorrow
Your love is my love
My love is your love
There’s no love for nobody else

Love me or Leave me
~Nina Simone

It was hot, really hot yesterday morning. The Santa Anna winds were blowing, tossing the shed leave of the sycamore and poplar trees all over. And somehow the Sprit had cajoled me into studying on the patio rather than disappearing into the cool interior of the dorm (I will admit in a spirit of fairness it did not take much). My immediate choice of music was Gillian Welch (I am working on that concert account don't worry. I can say in brief the concert was incredible.) But the Sprit had something else in mind. As the first notes of this album flew out of the CD player I concluded she was right. This was the perfect music for the moment, just as hot as the day capturing just what I was feeling. The Sprit spread herself out in the sun, basking in a most unhuman-like fashion, ostensibly studying. Every few moments though, she would seem to fill up on sunlight and have to turn over and stretch. Then with a bit of a sheepish grin she would turn back over than return to her books (or rather her manual). It was all too much to let pass without some attempt to "capture" it. And voila, I have arrested the Sprit - after a fashion...

I bet you'll never guess who I am (finally) going to see in concert tonight...

I promise to try and tell all about it tomorrow...

I don't know whether to explain or not. I saw it and thought "this would be fun to post." So I am. (And yes, it is a real sword)

The Santa Anna winds are back, reflecting the turmult in my mind and soul. I feel like I am facing so many different questions, those posed by the material we're reading for classes as well as those brought about by life, I don't know where to start or which to face first. I tried to write in an actual journal last night and could get nowhere (too much of an exhibitionist now I suppose). There were simply too many questions with no answers or with half thought out conjectures that might one day lead to conclusions if worked on enough. It is tempting to say "I'm tired of questions. I want answers, something solid and sure. I want rest." But that is not for this life, not for the intellectual life, not for the life of a soldier, not the life of anyone who truly wants to know.
So, it's back out into the wind, the rough and tumble of it all...

and a little more...

No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
-Henry Brooks Adams, historian (1838-1918)

I feel myself at a crossroads, gazing down at my feet, wondering where I am to go. I stand here in the river-road of Time, directionless and impatient, knowing my end but unsure of the route. I want to remain steady and still, to wait to be shown clearly my next step. But the flow of Time drags and catches at my ankles, urging me forward, always forward, never to be still, never to rest. The tides rise and fall around me, presenting new ways and means on the twisting and swirling eddies, and I struggle against them and myself to hold my place. Indeed my own passions and desires seek to betray me to the interminable flow. How very, very easy it would be to simply throw myself into this river, to allow myself to be swept away by its floods. To be carried along whither so ever it would, coming to whatever strange new land the river runs through. I don't know what to do. Would it be wrong to let go? Or is that determination subject to the context of surrounding events?

I think too much...

written a few days ago...

I've decided that I miss the luxury of having internet access right down the hall. Perhaps I can blame my lack of writing on that... On the other hand, I am doing more than I was a year ago, am actually engaged in the process of living we all go on so often about, with all its pains and glories however small. Real life happens outside one's head. Or is it one's reaction to what happens outside one's self? In either case, nothing (or moderatly little) real happens without being in the outside.

It's windy out today. Great gusts of a warm rampant wind play across the valley, the dropped and forgotten playthings of the storm that passed through last night. The leaves from the sycamore trees are being tosses helter skelter across the soggy lawns, danced across patios under fallen umbrellas and down sidewalks to be unceremoniously trod upon by the passing student. The sky is moody, bright blue in patches, white clouds - fluff and nothings really - in others, then dark and sullen at being herded against the mountains by the winds, only to be broken up and sent flying by the same wind (or perhaps a relative).

The sound of the wind cause my memory to belie the heat and stuffiness of the small crowded room. I am no longer here, but in a dark and sleeping house. It is mid-winter and bitterly cold. The moonlight is bright enough to make the thick shadow of the house a looming blackness on the piled snow. I feel so very small looking out the breath-fogged window at the white uneven fields, streaching out into inky nothing beyond the end of sight. The wind blows, rising and falling, whistling around corners, driving against walls and drifts, shaking and bending the dead dried stems of the grasses that grew up at the edge of the porch low to the ground. The tones of its the moaning send shivers down my arms and I can all too easily imagine the cries and wailings of those lost on the empty plains before me. But now I have exchanged the cold piercing wind for one hot and rough and the sounds of quietude and rest in a sleeping house for the rattle and grating of conversation, trying to worry objections into oblivion.

And now the wind has gone and all is still. Neither leaf nor petal is ruffled. The very silence of it would weigh were it not that I too am still.

Why pain?
Because pain draws us closer to God.

Why pain?
Because pain strips us of our reliances on things other than Himself.

Why pain?
Because pain makes us face our hollowness, acknowledge it and our own helplessness to do anything about it.

Why pain?
Because pain, when accepted, allows us to see beauty, which is simple and pure and all too easily missed.

Sad songs chasing their tails
running in and out of my mind
playing on and on
never quite out of hearing.


sequel

I sit out o' nights
beneath the star filled sky
remembering soft voices
and now faded thoughts.
The shining splendor seems,
in the chill air and cool light,
familiar and strangely warm,
they seem to know my self.
Quietude brushes by
gently carried on windy wings
bringing further recollection of other
evenings, thoughts, conversations
and a rest never fully mine.

So much to write and so little time....'tis very unfortunate. But perhaps I can catch up a bit...


I am at my favorite coffee shop for what was supposed to be an open mic night that has turned into something radically else. There are a bunch of belly dancers wandering around, mucisians are setting up... Now the music has started and there are three or four little girls up on the stage dancing in their own fashion, moved in what ever way the music wants them to... The rhythm is intoxicating, pulsing with each beat of my heart, flowing through my body. I want to learn...

Sorry about the extra step now necessary for commenting. I discovered I was being hit with comment spam and want to avoid it...

Random collection of scribbling that I managed to pin onto scraps of handy paper...

The other day I had a chance to talk with an old friend whom I have not really been able to speak to for a while. And as we spoke of ships and shoes and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings I was reminded that life is not lived out on the fringe of things. Lingering on dark rooftops almost entombed by the dark branches above, accompanied only by the dying light of one's cigarette, surrounded by the sounds of enjoyment drifting up from below is not living, as romantic and aloof and appealing as the setting might be. Not that the setting is of itself wrong, the context is just not right. It occurs to me that life is very much like music - what is good is very often determined by the context...

~ ~ ~

Memory is such an odd thing. With little to no warning your are overwhelmed with image after image, layer upon layer of sights, sounds, emotions. I was sitting in the commons reviewing the day's assignments and at the sound of an apparently unrelated note I was hurled back to another warm midmorning, sitting with a newly dear friend in the near empty commons talking of life and its lessons. To chill evenings, watching the upperclassmen pouring in after seminar waiting for friends to filter out of the mix, anticipating the coming discussion of the evening's excitement or follies...

I've been feeling teribly neglectful of various duties incumbant upon me recently. So I thought I'd try to make some headway on at least one of them...

My oldest cousin (three years my senior) is married now. He and his new wife are honeymooning in Hawaii, land of our ancestors. I've been to a few weddings in the past couple of years, but this one sank in the deepest. All manner of reflections roiled and simmered in my mind all week-end. "My generation is coming up, our parents are moving into the background. " More prominant was "I knew him when he had long purple hair in highschool... and now he is married!" Less prominant, but none the less still consciously there was "I am not ready for this at all...I think."

*sigh*

In any case, it was the best and most worthwhile all nighter I have ever pulled...

Quote of the week-end:


"Hey Sarah, let's go to San Francisco."
"Okay."

More forthcoming...

Is it possible to find contentment in discontent? I don't mean to propose a paradox exactly, but I do mean something along those lines. For all intents and purposes, life at school has picked up where it left off. Classes move along, assignments are given and accomplished. Life such as it is flows contentedly. And yet I am unsettled. In class, reading through the material, talking immediately after class I am for the most part happy. And then I want to talk about it all with someone, one I know will see things with the same excitement and from a similar direction as I do and I am at a loss. I can't. It is quite simple really, and painfully miserable. So in attempts to distract myself I shift the mess around in my room, or flake out of other things and hide in a cafe, or wander around the market places of the internet looking for the things I've been meaning to buy all summer. I will tell you honestly that none of it works. I want something I cannot have. I want to be content in the midst of my discontentment.

So I will go and try another distraction, another thing to pour myself into for the time being and not think about the coming up short at the end. Because that is life...

"The unexamined life is not worth living." - Plato

"The unlived life is not worth examining." - Mr. Collins

"I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." - Jesus Christ


It is so odd how things work out. I've been musing and pondering much of late on what it is I want more than anything. For many, perhaps even most, the answer to this is simple, they want to be happy. I don't. Now don't get me wrong, I do not want to be unhappy, but that is simply not the most important thing for me. What I want more than anything is to live. Just that. The real question comes when you ask what it means to live. At first it seemed as though living were seeing and doing and experiencing with a passion (which of course leads to more discussion.) But that left something lacking, it was not enough. With that definition you are lead to (or left with) a hedonistic approach to everything. No living - truly living - consists of finding truth, the Truth. And not just finding it, but seeing it, knowing it, making it part of who and what you are in your deepest self, until you are no longer, but only Truth. And this causes pain. Because in this life that is simply not possible. We can come close, so close but we can never fully die to ourselves before the body dies so that total union is never achieved in this life.
Now the odd part of it all is that though I've been pondering and considering all of this for the last two year (or more) it didn't all come together in something resembling coherence until last night after watching Garden State (very good movie, the cinematography is amazing and the plot line is nearly as good) after meeting and hanging out for hours with a group of local poets. At one point in the movie Sam says to Andrew " I know it hurts. But it's life, and it's real. And sometimes it fucking hurts, but it's life, and it's pretty much all we got." It's life and it's real, truth is a reflection of reality and reality of the Truth. And He is pretty much all we got.

I wandered into my self a little while ago and ambled over to the curio cabinet that holds bottles filled with stuffs like extra time, the dreams I don't remember, and, as I discovered, things that I've learned. Not school-ish lessons, those go into a neat filing cabinet or are piled in the desk in a heap to be sorted at a later time. No, these lessons are the life-ish sort, the ones we learn without noticing right away. I took them down one by one, opening each and reading the lessons in turn. Amoung them were:
~Pain is not made meaningless or paltry by laughing at it. At times that is exactly what is needed.
~True love takes many shapes and forms and they are easy to confuse.
~ There are still things I want to do for their own sake, like write and learn to play classical guitar and wander the country alone and perhaps learn to skateboard...
~It is not hypocrisy to pass on advice you are not always able or willing to follow yourself.

I pondered them, holding the scraps of paper in my hand. I will not soon forget.

I thought for a bit about posting random bits of thought that got caught on scraps of paper that happened to be handy at the time they wandered out of my head, but have decided against it. The last month or so of this summer has left me rather discontent with my style of writing - I seem to either be depressing or, as one friend put it, stuck in "middle school". I have no desire to ramble about the little things that make up the day to day of my life (it would take a far more talented writer than I to make it interesting to any degree). So I am left with the inner workings of my self, which does not come off very well either...
This being said, I am going to continue writing in whatever fashion whimsy leads me at the time, hackneyed metaphors, middle school poetry and all and hopefully the summer of my discontent will pass...

It is possible to have trust without hope? I feel comptetely lost, stumbling in the dark, only knowing the ground is beneath my feet because I keep bashing into things, clinging to the thinest thread of trust. I know as surely as I know anything that I will be given the strength to find my way out of the dark, but I have no hope of when or where, just the scarlet thread of trust...

Picture this: Driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, just as you are leaving the city, you drive through a couple of small tunels. As you emerge from the second you are presented with the Pacific ocean and the coastline laying itself down before your eyes to the lyrics of this song...

Take a long drive with me
on California One, on California One.
And the road a-winding goes
from golden gate to roaring cliff-side,
and the light is softly low
as our hearts become sweetly untied
beneath the sun of California One.

Take a long dram with me
of California wine, of California wine.
And the wine, it tastes so sweet
as we lay our eyes to wander,
and the sky, it stretches deep.
Will we rest our heads to slumber
beneath the vines of California wine?
Beneath the sun of California One.

Annabelle lies, sleeps with quiet eyes
on this sea-drift sun.
What can you do?
And if i said, O it's in your head
on this sea-drift sun.
What can you do?

California One, The Decemberists

Funny how things work out sometimes...

it's friday, the work week is over. the sun is setting resignedly over the hills. this past week I have carried the wind on my back (it was heavy) and perhaps remembered how to smile. dreams and plans for futures loom and withdraw, like the ocean tides, and I am left standing on the shore.

can you tell that I am avoiding having to actually do something....

randomly found online quiz...

What tatoo fits you best? (or something like that...)

Your peronality says you would most likly pick some
kind of flower. Something beautiful and
something that displays your grace. You are
quite origanal.

I took this perhaps a week or two a go... I think there is a bit of resemblence between the present me and my ghost off to the right...

travel log...

30 July
heading up north, not very far, but away from here. clouds are massing behind the mountains and I think we are headed strait for them. the heat is dry and unmoved by the wind pouring in from my open window. I fear I am equally unmoved by my driver's now occational emotional outbursts. perhaps I'm a bitch for being unfeeling, but that's how things are at the moment, and I am not going to do anything about it right now. i'll have to be nice and good when we get there.


the hills are having their usual calming effect on me. the mulitude of greens, subtle and drastic at the same time are soothing my distressed heart, playing the part of a cool balm on the rawness i feel. there are moments I feel like some sort of vampire, preying on the emotions and affections of the unsuspecting, and at the same time, willing sweet fools who take what I offer...

am i imagining or can i really feel the residue of the cigarette smoke at the back of my throat... the feel of the dry paper on my lips and the warm greyness in my mouth are vividly impressed upon my senses. i want...

31 July
so apparently, given the right conditions, it is possible for gasoline to vaporize in the fuel lines before it reaches the engine. this is damaging to the performance of the vehicle and general mental health of its occupance. Fortunatly, it does not take long for a small car to cool down on the side of the freeway, even in 100* weather...

I am sitting in a local cafe. On the wall behind me a government conspirocy theory movie on 9/11 is playing. I'm sorry that I missed the beginning, I would like to have their whole story. The evidence they are presenting in interesting, including interviews with eyewitnesses, newspaper articles, government reports - all with an anti-government hint. The narrator's voice is calm, but every now and then he throws in a bit of sarcasm. I would wager that the purpose is to undermine public support for the government's war against terrorism and all that goes with it (increased security at airports, government buildings, etc.; the Patriot Act, the war in Afganistan, the war in Iraq)
"America has been hijacked...by a group of tyrants..."

The woman whom I think is in charge of the showing is giving a speach.
"Keep your minds open...it's important to think critically..."
Machiavelli just came up... I am now regretting my lack of attention to the news in the last few years.
It is only too easy to loose trust in everyone and everything...but things like this make one wonder. The wondering is good, but how far should it go?

I stand waiting and watching beyond the open door. The wind brushes past me, catching at my hair, my clothes.

"Why do you stand here? What are you looking for?"

"I am looking for a way to find what I once had. Tell me, wind, how to find it..."

"You cannot go back," replied the wind's ever-changing voice. "Time does not work in such a way with men."

"No, do not tell me such things," the tears and searing pain betraying themselves in my voice, yet knowing the wind spoke truly. I cannot go back. The passage of Time necessarily brings change, but through the will somethings are able to remain. Turning, I gaze once more through the doorway, remembering wondering if my will is strong enough.

Eli, the barrowboy, you're the old town
Sells coal and marigolds and he cries out all down the day
Below the tamarac she is crying
Corn cobs and candlewax for the buying, all down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine robe
Made of gold and silk arabian thread
She is dead and gone and lying in a pine grove
And I must push my barrow all the day
And I must push my barrow all the day

Eli, the barrowboy, when they found him
Dressed all in corduroy, he had drowned in the river down the way
They laid his body down in a churchyard
But still when the moon is out, with his pushcart, he calls down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine gown
Made of gold and silk arabian thread
But I am dead and gone and lying in a church ground
But still I push my barrow all the day
Still I push my barrow all the day

Eli, The Barrowboy -The Decemberists

who's seen jezebel?
she was born to be the woman i would know
and hold like the breeze
half as tight as both eyes closed

and who's seen jezebel?
she went walking where the cedars line the road
her blouse on the ground
where the dogs were hungry, roaming

saying, "wait, we swear we'll love you more and wholly
jezebel, it's we that you are for only"

who's seen jezebel?
she was born to be the woman we could blame
make me a beast half as brave
i'd be the same

who's seen jezebel?
she was gone before i ever got to say
"lay here my love
you're the only shape i'll pray to, jezebel"

who's seen jezebel?
will the mountain last as long as i can wait
wait for the dawn
how it aches to meet the day

who's seen jezebel?
she was certainly the spark for all i've done
the window was wide
she could see the dogs come running

saying, "wait, we swear
we'll love you more and wholly
jezebel, it's we that you are for
only"

Jezebel by Iron & Wine

I came to Life with my hands open, awaiting the good things I knew would be poured into them. I was not mistaken. As long as my hands remained open they were filled. I saw loves and joys, hopes and dreams placed in their once empty palms. At times the desire to assure myself that these were actually mine to hold and keep was too great and I found my fingers trembling. What would happen if I closed my hands on these gifts? How long would they remain with me if I did not? I did not know, and Life provided me no clear answers. Something within urged me not to cling to such apparently fragile things, and so I resisted the desire to close my hands upon what I had been given. I would wait and try to trust.
Months have passed and some of these treasures have been carried away with Time's winds. They were not meant to be mine any longer and perhaps will not be ever again. With sleepless nights and tears I mourned their passing. Others have remained, though seemingly changed to ash even as I watched and waited. These too I mourn. I am asked how could I not fight for these my treasures? Because in a very real way they were not truly mine. They were given to me, yet in a most transitory fashion, placed in my open hands. And so now I stand waiting, tears occationally disturbing the layers of ash, perhaps waiting for a phoenix to rise. For these treasures are still in my care, though not in the form they once had, and I will not reject them in order to reach after something else.

(catching up on my postings...I'd forgotten about this stuff in the ebb and flow of the past week)

8 July
Listening to the safety instructions as I sit in my exit row seat, I wonder idly if I really know them as well as my years of flying should warrant. I remember as a child being fascinated by the flight attendant running so smoothly through the routine...

The crowded trees and hidden roofs of Keaukaha slide by as we taxi down the runway. I'm on the wrong side of the plane for watching my home sink below me. It is raining again up the hill and I cannot keep the drops from being mirrored on my face. As the plane rises into the low clouds I catch a last glimpse of rugged curving coastline, white surf breaking on black rocks, forest of dark greens sweeping away from the dark blues of the sea. And then all was white and greys. Now the clouds lie below me, and below them is the ocean.
Its raining of Maui too. Watching the downpour from above the clouds gives the impression of a...
Lani, Moloka'i...perhaps I'm not on the wrong side of the plane. Ribbons of white sand beach lie along the edge of the islands, sometimes faced by off shore reefs, other times only kissed by the waves of the open ocean.
It looks like another world up here, with plains and hills, canyons and mountains - all of cloud. It is very beautiful - but I have seen few places that are as stark and empty.
How can there be so many shades of blue? The sky goes on forever, pale ice at the horizon to rich azure at zenith, and the sea holds a myriad more...

watching the news on the TV's near my gate...
I am struck again by another national leader urging a "return to normalcy", this time made by Prime Minister Tony Blair of the U.K. Assuming that the purpose of terrorist attacks is to disrupt the normal flow of life and business, this injunction makes sense. It is a show of personal and community strength, almost a passive defiance of those who made the attacks. In another way though, the "return to normalcy and business as usual" is disconcerting. It seems to be an ignoring and dismissal of the attacks altogether. Those killed are left to be mourned by their families and friends as the rest of the world goes on shopping...

This is my 151st post...

Conclusion: It is hard to stop thinking in the dark. I am beginning to fear the setting of the sun and the arrival of the night. I want to work all day and keep the sun up... Fortunately, I can do just that all week-end (without keeping the sun up). Oh, joy...

Happy 1st Blog-day to me...

So, I've been writting for a year now. Somehow it seems fitting that this is the day I leave home once again. It was because I came home last year that the writting kept up; I wonder if it will be that way this year...
I've been reminicing about this past year while I packed. Much has happened, loves were lost - and found, friendships shaken and rebuilt, strengths and weaknesses tested. I questioned the all reasons for being at school, while never doubting that it was where I was meant to be. And this blog, my burrying ground and junk-drawer for thoughts, has witnessed and recorded it all...

Well...
(the relative lateness of the hour must be affecting my brain, so I'm not going to say anything more)

It is Sunday afternoon and the house is nearly empty, well as close to being empty as it has been since I got home. The family has scattered to the proverbial four winds (for the afternoon) and I have time to fill by myself. The desire to read has somewhat abated since yesterday's reading of Steinbeck Of Mice and Men. I am looking forward to returning to school and discussing it with someone (the one-sided discussions I've been having with myself can only take me so far). I've been nibbling at an Harry Potter book (I will confess unabashedly that I have read all five of the books and am looking forward to the next) while waiting for the very slow dial-up connection to the outside world (also known as the internet) catches up with what I want it to do. All in all I am happy to be five days away from leaving. I think that I need to go while there are still things here I want to do and people I want to see, or I will start chaffing under the ever present knowledge that there is a 2000 mile barrier between myself and where I want to be... On the other hand, it will be hard to leave my younger siblings, not knowing when I will see them again, that they will continue to grow up and I won't really know them and they won't really know me... life is strange.

Random observation: blogging was meant to happen late at night when the house is asleep...morning blogging is not very practical when you have little people coming up to you every few minutes asking if you are still on the computer. ("Gabe, I can sit at the computer all day." "Wow...") I think I will surrender of the obvious and get dressed for the day... hopefully I will come back with beautiful thoughts about the beach...

Here Comes

Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Chirping robin, budding rose.
Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Gentle showers, summer clothes.
Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Whoosh - shiver - there it goes.

I've introduced my younger siblings to the wonders of Shel Silverstein. I remember picking up A Light in the Atic somewhere, library book sale or church grab box or whathaveyou, and thinking that I had found a treasure. Now I will freely confess that I had not read very much Silverstein myself, flipped through some of his collections of poems and The Giving Tree. Reading to my little sis, I was struck by the depth of some of these "children's" poems, "The little boy and the old man," "Nobody," "This bridge," for example. I need to wonder about these a bit more...

Random thought spawned by being home that I lack the time to turn into proper blogs...

...streets familiar in a parallel way hints and shadow of past life and what once was possible...

The warm humidity inclines me toward the water, strange for one who care not for swimming.

The land spreads itself out for my viewing, hues and shades of green down to the water. The sea is less than ten miles away... The deep blue turns grey under the reflection of the clouds.

Darling, remember
When you come to me
I'm the pretender
And not what I'm supposed to be
But who could know if I'm a traitor
Time's the revelator

They caught the katy
And left me a mule to ride
The fortune lady
Came along, she walked beside
But every word seemed to date her
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Up in the morning
Up and on the ride
I drive into Corning
And all the spindles whine
And every day is getting straighter
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Leaving the valley
And ducking out of sight
I'll go back to Cali
Where I can sleep out every night
And watch the waves and move the fader
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Queen of the fakes and imitators
Time's the revelator

-Gillian Welch

How much are we products of the places we grow up? How much of this place do I carry with me, and in me? I look around my home town, or rather my home island, and I know I could never be satisfied to stay here. It is beautiful, both the land and the people, but small in the same ways. I look at the lives of the people here and become discontent. I do not want life in the way they have it. Don't get me wrong, on the whole there is nothing wrong with their lives, they are good and full. But I have seen more, and now this is not enough. But I wonder if I am really any different from these people I so easily pass judgement upon. Why should I think that I need something more than this place can offer? Is it simply in the seeing and the learning and the doing that one is driven further afield? If so, where am I to go?

The fog twists and swirls around me, blurring the line between my feet and the ground. Nothing feels solid, nothing seems quite there. I wonder how I ended up here, after seeing so clearly...
I want to leave, but that would mean I'd have to move away from the one spot I think I know and strike out into the greyness. It is cold and I am alone and afraid. I can hear a Voice, low and clear and sure, even through the fog. It beckons me toward it, offering reassurance and comfort, if only I would come and follow. I want to follow, know I'd follow wherever it lead - but qualified by a constant 'if'. If the fog first broke I and I could clearly see where I was headed. If I could be guaranteed that there would be no danger of new or further pain. But now, in this dimness, chill and damp, unsure of footing and way... I do want to follow, but that means I'd have to strike out into the unknown. What if I fell, I know not how far I would fall before coming to a bottom, in this confusion of the senses where I am not even sure of where my feet really are. And still the Voice, my sought-after, wept-for Love pleads for me and beckons...
"He'll come to me...He'll not leave me here..." My pride is my prop, my cane of black by which I feel my way to nowhere. I can see nothing beyond it's tip. The fog whirls and catches at my feet. I turn 'round and 'round seeking on my own for a clearing of the murk, a way in which to wander. Instead, it draws tighter, and the Voice grows a little faint. My heart aches at the realization. Peering through the thickening mistiness, a red candle flame flickers and dances, now hidden, now clear. He has not left me, but it is I who must come to Him, not He to me. Will I throw down my black cane which guides nothingness and despair? Will I be able to take the risk of walking in this fog that at times obscures even the red lamp and seems to dim the Light?

The fog catches and swirls as I lift my foot...

I found an old self of mine not long ago. Odd, but I don't remember ever taking it off, or leaving it behind. Apparently, I had left it in a book I started reading last summer. I opened the cover and noticed a wisp of it peaking out between some of the pages near the beginning. It looked a bit faded and somewhat crinkled, but not too much worse for the wear, or lack of wear I should say. I took it out and looked at it for a while trying to remember what I was like when last I wore it. Rather different, I think, though I couldn't say quite how. A bit sadder, mayhap, but steady. Content, no "content" is not the right word, accepting of the where and how things are for the time. Willing enough to change, but not activly seeking change for its own sake. And yet constatly seeking, longing after something almost inexpressible, captured in moonlight and shadow, the heady sent of the rose, the cool touch of fog and mist. I smiled slightly at the remembrance of it...
On an impulse, I slipped on that old self. It still fit. Oh, it felt different in a few places, but still familiar. Some of the rough spots I remembered are gone, a few of the corners and angles have been sharpened, but on the whole I feel - myself. Funny how that can happen. The slipping on of an old self is as easy as falling asleep, the tears still moist on your cheek and the damp of them soaking into your pillow, and waking the next morning. You see the world under a new, and at the same time, familiar light...

Though one thing about an old self that I have discovered is that once it goes on, it is very difficult to get off, so I think this one will be around for a while...

I built a sandcastle not long ago, beautiful as any dream ought to be. Tureted and crenelated, flags waving proudly in the winds and wispering in the soft breezes. It was all held together with laughter and long talks, adventures and explorations. Brave knights and lovely ladies would make visits while wending their errant ways. It was full of life...
My castle is falling now before my eyes, worn down by changing winds and salty waters... I watch as corners chip and break, as walls I thought sure and sturdy crack and threaten to crumble. The laughter isoften missing, the long talks held over and over in memory. The brave knights and lovely ladies come no more to share their adventures and exploratory finds. I wonder if it will stand for much longer, if its foundations were build upon something stronger than sand and dreams...
Yet I cannot hold it, for who can hold still the sands of time? The tighter I'd grasp them the sooner they would slip from my fingers. Better to let it go if it wills, treasuring the beauty of it as long as it remains. For the foundations may yet hold, withstanding wind and water. Life will fill it again...

(from last night)
For days now the wind has been whispering to me of impending end. "It comes," it breaths into my ears, echoing, seeping down into my heart. "Why speak to me of ends?" I plead. "They do not belong to me - I am but young..."
"Nay," comes the reply.
Sitting here on the sand, the echoes of a beginning come back to me. But the murmur of the winds words in the waves is louder and I cannot ignore it.
The sea is, as it always is to my ears, mourning the sorrows of the world. I think I know of no sound in nature so evoking of sorrow than the sea...

Now those sad currents are only in my head. Quiet night sounds blend with the music playing in the empty coffee shop. It too has a melancholy tenor. Or perhaps, I am simply projecting my humor upon the world at large. I am alone, and though missing one, content enough. It occurs to me that there is a difference between feeling alone and being lonely...the former is beyond one's own control, the latter has more to do with the will.

"End."
The almost silence presses upon me. I nod acquiescence within myself and move on.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the makings of an amazing cobweb. It bridges the span between the edge of the desk shelf and the wall, and is already beginning to collect dust... I wonder how long it will last, now that it has been pointed out...

Someday I want to be able to play with this passion...

The music I was playing was nowhere nearly as moving as that of one of India's greatest musicians whose stories I often heard while growing up. Sixteenth century Tansen was one of the jewels in the court of Mogul king Akbar. It's said that when Tansen played raga deepak (from Sanskrit, fire melody) things would heat up, literally, and the lamps in the king's court would begin to glow. When he played raga megh malhar (rain melody), raindrops would begin falling to bring relief from the heat.

For some reason though the urgency to play, to create the liquid beauty of sound and rhythm, has left me. I can not blame it on the heat (for it has not been hot), nor on the intensity of my daylight labors (for they are relatively light). I feel this lack of urgency in other areas as well. I have not yet finished a book, nor written much, nor wandered the hills... I feel tired, as if the school year were still weighing on me. Too many worries...

What is it about an open doorway that is so enticing? Particularly wooden paneled doors...looking beyond, to all of the different worlds framed by the doorway, spreading out beyond your view...

*sigh*

I need to find a way through those doors...perhaps....perhaps

Loneliness... is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.
-Thomas Wolfe, novelist (1900-1938)

Strange enough I've been lonely all my life, most accutely when surrounded by others. But over the past year I've found something...funny how Love can make one see things differently...

I've been wondering quite a bit recently about passion and emotion - where they lead, what they do to you, what happens to you without them... The problem with mulling things over in your head is that they tend (at least for me) to boil down to a few concise thoughts or even fragments of thoughts, and thats all that's left...makes it very difficult to back over things with someone else...
Well off I go...my room is still rather messy from moving and I have a book (or two...or three) that I've been wanting to read for the past few days. I should correct student work, or take care of student loan applications... Soon, my head needs a break...

"Do you ever read any of the books you burn?"
"That's against the law!"
"Oh. Of course."
[Fahrenheit 451]

-Ray Bradbury, science-fiction writer (1920- )

I thought this was an appropriate quote with which to begin the summer (though don't ask me why). I have not read leasurly since last summer... I am so tired, that I have a dull throb at the back of my head from stress and lack of sleep. I don't know how my finals went... I plan to bug my tutors and my connections in the offices until I know if I am coming back next year... But I am not going to worry about that now, mostly through lack of energy... This week-end will be relaxing and exhausting...

So I somehow didn't manage to get that third cup of tea. And now it's 7:40 and getting dark, and it's stopped raining too. I haven't done any homework for tomorrow (bad) and have not gotten any furtherwith finals studies (also bad). But I don't want to study, I want to curl up in my arm chair (after I dump out all the clothes that are currently living there) and read or play with my guitar (at this rate the Sprit will be playing it before I do...for now she is content to play with the four bottom strings, but it is only a matter of time) or drink tea. I got my tea pot back (and it's clean too).

*sigh*

Does anyone have any motivation they could lend me for a week or so? I'd give it back, honest I would. For some odd reason, the fear of failing is simply not doing it for me...

Oh well, off we go. At least I can get tomorrow's homework done decently...

It's just past 10 o'clock in the morning and I am ready for my third cup of tea. The water I put on to boil in my room down the hall from my haunt is probably ready, and I have perhaps a dozen teas to choose from. I wonder if I am addicted? I've managed to loose my favorite mug and my teapot it up in the Commons, left there from the mad teaparty of a few days ago. I would really like to make a strong pot of tea, transfer it to a thermos and wander off into the fog shrouded hills with a warm coat and several books and not come back until I'm soaked or dark, or both. However, my finals harried mind won't let me enjoy this relaxation beyond the speculation of it, so instead I will wander back down the hall and continue to worry about the equivalency laws of gases and play with my guitar, and yes, drink tea.

Thoughts on the approach of finals week...


Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!

-Lewis Carroll, mathematician and writer (1832-1898)

We're less than a week away from year end finals, and I am starting to feel it. All evening I have been fighting (mostly in vain) against the hard hot feeling of desperation and frustration seated in my chest. I don't want to have study for finals... Finals mean change and people leaving and not coming back. They mean that things will be different and strange. Besides all that, they're hard!!!
So I sat down to correct student work, so I could then do tomorrow's homework, and ignore review guides for another two evenings (tomorrow evening being taken up with seminar and homework of it's own...Thursday is plenty soon to start studying, right??) I discovered instead the Senior year book, full of pictures and quotes (lots and lots of quotes) and read it cover to cover. It almost dispelled the knot in my breast...and then I looked at the papers that litter the desk of the Lady of the Haunt and was quickly reminded of the doom waiting for us next week...
And I had such grand plans for this eveing. I was going to write for a while (it seems that I've remembered how to think, just in time perhaps in more than one respect...) and then take care of assignments and student work that has been waiting around for a week (or two...) and tackle or at least look over and make some notes on the reviews that I had... But as time moved on, my sense of purpose waned and the despondancy waxed (and not even in proportion... And to think just this morning I was thinking of how lovely it was to watch the change in shading in the trees as I walked along the edge of the forest... bother it all)
*sigh*
I am going to be losing my haunt in a week's time... very very sad thought. I need to do something to fix this, and soon...

Isn't it a strange sensation when you suddenly realize that you havn't thought about anything in a really, really long time? Rather frightening, actually...

The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man. -Madame de Stael, writer (1766-1817)

A fascinating quote by an author I've never heard of. I am in the middle of a Google search about her. Something I found...she seems very interesting. I'd like to see what she said herself... Hmmm, I wonder if the library has any of her books.

I finally made it down to the Getty museum. I've been wanting to go since I got here nearly two years ago. I will definitely be going back during the summer, there is still so much to see. Amoung many other beautiful works, we saw two Monet paintings Haystacks on a Winter Morning, and the Rouen Cathedral. (Perhaps it is a sign of immaturity in taste, but the Impressionists are my close to being my favorite painters.) It was so wonderful to be able to wander around these huge buildings, absorbing beauty in so many forms, never once feeling the ache I usually associate with the beautiful. Perhaps it was the company, or the novelty of being far away from school mingling with complete strangers...

The day is lovely, clear sky and warm. I am exhausted and I don't really know why... seeing as I have to work tonight, I am going to go to sleep for a bit...

Vive il Papa!!!!!


May God bless and guide our new Holy Father, Benedict XVI.

A week ago today, I was skipping class to take care of put-off-business. This week I have no such excuse...so now I have to go and read it... After I take my helicopter another 500 ft. Why are mindless games so addictive???

Life is strange and for some reason continues to change. Why can't thing settle for just a bit, say long enough for me to get used to them?

I spent this past week-end visiting with my parents and three youngest siblings. It was wonderful to see them, how much they have grown. (My baby sister, age 6 yrs, told me as we walked down to my dorm room from where they were staying that she had been told that I "like to read and listen to classical music." I don't even know if she remembers me on her own...) Mixed in with it all though was the feeling of constraint that I had come to associate with "being at home after the time I should be gone" that I had felt before leaving for school. I almost felt as if I had never really left at all...very distressing. Add to this the strange and almost unknown sensation of homesickness (something entirely unknown to me until very recently) and it made for a very interesting time of it...

Summer is four weeks away and every week has something going on... I look out at the time before me and I can see it slipping by. I am reminded of standing at the beach, my feet in the sand at the water's edge and each wave taking a little more from under me. The sensation of gradually sinking and feeling foundationless is eerily similar. I want things to stay the same for just a little while, so I can get used to them, can get my mind around them and see what is happening and where it all is going.

*sigh*

At the same time, I would not change where I am for the world...

Somehow I've gotten myself to the point of having to chose between semiar and all of the other things that I have to take care of (correcting month old student work, homework...

~ ~ ~
the door to my computer haunt opens and my evening of computer time vanishes... I am happy for the cause of its termination, but I am left with so much to do and no where to take care of it....

Reason # 736 for owning ones own computer: it is available when you want it... (is it just me or does this sound like the last reason?)

What is life?
At the moment it is realizing that even seemingly small choices have consequences and repercussions. And being the non-committal, procrastinator that I am, I really don't what to have to face these outcomes. I feel like I am looking at myself through a magnifying glass, both examining and waiting to get burned.
I have promised myself over and over again in the past (and not so distant past) that I would not be the cause of someone else's pain again. I've done with that, no more, not again. And yet, looking ahead at the choices I have to make in the near future, I can not see anyway to avoid giving someone disappointment and pain. In my own mind, I know what I am going to do when the situations arise, but I am almost sick at the thought of facing them. I am weak and scared, and all I want to do is run and hide.

Sunlight is fading from the hills
and I am trying to remember how to be happy.
Lines of shadow darken, color fades
I sift through memories
as so many recipes in an old kitchen drawer
looking for the one that will tell me
the ingredients I lack.
Cool air and quiet slowly saturate my haunt
and I grasp for words I will never utter aloud.

A thought to fill the time until I find some to spare on posting...

Readers may be divided into four classes: 1. Sponges, who absorb all that they read and return it in nearly the same state, only a little dirtied. 2. Sand-glasses, who retain nothing and are content to get through a book for the sake of getting through the time. 3. Strain-bags, who retain merely the dregs of what they read. 4. Mogul diamonds, equally rare and valuable, who profit by what they read, and enable others to profit by it also.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poet, critic (1772-1834)

I am going to be yelled in a moment or two, but these are the first moments put together I've had since I've gotten here. Ten minutes ago the livingroom floor was not visible beneath the litter of mattereses and sleeping bags... There is a bit of fog outside, making the breeze just a bit on the chill side. I am not really sure how many of us have decended upon the welcoming home of Dz's parents.
"we're going"

It is raining and I have Bible verses running through my head.
Perhaps it it because we are coming up on the Triduum, but I keep thinking of the verse "...and he went out and wept bitterly into the night..." I've always thought that it should be raining during Peter's repentance, though it says nothing about it raining at that time in the gospels. Perhaps it's all of the comparisons of rain to weeping...
I had an interesting discussion with Toque last night about humanity, sin, and humility. He was making the case that at some point we have to acknowledge that we on our own are not able to do anything but fall. It is simply who and what we are. This is where humility comes in, we have to ask God for the grace not to fall, recognizing our own inability to accomplish anything good. Humility becomes necessary because we are commanded to be "perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect." My thoughts ran more along the lines of the difference between men and women's responses to this. For all the fact that we all fell in Adam, that we are all men sharing the same fallen human nature, the "daughters of Eve" have inherited something peculiar to themselves in the way they view sin, particularly their own. Mother Eve was, to a certain extent, the incentive for Adam to fall, her company, beauty, just she in herself. Women have in a way inherited a sense of guilt on account of this. I think this is the reason women will often see the sins of others as being their own, why they will withdraw in certain situations. They see it as a danger zone of pain, either for others or themselves. I know there was an element of this playing in myself the other night...

They were an interesting group there, collected at the base of the amphitheater. It may well have been the setting for a play of its own, three ladies and two gents discoursing amoung themselves on the random and profound. Walking down the steps, my familiar blew up on an errant breeze and wrapped itself around my heart closer than the lover's arms around my waist. Unconsciously I shivered, while laughing to myself at the wonder of meeting this collection of friends in the empty park.
surprised "Come down and join us."
cheerful " We're giving speeches on random words. Come on it's your turn..."
laughing "It will be fun. Go on, up on the stage."
Voices chiming in, meaning to be welcoming and open, isolated and closed me off. I did not belong in this merry group. Usually I would tell myself that I was being silly and childish, to pay no attention to the familiar twining itself about my heart like a cat about one's legs. This night, though - the moon a low crescent, the stars bright though the light haze in the valley, the trees all around tall and slim, low and round, the laughter, the light- removed all within me with which I ordinarily dismiss my familiar. I gave in. No, I was not of this folk...
As he climbed up to the top of the covering, up amoung the tree branches, I wandered to the top of the amphitheater, stepping on the backs and seats of the long brown rows of bleachers. There now, I can observe and enjoy, listening to their conversations and laughing with my familiar.
called "What will you give for water?"
called in reply "Nothing, for I need it not."
to themselves "Ah the self-sufficient sort...."
I knew then I would not be allowed to remain backstage, in the wings, apart, alone. And sure enough, W came walking up the center aisle.
murmured "Please come down."
whispered "I don't belong here."
laughing softly "I don't either... please come down...for me..."
His voice trailed off. I wouldn't look at him, but I knew his face wore a troubled look, partly sad partly pleading. With a sigh I followed him down the aisle, back toward the collection of people at the foot of the stage.
calling up to the figure perched above "Your turn."
called down "What am I to talk about?"
obvious reply "Talk about her"
I had to laugh. About me?
quipped "Here I'll help- let me get out of sight."
I saw a chance to escape again, climbing on the stage looking up at him as I passed under his hanging feet, feeling far away from him now. I lingered in the shadows of what ought to have been the backstage, listening to him holding forth on peanuts and his roommate.
to me "Your turn."
curious "Mine? I don't think so."
reply "Yes. The word is 'wall'."
leaning back "Then I am the wall and nothing you say can penetrate..."

And so wore away our time in the theater, this scene of the pageant wherein we play in played out and past.

As we walked back through the quiet park, away from the abandoned amphitheater, he asked me what was wrong. He caught the tears I had not let form or fall as they tugged my voice, catching my throat. I was at a loss. How does one describe one's familiar? A daemon? To tell him that it wends its way into my heart in a surer fashion than he, possessing without effort what he desires for his own? That I weary of the struggle with it... No, better to laugh and say nothing is wrong, that I am being silly. But he knows me too well and will not let me be drawn further away from him. I am grateful for his struggle to understand, it gives me strength for the fight.

ACK taxes!!!!!!!!!! Evil evil taxes! In the past I have not minded having to file taxes so very much. It was simple enough, and the refund (when I didn't think about the fact that the refund was actually money that ought not to have been taken from me in the first place) was rather nice to get in the mail. It made you feel like you suddenly had extra money to play with. This year however, it is simply confusing. Too many forms, schedules, instructions...too much stuff to process. Perhaps I ought to go and ask someone for help...

Excerpt from letter written 15 March. Edited for content.

"How possible to love someone so much you ask, love… perhaps it is a way of seeing them… seeing more of what is to be loved in them, more of God in them. As you wondered this, I immediately thought “yes but you love your child even more than this” to a similar effect, how is it possible to love more than this? The answer must be God, and the desire to love Him that is somehow in our nature. I mentioned this in my last letter…as a lover you must first seek Him, completely desiring Him as your love, your only love, satisfied only and alone with and by His love. All other loves will satisfy only when they come through and are offered to Him. Because we are created for Him, it is only His love that will satisfy, and our souls somehow know this. I’ve sought this grace from Him for years now, seeking to find rest and stillness in Him, often failing and returning with tears and new realizations of what love is. "

Random:

~I spent perhaps half an hour this morning tying a friend of mine into a corset. Yes, an corset- one of those things that make the waist of the woman wearing it look impossibly small by a trick of the eye. I came to two conclusions. First, ladies' maids were in fact necessary, because it is impossible to get one of those things on without assistance. (I've always wondered about that...) Second, they don't really make your waist that much smaller, they shift the attention to the bust and hips and give a very definite line from one to the other. Hence the famous "hour-glass figure." They look extreemly uncomfortable to wear, and from what I've heard are also bad for you healthwise (something about damage to intenal organs...). So why is it that I as still curious to see what I would look like in one? *sigh* vanity of vanities...

~Reason #59 to get a computer of one's own: Papers are much easier to write on one's own time and not around the schedule of half a dozen other people.

The due date for the last paper of this year is...now let's see...five days away. I have only the vaguest of ideas of what I am going to do with it. I keep making time for it and something happens, and my efforts are thwarted. I took off from rehearsal this week-end and the Lady Gatekeeper needed the computer for application essays at the same time. So I think, "Ok, write an outline and collect ideas." This being done, and the computer still not available, I wander down to rehearsal, only to leave an hour and a half later to go to my philosophy prof.'s for supper. I am very glad I went, but it did not get anything done on the paper. Tonight, little things eat nearly 2/3's of the time I'd set aside for it...
*sigh* Perhaps I do worry too much about these things. I know I can write enough in four hours. But I do need those four hours, and it would be rather useful to have them all together rather than spread out over five days.
I think I'll wander off tomorrow night. Hmmm what am I doing tomorrow night, oh that's right...maybe I won't be...

On a brighter note, the seniors turned in their theses last night as the cover charge the one, if not the best party of the year here on campus. It began at 11 and lasted 'til 2 from what I've heard. Strange enough, there were few senior to be seen about today...though those who were to be found had something of a glow to them and a certain lightness to their step. It was very good to see. Defenses start in three weeks...the year is winding down. Soon the freshmen will be reading the Republic and then it will really be near the end. Graduation will come and nearly everyone will go. And time will move on...