My Response to "Into the Wild"

My heart seems to race
to meet some unknown climax:
where Mountain and Wind,
Earth and its children,
River and Hillside all stand together
and form my Desire.
Wolfsong and Hawkcry are
everything -- without them,
I cannot survive.
Who will cradle my loss?
Where will my dreams be laid?
When All that is Pure,
all aesthetic beauty is forgotten,
when All is laid bare --
who will stand and remember?

You -- the One who will stand --
You have lit a Fire beneath me.
Growing, soon to birth, is that Desire
which I ignored for the conformist's
reasons; which I shall now ignore.
What is my blood running for?
It runs for the Wild; it runs
for that Unadulterated,
the Untouched, the Unknown,
and the forever Undiscovered.
Let it Be! Let it Remain!
May my heart never be content:
may you stand in my way and
prevent me from destroying my
Final, Last, Driving Desire.
Let all the Wild World be a Mystery:
so that I may always, always
discover It.

Down with progress! Bring back Idealism!

My feet are bare, books on how to read Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature surround me as I stare out the big, glass windows that look down on CSUSM. The college's track is bordered on the West side by a hill crowned in trees of all sorts – pines, palm, eucalyptus, cypress, and others. A pair of hawks can always be found circling above this sparse green haven, always with a keen eye and sharp look. They patrol the open, untouched fields that lay on the outskirts of the college. Despite an added dirt parking lot, the raptors have continued to feast on ground squirrels and rabbits (meals which the trim grasses of the campus provide).

I have been admiring all the the (limited) scenery here, what with the sun behind a thick fog, giving everything a dreamy effect. In that, I hear behind me a multitude of people – a campus tour. The leader of the group proceeds to point out the landmarks beyond the glass window panes. Her finger conjures death as it points to that arborial hillside, “That is where our new building is going up. There will be room on the first floor for students to gather...” and her words drone on, but I cannot hear them for the blood pounding in my ears. A building? There? Why?

Where are Edward Abbey and Thoreau and Emerson? Where are Nature's Heroes?

Please, pave right over my heart

for it is inconvenient to your “progress”,

I've no need for it either:

(or so I would lead you to believe).

Faithless. Faceless. Heartless bastards!

Destroy with your hand what you

cannot see with your eyes.

Yet Nature in Herself will stay

despite your vicious attempts.

Contractors, engineers: Beware!

For Edwards Abbey was right:

we will outlive you!

On Returning to Red Rocks, Nevada

My time has come to leave what I know
and to go back to what I once knew.
In this present condition
I have forgotten my past.
There is a dream that stands behind my eyes,
one which demanded existence years ago.
My recognition of it brings it to life;
It learned to forgive in its state of comatose.
Let me now say what
I have said before:
My vision is blurred by time,
Yet there was an elapsed clarity
Which I will soon retrieve and retain and enjoy.

The Drive Home

Last night I finally returned to Ramona. It had been exactly two weeks since I had been home and I knew what I should expect – but what I saw and smelled was far more than what I had prepared myself for. Even in the night I could see the blackness – the deep scar the Witch Creek Fire had left across the earth. My eyes watered for what I could not see, but knew was there; back beyond my limited sight, was the destruction of homes, groves, and lives.

I reached home under smoky stars. It baffled me that even after two weeks, including a day of rain, it could still be smoky.

I dreaded the drive to school this morning. Even though it would be partially concealed by the thick fog that covered the ground, I would still be exposed to more sights of burnt homes and melted plastic fences.

Fog blended with smoke, revealing its secrets slowly, without consideration for time. Trees loomed, dipping down out of the grey, and touched my vision. When the clouds lifted, the devastation was more readily available to me. The tears came and I choked back sobs, dust and ash in my nostrils.

For what I have sustained is nothing – but what these people who lived here, ­lived here, is more than I could understand, more than I could know.

“But there is suffering in life, and there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggles for your dreams than to be defeated without ever knowing what you're fighting for." - Paulo Coelho

Post-fire Thoughts

I sit in a computer lab on campus, looking over peoples’ shoulders as they type papers, read articles, check their emails – everything has come full circle – and it appears we have gained normality once again. The fires never touched the hills behind CSUSM, though people I spoke to said that the dorms had caught fire, the college was half burnt. Oh, sweet, tormenting rumors and exaggerations. The paper in front of me reads Reining in the Flames: Remaining blazes close to containment; Santa Anas may return this weekend… Will our lives always be dictated to by the weather, by the papers? We hope for the end, foreseeing more catastrophes and dangers.

My home in Ramona, as reported by my father, is fine. I have not seen my house since last Sunday (over a week ago). That is no real matter, seeing that I live out of my car anyway. Wherever I drive to, I can live at that location. So living at my step-dad’s house in Encinitas was fine. Spending the night in Oceanside was no ordeal, but I long to be in Ramona, to be “home”.

Since my family’s exodus of Julian more than ten years ago, I have suffered from homelessness. Not that I do not have a house, not that I have no place to call my own, but I lack that place where I can stand, breathe, and feel content; feel safe, and feel at home. My room in my house in Ramona is the closest thing I have to that place of sanctuary. I have taken my time decorating it, tuning it to perfection so that it has a sense of a forest, a haven of sorts. The walls are a dark green, the shelves on the walls are pine, and my bed sheets brown and tan. When I evacuated Sunday night, I took my pictures off of the wall, the framed photograph by Ansel Adams, my computer, and a few books – leaving my room blank and empty.

I long to fill those spaces. I want to sit on my bed and stare at my mirror and imagine that I am a child again, home in Julian, surrounded by a green forest (my walls), with a cool wind in my hair (as I listen to the whir of my ceiling fan) and I can feel the soft earth beneath me (my carpet).

I can only imagine being home and what that would smell like. Maybe one day I will find that this daydream has materialized. But until then, I just want to sit in my room and remember Julian…

Silver Dollar Tree

"Welcome to my perch,"
says the silver-dollar tree.
"You will find my shade
sufficient, And you will be
so captivated
that you will never once think
of leaving my side."
And so I sit beneath you,
my new companion.
Rest will surely find me here.




Matthew Chalison created the companion picture.

Mt. McGuire

When coming down the talus,
crossing blackened boulder fields,
a kestrel upwards flew
and our spirits collided.
For my ears were full of wind;
my heart outside my chest;
my soul was sharing its thoughts
with airborne particles of sunlight.
On the rusted blue raptors wings
I saw my breath,
then I understood.
This moment would be mine forever.
The mountain beneath me Was.
All horizons Remained.
Our spirits never parted
and to this day I am blissfully torn,
my breath upon the wind.