Such Thoughts

Furthering Finality

2012-01-31T13:15:00.000-08:00

You're missing out
on possibilities
on shooting stars
falling into the oceans
of all of our tears.
Weakness or strength?
Which gave you the right
to take and break that
which wasn't yours?

I rage
because of you
your actions
they way you shunned
ignored
refused
all of our love.
Not just mine.
They way you threw
it all away on a limb
--on a whim.

You're not here
so you can't listen
to my yelling at you
at all of us screaming
at you.
Wish you could have
heard this
before you chose
to leave.
I bet we could have
convinced you
to stay.

Jesse

2012-01-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

Falling. Reeling.
The loss
yawning void that you left for us
for us to lurch into gets
deep
er.roar in your bottle-corked feelings
that you refused to share
that caused us to yell
screaming
NO! NO! NO!
It’s not true!
It’s not real!
But unreality was your specialty.
Cruel in the way you chose
to leave this world
leave yourself in front of the morgue
we used to jest about our silent neighbors.
Now you are one of them.
Them:
The kind that do not return.
You are there with your mother. With Matt Hopper.
But you’re also here. You stand in my dreams
with your hands in your pockets
with your feet in your Berkinstocks
with a sad smirk on your face
that resembles an apology.
But your dream-sorries are ripped from me
as my alarm goes off --wake
--and I remember that you are still gone.
Your curiosity, perhaps?
Your last FU, world!
Your last run-in with unrequited love?
You, the black bird.
Do you know what you have done?
Was this a social experiment gone wrong?
Remember when you used to go to class in a suit
just to see what people would say to you?
Treat you differently? Reactions.
Take notes.
We loved you.
We all did.
You’ve left a Jesse-shaped hole in our hearts.

I watch the sun rise above clouds of blood red gold liquid...
I find no reason in my heart for leaving this beautiful world.
I feel the air in my lungs, feel the warmth of the sun as it graces my skin,
hear the birds begin their morning songs, praising the day.
But this isn't about me. Not anymore.
Why would you leave all this? All of us?

I see your pictures. I read your words.
I will you to come alive.
To undo what you have done.
But you have chosen to go.
I do not speak for just myself,
but for everyone who loved you (still loves you):
we will never let you go.

dreamer

2011-09-27T23:31:00.000-07:00

I want to scream.

Yell.

Curse.

For getting my hopes up yet again.

Needless to say, I did not get the job at Camp Cuyamaca.

I was meant to impart a love for nature to young folk

And to enable them to find Nature to be a mirror in which they can see the best of themselves.

I am an educator: whether it is teaching the joy of literature or a deep appreciation of the outdoors, I should be teaching someone, somewhere, these things.

When will I be able to do what I was meant to do?

Until I find a place that will take me in and see my worth as a teacher, I am moving to Joshua Tree. Starting this Monday I will be full-time at the Nomad Ventures there.

My optimism still works: I will be moving in with Jacob! Climbing! Joshua Tree!!

....but no Camp Cuyamaca.

Jacob

2011-09-06T15:22:00.001-07:00

I love that you can ride waves to shore

The white roaring mass moving you

To whoop and holler and that dashing smile

Your hair stuck up on one side

You jog slow-motion through the breakers

To me, waist-deep in the strong current

You high-five me and eyes shine bright

Like a child. If I have faith in anything

It is in the joy that we share here together.

Morning in August

2011-08-11T08:03:00.000-07:00

I finally drifted off to sleep last night, heavy with the need for rest. This did not last long. I woke to trilling, screeching, purring raccoon kits playing: little balls of fur tackling and rolling about just outside my window. A smile found my sleepy face. How could I be mad at such cute critters? But after a few minutes I knocked on my window and kindly asked, "Hey, guys? Could you keep it down?" They scampered further off, creating a muted ruckus further down the yard.

Next I know Mom is prefacing the question of whether or not I'd like some coffee with, "I know this is a dumb question, but..."

Roll from bed. Coffee. Sugar. Too much sugar. Add more coffee. 7am? Enough time to sit back and read Climbing magazine. Find a bit of motivation. Sip on bean juice. Wait--is it trash day? I've been waiting to clean out the fridge for two weeks. Pause... clean... gross... okay, done.

As I read a randomly pulled back issue I think about how little I have climbed. I do consider myself a climber, though not a very good one. My grip strength is improving; I am getting myself out on some easy leads (both trad and sport); I've been reading John Long's Anchor books; talking rock with Jacob; and finally been dreaming about more vertical granite than I can shake a stick at. I'm a climber at heart and am slowly following in action.

My Honda Civic died. The clutch gave out and I sold it all in one day. My savings plus the few measly bucks I milked from the car sale is not enough for a down payment on a new or even a certified used car. So I rock the Momobile CRV (thanks, Mom!). Wait. Save. Search. Buy?

I've had my teaching credential for just over one year now. I have just four years left to find a job in the classroom. I still want to teach. One day, I will.

dwell

2011-08-10T23:49:00.000-07:00

It is late.

I am always doing this;

waking with the sun,

staying up with the moon.

The water rushing outside

my window is not the

Tuolumne River.

I pull out my sleeping bag

and pretend

that I am Out still

beneath the approving stars.

Father's Daughter

2011-06-19T22:19:00.001-07:00

Father's Day always reminds me how lucky I am to have Dad as my dad. For instance, if Dad weren't my dad, would I be excited to rummage through the owl pellets beneath the owl box up on the hill? A mouse skull here, a gopher skull there, rodent bones, hair, and, look! a feather! A Barl Owl feather, to be precise.

The wild things sustain me. I have found, though, that I have a need to share these wild things with the ones I love.

I follow a road that becomes a trail that becomes a game trail that leads to a sudden drop-off into a canyon. I smell the sage, nibble on buckwheat, and stare back at a sharp-shinned hawk. But there is one man in particular I wish were besides me. He could also identify the plants, the birds, the animals. He is 115 miles away, on his own hike in a canyon behind his house in Joshua Tree.

I smell Pearly Everlasting and look down at my feet. A few pieces lay on the ground and I gather them up, make a bouquet. Next to my toes I find a sun-bleached snail shell with a hole through the center. I cinch the stems of the Pearly Everlasting with the shell and continue walking. What appears to be string is actually coyote melon vines, partially dried in the sun. Round and wound it goes, to finish off my bouquet, which I give to Dad for Father's Day.

I no longer feel the pressure to be someone I am not. I am not ashamed to dissect owl pellets, find scat as informative as a newspaper (and less depressing), and deem a bouquet of dried up wildflowers more intoxicating than any rose. Daddo, thank you for teaching me to be who you taught me to be, confidently, and without need for compromise.

Happy Father's Day, Daddo.

sleepyhead

2011-06-02T00:34:00.000-07:00

There is no real reason for me to be awake right now. I guess I enjoy the silence that this time of night brings; I can only hear the hum of my laptop and the crinkle of leaves under the paws of raccoons just outside my window.

The reality that I won't be working at Julian Jr. High has settled. I'm moving on. I've applied to other jobs, but without all the gung-ho I had for JJH. I must continue to look forward. Until then, I will keep working at Nomad Ventures. Too many of my friends do not have jobs. I know I am fortunate to have one.

Also, just so you know, sometimes I laugh because I have a blog. Fifteen years ago that word didn't exist. Blog.

As for the photograph: I took that (while driving) on my way up to Idyllwild via the 243, just after passing under the 10. I think my camera has an infatuation with train tracks. They're so full of symbology (only a real word if you've seen The Boondock Saints).

It's nearly 1am. I'd best get my sleepface on.

waiting

2011-05-23T19:37:00.000-07:00

My friends tell me that I should stay busy while I wait to hear the news. Instead I eat left-over Thai food in bed while reading webcomics.

Clare and I discuss ideas that some people have died for. The thought of a perfect world, where one didn’t have to chose between food or gasoline. Eating from your garden. Picking sweet peas and bell peppers and putting them in your salad. Laughing with your best friends. Not having to compete with them for a job that will underpay and overwork you. Revolution is the thing that everyone wants but is so monumental that no one will die for it anymore. All the revolutionaries are dead.

Our three-car garage is filled with artifacts that would either show our love or our contempt for each other. Which artifact would you throw into the dumpster?

I heard that the self-storage industry is doing remarkably well.

Why is it that we cannot enjoy the moment? We either cling desperately to our past or we hurl ourselves into the future.

Why don’t we know ourselves? We fear who we might be, so we refuse to give up who we were or strive to be what we might become.

I found a lump. I thought I was too young, but there it is--quite visible. It is in the shape of contempt. Anger. Indignation. I thought I could easily forgive, but here I am struggling to not yell while throwing red bricks at the blue sky. Four years and you deny it meant anything. A waste of time? I am still reeling from that--from your wall, from your words, from your ability to sweep away what I thought you might have understood, but had hidden. I am currently unable to cope with the way I feel about the way part of me died when I left you. How has anyone coped with such burning anger and unanswered questions? How has anyone found a way to wade through such hurt?

I told Clare that I suppose this is how a tree feels when it has been pared. It must feel very unnatural at first, what with sap running over its bark and all. But I have started to grow. My old heartwood was exposed and now new shoots are beginning to bud. It is Spring, isn’t it?

Some may wonder if my loving him so soon is such a good idea. But, you see, I’m going to offer you a few reasons why it is.

I love who he is. Rough around the edges. Intelligent. Possessing a native intelligence that rivals my own (while I am in my neck of the woods). Strong and confident. Thoughtful and intuitive.

He knows I am still wounded. Yet, he allows me to love. This love is not a salve, it is not a band-aid, it is not a fix-a-flat (though I did once flatline). This love is hope.

I have to hope that I am able to fully love again. And I have to hope that there is someone in this world would can take my love for what I want it to be: a gift, a gem, a wooden heart-shaped puzzle box that I want him to unlock.

Good thing he loves puzzles.

San Jacinto

2011-04-13T23:00:00.000-07:00

Flecks of light drift through the air between the towering pines. Each branch, every needle is encased in pristine white; My feet stop moving and my heart expands in my chest. I break the silence with laughter because the joy inside me demands manifestation; I am overwhelmed.

Jacob and I are going for the summit of San Jacinto, 10,834ft: the highest peak in Southern California. Our feet are clad in insulated boots and crampons--there is roughly two and a half feet of packed snow, and one foot of fresh powder on top. Jake leads the way (having hiked this trail numerous times) and we follow the boot prints of only a few other crazy hikers. We pass through meadows and up hills, through forests of ponderosa pines that smell so sweet I feel intoxicated. The sights, smells, and sounds are so invigorating that I don’t notice how sore my legs and back feel. Nothing precedes the wonder and awe in which I am joyously drowning.

Jake tells me that John Muir hiked this mountain and had said that, “The view from here is the most sublime in the world.” In the world! If John Muir said it, it must be true, right?

When you are in the mountains you forget about the menial and unnecessary stresses in your life. You are able to focus on the here, the now, the present: this moment, and this moment only. As Jake said, you reach a kind of Zen, a focus and meditation, that would take a Buddhist his entire life to reach. Each step taken is made with purpose and precision. Point being, if you need to find yourself, challenge yourself, or simply re-focus your life, go to the mountains.

This whole snow and ice thing is new to me. Jake had to show me which way to strap on my crampons, which way to hold his ice tool, and a few time-tested ways to walk on steep, icy snow. I worried that I wouldn't enjoy the below-freezing temperatures or the ceaseless incline--but I loved it! I was never hot while hiking, but I wasn't cold, either.

And being surrounded by clean, bright snow gave me a sense of hyper-innocence. Jake and I were both all smiles, all laughter, and filled to the brim; this is what Joni Mitchell must have meant when she said, "I'm going to camp out on the land, I'm going to try and get my soul free."

I could spend any given time outside with a friend, but this... this brings my expectations to a whole new level.

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."

-- St. Augustine

restoration

2011-04-08T00:03:00.000-07:00

Having my back thrown out at only 24 years of age is disheartening. The pain, however, gave me a fresh appreciation for my working body. While I waited for my back to heal, I was able to focus on other things on my visit to Joshua Tree. I was unable to climb, but I could cheer on my friends who were able. As they climbed, I took some time to revel in the beauty in which this place is soaked; red adobe buildings crumbling in the sunset, cactus wrens making a lovely racket, and warm, smokey breeze kept me captivated.

Each time I return I feel more connected, more invited, and more at home in Joshua Tree.

I wonder if I will ever have just one place I call "home"?

allowing It to be

2011-03-31T12:29:00.000-07:00

"Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."

-Franz Kafka

It changes

It rises and falls and shows

Itself as a fog shows the oak trees

It may be unexpected

It may render you down to a feeling of hopelessness

It will always be there to remind you that

It cannot be controlled

It will not be tamed and

It is exactly what you need

It is and

It will continue to be, just as

It has always been

(Courtney Style) Today I...

2011-03-14T21:02:00.000-07:00

Today I...

Woke up in Ramona at 6:14am

Drove up to Julian and stopped in at the Julian Coffee House (Lou's)

Quad mocha and a breakfast croissant with sausage

Smile on my face and in my heart as I see my mountains again

4, 5, 6 does and 3 fawns cross the road in front of me

Try to convince Jake via text to come down and climb Stonewall with me

Staff meeting: the Monday grumpies

Staff meeting: I am the peanut gallery

Lisa got a haircut!

New kids, new energy

10 minutes to take my shoes off, lay down on my bed, and relax

Burritos!

3 minutes to crawl up onto a rock and watch the thin clouds drift past

Cabin time with the boys: never giving boys free time again. Structured activities only

Boys + burritos = massive flatulence during cabin time

Camp fire! My voice came back (nearly) enough to sing Boom Chicka Boom

Kids leave. Teachers stay. Enjoying the fire under the ring around the moon.

It's 9:30pm and I am going to bed.

relaxation, blood, and a Harley

2011-03-13T23:33:00.000-07:00

Blurred.

The landscape is a blur of browns, tans, and stubborn green.

I'm smiling irrepressibly while on the back of Jake's Harley Davidson. An orange, black and chrome piece of fury roars beneath us. So this is the freedom of the road, freedom to be force-fed air, freedom to be thrilled.

My arms are in a knot around Jake; I duck my head down behind his shoulders to breathe on my own terms. I laugh: he accelerates.

Red tailed hawks in their winter color phase reel above us in a sky fit for dreams.

We climb in the shade of a boulder that could hide a house. A massive crack runs through the center, splitting the rock, and its very existence challenges us to climb it. We hang upside down from our [taped] wrists, our [bare] fingers, our ankles, our toes. He moves with precision and power. I falter and chuckle as the rock rejects my efforts. He reaches for his water bottle and drinks. Two deep red smudges of blood remain on the sides of the bottle and dry there. We comment on the happy insanity of masochistic climbers. The athletic tape on my hands smells of sweat and chalk.

Cactus wrens call out in the yucca-studded distance.

"I live not in myself, but become portion of that around me; and to me high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."

-Lord Byron

I like the juxtaposition of riding a Harley and then climbing boulders in the middle of the desert. Both exude freedom and something uninhibited, yet one is natural and the other mechanical. Each is an expression of the human spirit. The spirit of ambition. Born to be unrestrained. Born to remain untamed. The bike; the climb. The biker; the climber.

I love that Jake exposed me to something new, something I did not expect. I will always crave the wilderness, but from now on I can say that riding on the back of a Harley is a different kind of release--a new way to feel wild.

wealth

2011-03-02T22:34:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine at Camp Cuyamaca, Andrew, and I had a few minutes to sit back and talk today. As we munched on Girl Scout Cookies (Samoas and Thin Mints: the only GS cookies that matter) we spoke of our future plans. He might have enough saved up to simply live as a bum near the ocean. A fantastic choice! Especially in San Diego. I told him my only plan was to hike about 50 miles of the John Muir Trail with two of my best friends, Camille and Tyler, this upcoming summer.

He surfs. I back pack. And our conversation wove in and out between things that make us happy and why. I've been studying the things that make me smile recently. People always tell me how happy I look, and I know I am more than happy; I am joyful.

I finally said something to Andrew that solidifies what I have been observing in my life:

"Well, I live to experience life, but there is more to it than that. There is a time and a place to be alone and to see things on your own, but the most important thing to me is experiencing life with others. That is how I define being 'rich': the more experiences you share with a person, the more memories you have with someone, the wealthier you are. I like to get rich every day."

I went on to rant as I always do about media-fed materialism and how it eats away at the values that this current generation has... but the heart of the conversation was this: I am rich. I am wealthy in my own definition. I am filled with a joy that comes from the interactions I have with these amazing people around me.

The road I walk is only as bright as I allow it to be. It would be completely dark if I shut my eyes. Or it could glow and shimmer with the radiance of those who give my life meaning.

I walk a road lined with memories and experiences worth more than gold, and it shines even truer...

Courtney

2011-02-26T17:08:00.000-08:00

She'll be gone this time tomorrow.

The day I've dreaded, tried to forget and ignore.

It's here now, knocking.

And it's raining as if to emphasize

how we'll all be crying tomorrow at the airport.

Embracing.

She's been more than my sister;

She's been my mentor, my laughing friend.

Two years

is a long while to wait

to see my sister, Courtney, again.

Godspeed.

reading the rain

2011-02-16T15:41:00.000-08:00

My eyes close in pleasure as I bite into a salmon lox bagel outside of Signature Bagel in Escondido. Swallow, sip of coffee, sigh. My eyes wanter to the line of cars parked at the curb. I note the cars that come and go. Which drivers match their vehicles. Which restaurant they will choose. Which item they will order. So many wear suits and dress shoes. Cell phones and keys in soft hands. Manicured finger nails. Combed, pinned back, washed hair. Busy. Financially well-off.

I wonder about what makes them tick.

Two well-dressed men step out of their Mercedes into the cloudy weather. They carry yellow pads of paper and an air of arrogance. I want to walk up to the older one and ask him, to his red face, “What gives your life meaning?”

A frightening variety of scenarios could follow. But I decide that I did not feel like making a grown man cry today. Or make a man question his current position in life. Or man a human wonder about why he is here. Here.

I re-open my book. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. It has become my obsession. I read this book like I would eat a feast after fasting for an age. My mind is hungry. My spirit is being fed.

I read under an umbrella intended to block sun, not rain. And as the rain hits my back, I am thankful for my Mammut rain jacket. The pages curl due to moisture in the air, but is not hit directly by the drops. I read on.

How is it that we, as humans, allow ourselves to wander from who we truly are, originally? I see the personality of 6th graders at Camp, and they are full of wonder, full of questions, full of imagination. Well--most of them. I have seen the deterioration of wonder in some students. It is sad; it is like watching a flower plucking it’s own petals and tossing them to the ground. Children need to imagine and to be free to think of their dreams as a possibility.

When do we lose this ability?

I assume that it is different for each person. I assume that there are events that cause us to try to become more “adult” and less of a child. But, why must we lose wonder? And why must we start to give up our individual identities before we have even let them form completely?

Why do we struggle so vigorously with self-respect?

Too many people simply cannot look themselves in the eyes and feel proud of who they are. Or they don’t know who they are, so they are afraid to look deeper to find out; they are afraid they will not love who they are, so they don’t even bother. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am more than happy with who I am: as a human, as a friend, as a woman. I am content. I am secure. I am proud. And it has taken me years to reach this standing. I’ve fought to come here, to come this far. Yet, I am only twenty-four years old. There are people, as I have said before, more than twice my age who do not know how it is to look and love yourself for who you are. I don’t feel guilty; I feel honored, privileged.

The Human Condition. We must fight self-hate, self-loathing each day. We must realize our potential and then jump for it. Go for it. Run for it. Become it.

It is raining steadily outside my house in Ramona. I drink homemade Thai tea and listen to water falling around the walls and windows. Each drop of water has a single dust particle to which the water molecules have desperately attached themselves. As the drops fall, I can’t help but think about how We typically view rain as pure, cleansing, and renewing. Yet, each raindrop contains a fragment of dirt.

No one should see that particle as a fault. There would be no rain if there was no dust. Instead, we should allow ourselves to be whole, and to fall, and to be as we were intended to be: a life-giving rainstorm that knows what it is and fulfills its purpose without a series of painful, doubt-laden questions.

I say, be who you are and be joyful in it!

cherish

2011-02-09T19:34:00.000-08:00

When we walk down granite covered hill sides we talk about the Earth.

When I look down at my boots, I notice a shard of pottery.

Clay, dust, water; shaped by skilled hands; fired and hardened.

But this was hundreds of years ago.

A place a fragment of history in the upturned palm of my student's hand.

This is how you can tell it is pottery and not just a rock, some bark from a tree.

She starts to see and pick out pieces from among dozens of rocks.

I smile.

This is how my father taught me to see the Earth: the things of Nature and then the things of Man.

There is a distinct difference. When trained, your eye will be able to find that thing that does and does not belong.

A kid from the other village came up to me today and said, "Hey! You're Kat! Your group said that you can see anything!" He puts a hand behind his back. "How many fingers am I holding up."

I looked him dead in the eye. "Three."

His jaw dropped and his eyes bugged. "Oh my gosh!"

Today I spotted six red tailed hawks, one barn owl who was fleeing an hawk, two ticks, three grasshoppers, one jack rabbit, and three vultures. One of my students said that I had amazing eyes. I grinned; I do have my father's eyes.

returning

2011-02-04T14:53:00.001-08:00

I don't run away to the wild places as much as I return home to them.

shelter

2011-02-02T16:20:00.000-08:00

We saw our breath as it was torn from our mouths. All noses and cheeks were ruby ruddy red; all hair tousled when not bunched beneath beanies.

Up, up to the top of the hill, where the wind is the strongest, the coldest, the sharpest. If we follow the trail, we will continue to be blown about like leaves. If we drop down, forget the trail, we will find what I am looking for...

I teach my students that when you drop down the side of a mountain, you can find a shelter from the wind.

Ducking beneath mountain lilac; hopping over downed pines; tunneling between manzanita; there it is: an open, sloping meadow on the sunny-side of the hill.

I toss my bag and jacket aside and show my kids just how marvelous a nap in the sunshine can be. "Everybody relax. Warm up. Feel free to lay down and curl up like a deer in the grass."

They are exhausted from the wind and the cold. Their little bodies have used up so much energy shivering.

Nearly half of my group fell asleep in the sun.

I love having the honor of teaching children how to find shelter from the frigid weather, how to find a sunny mountain meadow, and how to fall asleep to the wind howling just above them in the tree tops.

friend

2011-01-31T23:14:00.000-08:00

please stay

please please fight

please please don't give in

please find more

without looking

waves of moments that connect you

and them to your life

which is worth living.

please stay

please keep fighting

unsaid

2011-01-27T23:35:00.000-08:00

If the apostrophe stands for what is unsaid, then:

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

for the kids

2011-01-25T09:03:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took a group of new arrivals out on the trail. They seemed wild and unfocused, so I decided to teach them about some of our local flora.

"Does anyone know what this plant is? This green, serrated leafed plant is called stinging nettle. If you look at the underside of the leaf you will see that it is indeed covered in tiny needles. When these needles pierce your skin, it secretes folic acid, which is the same kind of acid that bees and red ants use. You want to see what it looks like when it touches my skin?"

"No! No!" they screamed. I was surprised; most sixth graders enjoy watching other people endure injury. "Please don't! We can just youtube this when we get home!"

They got louder as I brought the stinging nettle closer to my skin, and finally a crescendo when it made contact with the underside of my wrist.

"Ahhhhh!"

I had never actually felt stinging nettle before, but I knew what to expect.

"Wow! Already I can feel a burning sensation--like someone is poking me with about 20 red-hot needles!"

"Eeeewww!"

There is a plant called mugwort that lives right next to stinging nettle, and this plant is a nearly instant solution to stinging nettle. When you crush mugwort between your fingers, a few droplets of salve can be made. When you apply this mugwort salve to your stinging nettle, it will ease the burn and you'll feel 100% okie dokie in about 10 minutes. However, this helpful plant is dormant during the Winter months. I told the kids if they were to ever land in stinging nettle, please do so during Spring or Summer.

Anything for the outdoor education of our children :)

warrior teacher

2011-01-21T10:08:00.000-08:00

Beneath my watch is a layer of dirt and sweat.

From my shoes pour pebbles and grit.

I shake my silver brown hair and mica flies into the wind.

Tongue to my lips and I taste the dust of the earth, the sage I picked.

This will not last forever. At least, not yet.

This is a gift: being able to open the door to the outdoors for kids.

Impressionable young adults.

At the beginning they were squeamish about walking through mud.

This week I taught them to allow themselves to be dirty--hands on fun.

By the end of the week they were playing in streams, watching hawks, writing poetry.

"A Warrior of the Light shares his world with the people he loves. He tries to encourage them to do the things they would like to do but for which they lack the courage." - Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light

This is my calling in life: to share the beauty of nature with the youth so that we may all have a deeper appreciation and love for it. If it is not appreciated, who will stand before the bulldozers and concrete and log cutters and engineers and roads? Who will fight for the few pristine and beautiful places we have left in this world? Who will be able to look at a mountain and see themselves reflected in it? Who will be able to stand on that mountain and look upon their world with awe and inspiration?

Coffee!

2011-01-19T09:12:00.000-08:00

Today in our Pine Village meeting, our Village leader gave us French Pressed Coffee! Coffee!! That I had to stir with a spoon because I kept chewing the grinds at the bottom. Everyone in Pine Village is now bouncing off the walls: Literally. No really--look at the picture of Holly and I bouncing off the hallway walls!

I love this place!

Peace

2011-01-18T12:13:00.000-08:00

The sound of water through a granite canyon may be better medicine for my Being as a whole than anything prescribed by a doctor.

Growing Leaves

2011-01-12T21:51:00.000-08:00

There is a tree inside

When I breathe it grows

I find its leaves at the foot of my bed

Drifting towards the edge of the pools

of my eyes

When I slept last night

My arms became branches

There was a bird’s nest in

the crook of my elbow

The downy feathers under my head

I had scrambled eggs this morning.

Imitation of Claudia Rankine's “Don't Let Me Be Lonely”

2011-01-11T00:07:00.000-08:00

Written for LTWR 475, Professor Sandra Doller, 5.1.2009. All italicized quotes are by Edward Abbey, from "Desert Solitaire."

I feel like the roots of a tree, trapped beneath concrete. They are not seen by those who walk above, but the roots are alive (and growing) non-the-less. Were we to fast forward time, it would appear that the roots explode from the ground in insurmountable fury—overthrowing the concrete, and retaking the land. But we cannot move time, but must remain under that, also. I look forward to my mountains, but they are shrouded in a thick, polluted haze. I look out my windows but all I see is traffic—it's tumultuous tremors haunt my ears at night and every waking moment.

I am here not only to evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it’s possible, the bare bones of existence, the elemental and fundamental, the bedrock which sustains us.

Most people can live their lives in the cities and not think twice about it. Camping is a diversion. Hiking takes effort. Back packing takes too much time. And those strange people who hike the Pacific Crest Trail, six months start to finish, what are they thinking? I wish I could be one of the strange ones on the PCT. I wish I could have my food waiting for me at the next post office. I have to work to get it—not like most of us Americans. Westerners. Lazy! But even I cannot live out my dream, at least not yet.

I'm so tired of asking people for money. Asking for food. Asking for this or that. I am so far from independent. I am so far from being my own woman. I am so tired.

I hit the bottom of my bank account with each purchase I make. I can't buy a shirt without having to do the math in my head: is it worth it? Is it worth it to buy a $7 shirt? Do I buy groceries or do I get my oil changed in my car? Do I get my tires rotated or do I renew my AAA membership so if I am stranded on the side of the road I have free towing?

I once got into a fight with my boyfriend. He insisted that I could go my whole life without being out in the “wilderness”. I fought back because, as I have found out, all my heart and spunk leaves me when I am not renewed every now and then. “Renewed” means that I am out somewhere away from the sound of cars, people yammering on, televisions in the background with people I've never seen trying to sell me something that will better my existence. Not being able to give any logical reasoning behind my need for rejuvination, I fought back with a poem:

I can't believe you. I thought you knew:

I am the breath of pines

The sight of oaks

The voice of cedars

I am the laughter of brooks.

I can't believe you. I thought you saw:

I am the beat of wings

The pad of paws

The cry of wild things

I am the fear of Unknowns.

I can't believe you. I thought you heard:

I am the death of summer

The come of dawn

The sheen of snow

I am the covering of night.

I can't believe you. I thought you felt:

I am the falling of leaves

The shawl of fog

The lull of streams

I am the impassible of mountains.

I am sorry. I thought you knew.

Wilderness. The word itself is music. Wilderness, wilderness . . . We scarcely know what we mean by the term, though the sound of it draws all whose nerves and emotions have not yet been irreparably stunned, deadened, numbed by the caterwauling of commerce, the sweating scramble for profit and domination.

I look at my poem now and see my pulse in the format. I have a specific picture in my mind for each image presented in the poem. Self-analyzing can bring you a certain kind of insight. I know I was not wrong. And as my time away from the mountains and deserts lengthened, my boyfriend soon saw what I needed to remain stable.

And then I get a notice from CSUSM. You owe us $608. Funny, they sent me a check for $607 last semester saying that I overpaid during summer. Now they charge me after their mistake? And what are they doing with that extra dollar? Charging me for the fucking stamp?

It is not without strong will that I stay in this concrete cage. I couldn't just up and leave my friends, family, boyfriend... well, I could. But I don't. People say

You could get lost out there! You could get injured! You could die!

And I say

Good. It is not any different from living a life here, among millions of other people, all working day-in-and-out. I could get hit by a car. Mugged. Raped. I would much rather meet my end in the wilderness, where no one is watching.

Dear Clare,

I am finally in Joshua Tree National Park. It is beautiful out here with a steady wind and beaming sun. It has been a lazy afternoon in my tent. I mixed Bacardi Raspberry Rum with fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. And a tiny desert chipmunk nearly licked my toe. Twice.

A good day. I just have to be more conscious of the beauty around me than of my cloudy, sad coma in which I am suspended.

There is a family, for instance, rock hopping. How can a mother always act with interest and surprise each time a different child makes a new discovery? I am impressed.

Cactus blooms with red, juicy-looking flowers.

Blue and yellow caterpillars crawl out of a maze, a ball, a wide cocoon of silk thread.

There is a unique distinction between the windsong of a pine tree and the windsong of a Joshua Tree.

Refuge was an amazing book. I can't recall how many times I cried while reading it. Which is good. I am going through my own change, my own process. Transition—choose your word.

It is everything. A grain of sand is relatively weightless. But laying under a sand dune makes each grain count.

And there is weight, here, on my chest. It sits there and taunts me in my trials. It laughs at my weakness and scoffs at my attempts at success. It is not my friend.

Small things. Like the quiet of the desert disrupted by a blaring radio, operated by a bunch of beer-drinking, horse-shoe-throwing loud-mouths. Every experienced climber in Joshua Tree hears and looks down on this behavior. It's rude. People are rude. Rudeness is the angry child of Selfishness. It does not know better. But I do. I came to the desert for peace and serenity, not obnoxious commercials and blaring music.

This is a desert, not a stadium.

I have five weeks left at school. Five weeks left to graduate. I wanted to go out strong. But I'm not. I'm going out run out, burnt out, and happy to be out. I hate being tired. My residents are tired and I need to be there. I won't see most of them after this. It will be facebook and that is all. Not personal. Not like the opportunity I had here.

Did I waste it? No. I tried damn hard to get to know people. Some people just would not be known.

Persistence

2011-01-10T22:33:00.000-08:00

I breathe, but not to breathe.

I drink, but not to drink.

I let the cold numb my fingers

The sweat dry from my body

The chill seep through my tissue,

But not to wait for warmth.

I walk, but without destination.

I eat, but not for pleasure.

I live, but only to live, to live.

I am because I am, because I must be.

acorns

2011-01-09T10:41:00.000-08:00

Tiny miracles make me remember why I smile my way through life.

Yesterday two women came into Nomad Ventures to try on climbing shoes. We chatted about shoes, harnesses, and the best places to climb. It turns out that these women hadn't been outside much; only to Joshua Tree.
I tried to shame them into climbing outdoors more and to get out of their plastic gyms. The taller woman paused as she was putting on a shoe, turned the shoe upside down, and out fell an acorn. One solitary, browned acorn.
"Wait... did that come out of the shoe?"
"Yeah. What is it?"
I gaped in disbelief: "It's an acorn. You know, from an oak tree?"
"I've never seen an acorn. I didn't even know that acorns came from oak trees. I thought this was one of those moisture-absorbing things they put in shoes."

How did this acorn get into a 5.10 climbing shoe box? How was it that I managed to bring out this shoe to this woman who had never seen an acorn before? How do people not know that acorns are from oak trees?

I smiled.
"You can keep that as a reminder to get outside more often. Go climb outside!"
My job at Camp Cuyamaca seems more important to me than usual now.

Frozen Washes

2011-01-07T19:26:00.000-08:00

There is something particularly breath-taking about walking over a frozen wash in the Wonderland of Rocks area in Joshua Tree National Park. Ice groans and snaps underfoot; sand is glued together to form an unintended sculpture. Gray fox prints are filled in with hail. He sees me and glides over the rocks to a safe distance.

What is it about this place that is so magical that I am drawn back to it again and again? Each time I return I find another reason to smile; another memory is made that I will not soon forget.

The faces of climbers who live to be on the rock; the choir of coyotes at two in the morning; the never-failing falling stars; the ache in my limbs as I crawl into my sleeping bag after a day of climbing: what more could I ask for than this?

Someone to share it with for the rest of my life.

Another Year

2010-12-31T08:59:00.000-08:00

"Be the change you want to see in the world." - Mohandas Gandhi

"Belief without action is the ruin of the soul." - Edward Abbey

I have a some resolutions on my mind. I have a few new goals that I've set before me. I used to be resolute and sure. Now I'm not sure if I am resolute.

There is only one way to find out.

Here's to the New Year and my new determination!!

winter

2010-12-18T21:45:00.000-08:00

winter is closer

it is the lack in my breath

all things that I tried to define

are lost in grey, the fog

because I am jumping now

into a

because I cannot define this

any longer

any longer and I

would simply become

and that's now who I am.

So for the both of us,

all my love.

And thank you.

Fear Less

2010-12-09T21:31:00.000-08:00

I thought I was fearless.

But now sounds in the night make me jump.

The words "ground fall" and "decking" make my skin crawl.

Either I am getting older

or I am losing track of who I am.

Who's keeping track, anyway?

My Mountain

2010-12-07T00:10:00.000-08:00

Halo around a naked pine

As I am surrounded,

Just as bare,

By musings: No end.

No beginning.

I want to sit here

And fall with the ice

As it trembles tumbles down the side

Of this mountain.

Now that I am here

I can see from the Salton's blue to

The cool of Idyllwild

To the islands of the Pacific.

All of my homes can be seen from here.

All of my childhood dreams can be

Remembered from here.

I've always looked to this point

From all those valleys below.

Now that I am here

I have a deeper understanding

[Appreciation

Admiration

Awe]

Of why I found strength

In this mountain.

The Humbling

2010-11-29T23:41:00.000-08:00

Ryan tied me in at the first belay station on a tiny ledge about 190ft above the ground. The ground; it never spun like it does in movies, but it looked up at me and laughed a condescending laugh. My eyes wandered over the knots and carabiners that held me to the wall.

I have no reason to fear. I know this gear will hold me. I know that I am safe.

But Gravity has a way of mocking you like a five year old might: "You're gonna faaaall!"

My eyes find Ry Ry looking back at me, smiling.

We're climbing! Why am I feeling fear? I smile back and admire the view. Clouds line the horizon and the wind is wicking the sweat from beneath my helmet.

Dappled Mare, 5.8: It's a beautiful climb in the Lost Horse area; finger cracks, an underclinging crack traverse, and face features. 380ft total. My first multi-pitch climb.

I hand out slack as Ryan climbs up, placing small cams and nuts as he goes. He climbs out of view. This is like fishing. I can feel him climbing at the end of the rope, at the end of this lifeline. Wwwzzzzrrrrrh! He must be nearing the end of the climb; not much rope left.

His voice on the radio, "Kat! I'm at the top. Off belay."

Now I clean up anchor and tie in to the rope.

The underclinging crack traverse is simple enough, but the wind decided, at that moment, to revisit me and test my mental abilities. The next piece of protection is about 15ft away from me, at the end of the traverse. If I were to slip I would become a human pendulum. But this was an easy ain't-nothin' series of moves.

Until the wind gusted and I lost my nerves and a string of profanity filled the air around me. My fingers clung to the rock and I regained my balance.

It's so hard to trust yourself, to trust in the movements of your body. But without that self-trust, you cannot climb.

I cleaned the pieces Ry Ry had set, clipping them to the webbing looped around my chest. As I sucked in breath I decided that if I were to continue doing any multi-pitch climbs, I would first do some endurance training.

"I see your helmet! You're almost done!" came Ryan's cheerful voice from the second, and final, belay station.

I smiled. I smiled wide.

Bear hugs are a great way to finish off a climb: especially when the person you are hugging helped you overcome your fears and doubts with only his smile.

heavy as water

2010-11-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

Why do we fight each other?

Why do we struggle to be what we never knew we were supposed to be in the first place?

Why do we point and accuse others?

Why do we turn on three of the brightest lanterns and drown out the stars in the desert night?

Why do we miss a place that will be dilapidated and full of dust in just a few decades?

Why do we dismiss the feeling in our center (soul, spirit, heart, whichever) that tells us that we are not trying hard enough?

Why do we support genocide?

Why do we wash our clothes over and over and over again and forget to, just as consciously, wash our minds?

Why do we listen to a song that has lyrics that resonate with us and yet we do not sing along?

Why do we have hands that will bind up the wounds of one man and, with those same hands, steadies a gun and pulls the trigger, which sends a hollow-point bullet through the air and into the skull of another man?

Why do we fight?

Why do we wage wars that birth orphans and kill widows?

Why do we forget who we were called to be?

Why do we ask questions to which we do not have answers?

The Space Station

2010-11-14T14:02:00.000-08:00

Suddenly I am aware of my ability to be broken; what it is to have your bones break and muscles tear. The wind howls and accentuates the height from which I look down. I hear Dad's words echo in my head: "Never climb up what you cannot climb down." I should have listened to him. I am not that far up, only twenty-five feet or so. But numbers don't matter when your gut is in a knot the size of your miniscule mortality.

I have been climbing for twelve years and have never bothered with free-soloing (climbing without a rope). There was never a desire to be above the earth without the security of 10mm rope between you and the forces of Gravity. Yet, at the moment, Gravity is chuckling and tugging at my faith in climbing shoes, taunting me as pebbles trickle past me into the air.

Then from behind the wind comes the words of my little sister, whom is perched comfortably next to me. She tells me to only focus on my next move. Breathe.

My life, when looked upon from where I am, seems too big, too real, and entirely incomprehensible. There are too many choices just in front of me that could lead to pain or to a shattering of my existence as I know it. Am I looking too far ahead? Why do I feel that whatever I choose next will be my downfall?

Joshua Tree has always been a place of clarity for me. I come here expecting to feel refreshed and renewed. But as I look down at the granite below and picture my broken body in a bloody mess, I don't feel clear-minded.

I don't know where I shall go in life. By the Laws of Time I am projected forward into my future whether I make a choice or not. So...

I scoot forward, heels pushing my back into the rock behind me. I watch where my little sister (mountain goat that she is) places her feet, her hands. Tears make it difficult to see, but there is no going back now. The wind dies down like a gift of courage. My toes reach a ledge wide enough to stand on and I do: I stand. Relief washes over my face in hot little streams. My sister hugs me, confident and beautiful as always. Joshua Tree is still our home, not our deathbed.

What next? I am not ready to answer that question yet. I can say that I will make it through whatever comes at me; when I do make a choice I will live with the consequences. One day I truly will face my mortality and I will succumb to it: that day was not today.

blindfolds

2010-11-11T07:13:00.000-08:00

If you can move

and feel

and be aware

and breathe

without opening your eyes

without worry

without deception

then you are coming along

just fine

slow-to-learn warrior

that I thought you were.

Picking Up Hitch-hikers

2010-10-28T07:20:00.000-07:00

I had passed up a hitch hiker over the summer and felt ashamed ever since; here was my redemption.

He had a full beard, blue eyes, and a kind smile.

"Hey there! You can toss your pack in the back seat. Hop in!"

"Hey! Thanks! I'm Dan."

"I'm Kat."

The only reason I had been driving on the 101 North was because the 5 was jam-packed smog and tires and break-lights. At least the 101 had an ocean view.

Dan was from Pennsylvania, educated in New Jersey, and had hitched his way across the country. He had just started his most recent journey from Ocean Beach, from a friend's house. He was headed to San Francisco to visit other friends. Like many people I know, he had just finished college with a degree in Business. After college he had travelled to Australia to "find himself," but only managed to find that he liked to travel.

"Too many people feel tied down to their jobs and their homes. It's so cool that you are just out there, traveling," I said.

"I know. That is one of the most frequent things I've heard from people who pick me up; they wish that they could do what I am doing. I tell them that they can--it's just a matter of priorities."

It is encouraging to meet people like Dan. I am reminded that there are still very good people in this world who have not bought into the contrived social norms of the day. I am encouraged because Dan reminded me that I am not alone.

Heroes

2010-10-17T10:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes our heroes are people we've never met before. They come to a bouldering competition that you are working at and they limp up to you with a cane. You look down to see one ankle wrapped and the other foot adorned with a climbing shoe. He is smiling.

Sometimes heroes don't even know that they are heroes. The obstacles they are overcoming may be insignificant, or they might be mountainous. Whatever it may be, that person, and what and how they are fighting resonates with your soul.

Sometimes a downtrodden warrior will rise above the obstacle in his way; he might hobble up to the wall, take a deep breath, concentrate, jump, and then stick a dyno in front of a roaring crowd. He lands gracefully on his one good leg. He smiles; and I smile with him.

Rain in October

2010-10-14T04:02:00.000-07:00

3:38am. It starts to rain; I always wake when it starts to rain in the night. My window is ever open so that I never miss such miracles.

Smiling, I think about how the wind changed today and how a small wisp of cloud told me to expect this weather. A young girl in my Oak cabin had run up to me today and said, "Mr. Jeff said that we might get some dry lightning tomorrow!" I had smiled and replied that Mr. Jeff (my internship supervisor) knew how to read the weather well; I had also noted the clouds and their meaning.

The rain continues. I close my eyes again and picture the girls in their cabin being lulled to sleep by the water. One girl turns on her flashlight: it's bright! *CRRRRBBOOOOOM* I can hear the thunder as it echoes from one end of this valley to the other.

Jeff was right about the lightning.

Adrenaline rushes in, opening my eyes in anticipation for the next flash. When it comes, it comes from behind my room (which faces West). The storm will be quick tonight.

It's 4:10am. Tomorrow the earth will smell sweet, the bird will sing with appreciation, and I will tell that girl, "See? Jeff was right... except for the 'dry' part!"

Coming back Autumn

2010-10-11T01:38:00.000-07:00

Hot tea in my center.

Frigid air surrounds me like my thoughts;

Also cold. And changing.

Don't be silly. I'm happy with who I am.

My body could use a tune-up; without a doubt.

But I never doubted myself for a millisecond.

There are, however, long spells of wondering,

which make me wonder further.

How am I to live as I am meant to live?

Where is home, anyway?

Why is my jalepeño plant wilting?

Does he even bother to read these free insights into my thoughts?

Who cares? No--really--who cares?

Slow down.

I said that to myself as I drove up to Cuyamaca.

You never know what is around the corner.

I said that to myself just now;

I'm sitting here, at my desk, yet I'm still

moving forward.

The one time I don't have my camera

2010-10-04T21:59:00.000-07:00

I lead my first group today and taught the SAMSPAW concept: there are seven natural resources on Earth; sun, air, minerals, soil, plants, animals, and water. The kids basically already knew this (but not all groups do).

We walked about in the mist and talked about how it feels to walk in a cloud.

Jeff, my supervisor, came along with me and made sure I didn't lose or mislead any children. He also helped me find my way around trails with which I am not yet familiar. On our way back to Camp I saw him step over a bright little flash of red, black, and yellow.

"A mountain king snake!"

Jeff turned and helped me keep the kids back as I caught the cutest, tiniest California mountain king snake I'd ever seen.

Thank you, Dad, for teaching me: "Red on yellow can kill a fellow. Red on black, you're okay, Jack!"

The kids got a treat in seeing such a rare (and adorable) specimen, and I got a treat by being able to see it, catch it, and talk to the kids about how awesome it is!

Stormy weather

2010-09-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

It began raining at 4:22am. I woke to hear the raindrops hitting the upturned oak leaves, the dusty pine needles, and the metal table just outside my window. Tink tink tink tink.

This would be perfect if it weren't for that darn table...

So I stand up on my bed and look out my window to see if I could move the table in the morning.

CRACK! gggzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

Lightning struck very, very near. Near enough where I could hear something buzzing and humming in response.

I love storms. I told my boss today that I was sorry for being so flighty; I am storm-deprived. Our All Day Adventures were scheduled for today and we decided to break up that "all day" into two parts. For the first part we hiked the kids out to Rock Canyon, where bedrock forms a series of pools. With the help of the rain, these summer-time-dried-up pools were slightly filled. We saw a cute little toad that was only as big at my thumb, the same thistle-down velvet ant, and a few hawks. The kids were a bit noisy, but they were pretty cool this week. One of them attached himself to my walking staff and would do anything to carry it. Pretty darned cute.

The storm came in waves, showering us in light rain, then a downpour while it was sunny, and the occasional thunder and lightning show. It was marvelous. I haven't been so giddy in a long while. I mean, hiking in the rain while it is sunny with thunder overhead: what more could I ask for, really?

Mornings with Mom

2010-09-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

Woke up early to meet Mom in Julian. I am fighting off a sore throat. Needed cough drops and EmergenC.

Mornings are made of peace here.

I drive down the road snapping shots out my open window. It smells like it wants to rain.

Mom has an entire care package for me; I'm 24 and I still could not survive without my mom. This makes me smile because I am trying to get back in touch with my childhood.

It's working.

Apple boysenberry crumb crust pie. Apple cider. It's for the other interns and other friends at Camp. I see my boss in town, then again at work. We joke about me "shadowing too closely."

I help the kids with rock craft today. Take a ragged stone, turn it into a gem: this is not an easy task for impatient children. But they manage. They succeed. They smile.

My staff has become something of a sacred thing to carry. I normally let the quietest, the nicest, and the shiest kid carry it as we hike. The red tailed hawk feathers twirl on the wind at the end of the staff. It seems to enable children to fly.

Week two

2010-09-28T22:30:00.000-07:00

I feel progressively stronger. And taller (though that may be due to the fact that I tower over most sixth graders). I am so used to high school boys being at least as tall as I am, but these guys are short--and if there are tall ones it is normally the girls.

These kids are amazing; they know more than some college students I have met. They are also much friendlier.

I am also learning "six grade appropriate language" here at Camp. Let me demonstrate:

Non-appropriate term: Fart

Camp Term: Butt-crickets

Non-appropriate term: Butt (but, crickets! I know.)

Camp Term: Rear, bottom, G.M. (gludius maximus)

Non-appropriate term: Shut up

Camp Term: Shhh! Quiet, you squirrels!

Non-appropriate term: Oh my god!

Camp Term: Hokey smokes! Geez la weez!

Non-appropriate term: Poop

Camp Term: Scat

So it's not much of a list, but I am pretty tired and my brain has shut off. 10pm is far too late for me to be up.

Yet I am so, so happy!

Night Hikes

2010-09-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

Camp Cuyamaca gives some kids the kind of gifts they have never received before: like a night hike during a full moon. Many of the kids who come to 6th grade camp have never been camping, let alone spent five whole days submerged in the beauty of nature.

I've been told that some kids have never seen a clear night sky--they have never seen the Milky Way. And so I take my stand as a part of Camp Cuyamaca and I try to combat this nature deficiency disorder that appears to be all too rampant in children now-a-days.

I finished my first week and I am now heading into my second; I am excited, better prepared, and anxious to help these awesome kids get to know nature.

Watch! Students are suddenly ecstatic to be surrounded by trees, by fresh air, and by wild animals; they find themselves in awe of that which they used to overlook.

There are six months of these miracles ahead of me; I love this job.

Shook

2010-09-14T23:30:00.001-07:00

Every time I bump into the table I think it is an earthquake.

I freeze and wait for the rumble, but it never comes.

Sometimes in the evenings, when it is cloudy, I think I hear thunder;

but then it turns out it is just the busboy from the restaurant

dragging the metal trash cans out to the dumpster.

My heart leapt only to be let fall into the rotten heap of disappointment.

It was a bright morning. Driving fast down the freeway, I saw

her wings like the upcoming autumn.

She stooped to grab something on the side of the road

and I gasped as a van nearly clipped her.

She cartwheeled in mid-flight and I yelled a warning!

Wide-eyed and beak open, she gathered herself safely away from the cars,

talons fastened tight to a tree branch.

My knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel.

Decisions

2010-09-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

I got the job at Camp Cuyamaca.

Then I find out about an opening at Vista High School: applied.

Monday I will have to turn in my paperwork for Camp.

Monday I might get a call about an interview for VHS.

I want the outdoors.

I want a career.

Decisions: I worry about making them.

Writing Assignment from Doller's Class (Feb. 2009)

2010-07-22T22:26:00.000-07:00

B.) Write a scene in which you slow down time (think Conroy & the yoyo, or Slater & her mom at the piano on New Year's); take one moment and DRAG it out so that it takes up a paragraph, a page...all for something that in real life would take about a second or a minute or two.

The snow gave way under my feet with a crunch and sigh. For each footprint I left, the snow hurried to fill the scar. I made my way to the edge, and braced myself as I looked over, looked down, and down. My eyes fell like a stone, bouncing from cliff’s ledge to the next, taking years to reach the bottom of the Grand Canyon. And when my eyes found the river’s edge, they rolled right in. Snowflakes tumbled above me, icy water flowed beneath me, and one night-black rook flew above me. I breathed in the moment, closing my eyes to save everything I saw. When I opened my eyes, brushing snow from my lashes, those first few seconds took flight, but left behind a feather in my mind’s eye.

G.) Write a completely TRUE paragraph. Now add the word "perhaps" at the beginning of every sentence.

Perhaps I fell for you when I saw you under your hood. Perhaps I felt it when I first saw your green-blue eyes. Perhaps I gave myself up for gone when you started calling me by my name. Perhaps our story began with a wrestling match, and we’ve been wrestling ever since. Perhaps we make it through these next few years, when we are apart more than together, if we make it then, we’ll make it forever. Perhaps dreaming is more than wishful thinking; perhaps it is willful thinking. Perhaps if we keep this up, we will never have to ask ourselves who we are—we’ll just know.

E.) If epilepsy is the metaphor, or Lie, which conveys the real person Lauren Slater IS (see p.162)...what is the LIE or METAPHOR which conveys the real person you are? Now take 10 minutes to write about it, as if this were real.

I live within a Lie that calls itself Society: where we walk the streets amongst a crowd of people who refuse to look up from the sidewalks. Where suit and tie strangle the once young and proud—strangling their sense of independence and need for adventure.

Society is a Lie I embrace. If I did not embrace society, I would run. If I allowed the Truth to set me free, if I stopped and looked at the sun and felt my worth beaming down on me, I would break. I would cut up my social security card, I would burn my birth certificate, and tear my credit cards apart with my teeth. I live with a Lie that keeps me on the roads between work and school, the streets between my divorced parents’ houses. This kind of life is limited. This Lie is limiting because my sense of conforming knowledge, as opposed to independent experience from which life is derived.

But Truth is a flame in the back of my mind, in the core of my being—it reminds me of that cabin in the woods where I would learn to be complete. I think about a rifle and ammunition which would translate into raw food—a match flickers—a warm meal. A cold stream for water: for bathing, for music to listen to when I rest my head on my arms and stare at the stars. To be lost in the unknown.

But Society throws its arm around my shoulders like a car-salesman and assures me this is the best one, this is a steal, this is what he would drive out of the car-lot. I nod, dumb and mute, because if I don’t, I’ll run from this Lie.

The Truth? The Truth is what scares me, it is who I really am.

Two in the Gninrom

2010-07-22T22:11:00.000-07:00

Originally written March 26, 2009

Two in the gninrom. Mornings happen best at two.

I feel my head tilt back. Kcab to work before I fall asleep.

My eyes close, just for a second. Dnoces chances each time I wake up.

Another day, more assignments. Stnemngissa spackled across my calendar like walls.

But I’ve trained five years for this. Siht is why I will be graduating in a few months.

And yet, I’ve still so much to learn. Nrael to not close my eyes, tilt my head, when things are due.

Three in the gninrom. Morning everyone. Today I would like to present my assignment. . .

365

2010-07-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

I wonder just how many breaths I breathe; how many heartbeats this heart shudders with; when I blink, who is keeping count?

My days are racing by. I'll be a year older, soon. Then another year. Then another. Then. I'll be forty-four and looking back at my good ol' days.

So I'm taking back my youth. I am focusing in on my life. I may not change the world like this, but I might positively influence people in my wake. That would be enough: to put a smile on someone's face, to give them a new light, a new perspective.

And just for kicks, I will take my camera with me, too. A new project--one I've been meaning to undertake: take at least one photo a day. Every day. For a year. Starting on my birthday.

My sister, Courtney, has done this successfully. She can look back on every day and say, "Hey, I remember that!" for even the smallest of things.

I am determined to find the beauty and significance in even the most insignificant day, because there are no insignificant days. Because this is my life, that's why!

So! Cheers! Here's to my upcoming year of no less than 365 photographs, undoubtedly more than that, I'm sure.

Here's to life!

p.s.

180 Degrees South: Conquerors of the Useless

Night Walking

2010-07-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

Walked to Denny’s with Tyler and Jared tonight.

Flip flops on side walks. Street lights and humming telephone pole wires.

Three stars. One, two, haze.

Sprinkler stains on dilapidated fences. White and grey.

Cars race by--screaming, screeching. Loud.

The city is loud. Loud in my ears.

I brace myself against the abrasions.

Sounds cut like a hacksaw.

I feel alien. I feel alone. I know where I belong, yet

I fight against that urge. Fight against myself and what

I know is truth.

Why must it be about me?

Why can’t I be happy leading the normal life?

Why am I so selfish in my desires?

I sketch pictures of granite walls and blue-backdropped trees in my mind. A quite, contemplative scene where I can retreat and recall. There is peace in the quiet of my mind, the solitude of my recollection. In reflections. In memory. In sounds only I can hear.

A pack on my back. Boots on my feet. A ringed fire with the smell of burning pine. Dirt under my fingernails. Melted snow cascades and finds its way into my water bottle--sweeter than honey. The static lightning that flashes as I slide into my sleeping bag. Home.

But I’m not home, leastways not in the deepest sense of my meaning of “home.”

There must be others like me. But I hope not.

Thunderhowl

2010-07-06T23:16:00.000-07:00

The call the call

The howl

The tear of clothes to hair too teeth gnash

No more orange clouds night!

No more no more stars!

Why why why?

And the thunder in my ears

Is the only truth I know

So no wonder why I run run

After my headsound as it thunderfades

Back.

Retreating to a place I cannot go

Want to go want to go cannot go.

It is the green of the shade, of the ground

of the air, of the moss on the side of the stream.

It is the blue of the sky, of the wind in the leaves

of the shade in the evening.

It is the white of the sun in the hot of the sky,

of the feathers of breast of the beat of the bird: Fly.

Why can’t I go

Why can’t I leave

Why can’t I howl

And clutch at the stars like

the sound in my head?

Neverend neverstop--the peace in the silence

of thundering with my howl.

Realization

2010-06-22T01:32:00.001-07:00

Realization: I can't make you happy; you can only make yourself happy; you may not think you have the strength to try; if you don't continue to try, I will.... I will...

I don't know what I'll do, but I'll be pissed.

Coming Back

2010-06-19T00:16:00.000-07:00

I feel. And I feel my exhaustion like a cloak: a weight I want to shed.

An ache in my bones that seems to call out to be remedied.

Like my car, I need a jump start. Hopefully not a new battery, because I am not sure what that would entail. Cables?

It is too early for this.

Buffalo Sunshine

2010-06-16T01:45:00.000-07:00

Originally written Friday, September 15, 2006

Thoughts for a Friday afternoon

An iron buffalo

Contrast to

the animate shepherd dog- pounce!

Take a turn;

lights are green

Here are lines

and asphalt which

demand blood as a sacrifice-

we give it what it needs.

But the sun is shining yet

and birds are wheeling

so are these tires.

Whistles I to the blurred trees.

The bison hasn't moved an inch

I continue my decent

to valleys and deserts

and views of

the sheen of crow wings.

Yellow. Stop. Go.

This is how I go

my thoughts and I

to work

Thoughts for a Friday afternoon.

Blushing Ocotillos

2010-06-16T01:43:00.000-07:00

Originally written Sunday, December 21, 2008

I aim for the mountains ahead,

Passing by blood-red Ocotillo blossoms,

Held up against the snowy, white heights,

They become the framework of my thoughts.

They have held back their beauty for years;

The time of the drought is now over.

Miles beyond, the snow whispers to the sky,

Making it blush deep colors.

We all change, we all bend towards

The sun, whatever the season.

With permission granted, I am moving forward.

I am leaving the desert, running like winter

to a land where I am no longer a refugee,

but a woman who can walk in freedom.

Paradigms a Dime a Dozen

2010-06-16T01:42:00.001-07:00

Originally written Sunday, February 08, 2009

I think there will be a time when rainbows are not just seen

through our own perspective.

I think we will hit a point where anyone can see what the

other does.

I think we will be able to ride the see-saw of everyone who

is not “me,”

And that is where solid ground will find itself under our

feet

And we will no longer wobble and topple as we fight to find

common ground.

I think we can get there. We just need to open our eyes and

enjoy the weather.

Second to Last Day

2010-06-15T07:43:00.000-07:00

Second to last day at Vista High School. Anticipation and bitter-sweet thoughts. Did I do all that I could for them? What did they learn about themselves? It’s never about me, you know. It is about them: the students. They give me an energy in the classroom that I cannot describe. It is better than coffee, more filling than a feast. I have many purposes in life, but they have given me one more; live for them, teach for them, and be there for them. If I can show them but a glimpse of the world and what it would be like without injustice, then I have done my job.

Looking toward the summer, just barely looking up enough to see the horizon, and I am blinded by uncertainty. That is what makes life mysterious, however, and interesting. I crave the Unknown; We only fear the Unknown? I then crave fear, if only to overcome it.

I clench and unclench my fists, feeling my fingernails on my palms. Nails? I need to climb. I need to run. I need to get by body back to where it was before. Selah.

My keyboard has finally been thoroughly broken in and I type seamless sentences. My thoughts, my brain, my words.

Mom and I had a good conversation about my life last night. I spoke my mind, she listened, she didn’t condemn: we are improving.

I feel older. It seems that I am learning life lessons exponentially. I am more aware of myself, more attentive to my actions, words, intentions, and feelings. I am here: now. This is a beautiful day, a timeless moment. May I make the most of it.

My Winter Ensemble (original 10/3/06)

2010-06-04T00:16:00.000-07:00

If the winter grew any deeper

or the snow whiter

There I would find

my perfect ensemble

For Old Winter sings

Of times long forgotten

And Lady Snow whispers

of the land she buried

This tune echoes on

within my ears.

The rhythm kept

by the nod of the forest

The melody chimed

by the wind and icicle

Here I sit

I feel my heart will burst

if I do not join in

So I close my lips,

open my heart,

and sing, sing, sing

for all I am worth.

Coffee Dream

2010-06-03T23:46:00.000-07:00

I wake this morning
to the faint smell of coffee
and with a mug in my hand.
Somewhere, I am smelling cinnamon.
I sip, eyes closed -- your image before me.
You slide your hands
across my belly, behind my back
to draw me close to you.
Breathing in, falling near,
I lean my head on your shoulder
Your lips press against
my earlobe, brush my neck,
and I smile my way
back to my cup of coffee --
opening my eyes, I do not see you,
but I faintly smell you;
and taste you on my tongue.
For once, I am looking forward
to Christmas this year.

Lurking

2010-06-03T23:44:00.001-07:00

I fear the silence that has been growing.
Yet the more I fight, the more it is.
In my words I find no answers lurking
And there you sit, saying no-thing.
In quests you're found, just not here --
You are there and I am not.
Three cheers for the battles you win!
Deeper silence for the battles I've lost.

Oppression

2009-04-22T12:08:00.001-07:00

We are an oppressive and oppressed people. And in each action there seems to be a lack of good and an overwhelming sense of insincerity. We are not a caring people. This is our triumph and bondage.
Slaves to our own uncause. We are turned inward like a rolled leaf, unable to take in sunlight. We have become dark. Not dark like the beauty of a night sky, but dark without light, dark without faith, dark without the need to aid others.
We are caught up in the meaninglessness of self-image and self-importance. We diet and run and try to lose weight while six-thousand children die from starvation each day. We are pathetic. Only we would gouge out our eyes and gorge our bellies and call it a day well spent.
Maybe a depression is what we need: a wake up call to our selfish ways. The depression won’t set us back—it will set us right. Bring it on. The faster the better.

Imitation of Yoko Ono

2009-03-05T18:46:00.000-08:00

BALLOON PIECE
Use balloons for fish tanks. Put on display at the museum.
Spring 2009

CLOTHES PIECE
When you walk out into public, pretend that
None of your clothes match. Comment about your unfortunate situation.
Spring 2009

PIER PIECE
Tie a multi-colored piece of yarn around the base of the nearest pier. Imagine that the yarn is the only thing holding up the pilings.
Spring 2009

For Ono's work: http://www.borndigital.com/aaaa.htm

Untitled

2009-03-05T15:11:00.000-08:00

First, what I’ll need you to do is calm down. Take off your watch and set it here. Now your glasses, fake nails, earrings, necklace, and your hair-tie. You will then proceed to take off your shoes, socks, take off your clothes, and walk right this way without embarrassment. You will feel the liquid sand sinking under your feet. The waves rush up to greet you, and it will feel cold at first. But as you walk forward, leave all your worthless possessions behind, you will feel the water becoming warmer. Warmer to you.
Now. Close your eyes and forget everything. No, I mean it: everything. The lies they whisper to you; the promises they never carry through with; everything that they’ve taught you. Good. Now—don’t stop breathing! Just because you forget all that shit doesn’t mean you stop breathing.
OK. I’m going to need you to continue to move forward. You will start to feel intimidated by how large the waves appear. But they’re not that big. You are not standing on the surface of the water next to the waves—that why they are overhead, over you. Come on! I’m not going to hold your hand through this: YOU wanted this!
It’s not going to be the speed of your walk, it is going to be the persistence with which you walk. Keep both feet on the bottom of the ocean and go. As your head is covered in water, it is natural to panic and try to swim—Don’t. Good. I’m going to need you to keep your eyes—both eyes—open. There, you see? They told you “you must have oxygen to survive”. They lied. You sought the truth though, didn’t you?
Excellent. You are almost done with the rehabilitation process. I need you to stop and stand where you are. Just where you are. Yes, that’s fine. Now, as your eyes are open, your feet are solid, and your hands are empty, I need you to feel whole. Not half-whole, not nearly-whole: Whole. I need you to focus in on you—what makes you you. Don’t even think about remembering the many thems. Think about you. Here. Now. There you go.
Choose the best answer to the following question:
“You” means what?
(a) A composite of what they have all said about you.
(b) A worthless assortment of atoms and shit.
(c) I am a strong woman who will stand, and be, and be whole.
Is that really your answer? Is that the answer you can freely choose now?
Now that you are standing naked, with solid feet, at the bottom of the ocean, eyes open, breathing in truth—you chose correctly. See.

What do you do now? I’m going to need you to live…

Colors of Gratitude

2009-01-31T19:28:00.000-08:00

Despite my visit to the E.R. on the 22^nd, due to my passing out in Shakespeare class (1.5 hours after I gave blood), my being told I am anemic, iron deficient, I feel fantastic. I am a healthy twenty-two year old woman who cannot go a day without laughing.

I told Jesse, right after the appointment, that I was a little anemic. That night I watched Scrubs and a few other shows in the Community Building in the UVA with friends. We all drooled as commercial after commercial features Outback Steak House, and other steaky-places.

Jesse called me the next day and asked if I was hungry. I was. He picked me up and we headed West, but the restraint we were going to was not open yet. So we cruised around Petco, talking about what pets we had as children, and which ones we would never have as adults. As 4 o’clock rolled around we sat down at Black Angus, ate a four-course meal, and were we were so full the waitress let us sit around because she understood.

The best way to go about life is to never forget that it can all be swept out from under your feet in no time at all. I look around my bright orange studio; think about my purple Civic; the green-blue eyes of my love; the black ink of pens; and the smooth white of the calendar on my pull-out desk: and I understand that all the things I have, no matter where they stand on the color spectrum, are all precious things. I cannot take anything for granted because I have sworn not to. I refuse to miss something only after it is gone.

January was a good month, a solid moth that was laced with wind and the promises of lessons learned.

And there goes January. This Saturday went particularly fast as well—time must be speeding up.

I watched the sun cross the sky, descend with a smile, and color the sky like a blue honey-dew as it slid behind the horizon.

I am so happy. I am so content. I feel each day like a deep breath through my lungs.

This is bound to be my best (though last) semester ever.

"Eyeglasses"

2009-01-26T15:26:00.001-08:00

It began with eyeglasses.
We began to see the flaws in our bodies.
The more we saw, the more we hated,
and the more we had to fix.
Fix my sight. Now my hair to match.
Now my skin, bronzed like gods.
Wasting away so we can show our waists.
We began to fix. Then we began to break.

Excessive, obsessive, oppressively taking
away from our bodies.
Our bodies. Our selves. Individuals selling
their images for a more
acceptable, seducible, inexcusable one.
It began with eyeglasses
and it won't end until we are completely blind.

One in the Morning

2008-05-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

One in the morning

sounds like the minute hand of a clock in the dark.
It sounds like your breath through your nose.
One in the morning
smells like the dust that coats the top-side of your ceiling fan and sticks there, even when the fan is on high and only falls when it is off.
One in the morning
smells like fog rolling in under your door even though your door is locked. It smells like your shoes by the front door as they are dusted with tiny water droplets brought in by the fog.
One in the morning
looks like your bare footprints on the rose-colored tiles which have no color in the dark. It looks like the pattern of your footsteps went in time with the ticking of the minute hand of the clock.
One in the morning
feels like the page in your book that was left open so you would know where to continue reading in the day time. It feels like the loosened dust particles that fell from the fan onto the page where you began to walk because the tiles do not exist when it is dark.
Everything jumps as the hour hand strikes two and
One in the morning
feels like going to bed, too.

He is a Stream

2008-04-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

He is a stream
That is solid
In winter;
Rushing in the spring;
Thoughtful in
The summer;
And mine in the fall.

The Grey Curtain

2008-04-06T12:48:00.000-07:00

She walks the sidewalks with her eyes closed. Traffic jets by, her hair whips her face, horns honk. Trash tumbles by, catches in the iron bars of the gutter. She stops to open her eyes. She stares blankly at the garbage. It falls into the drain.

When she was born, all of the nurses began to tremble, the doctor took off his glasses, and her mother passed away. The girl's eyes were open, her mouth was like a distant horizon at dawn, and she was just as silent. The doctor shook as he tried to resuscitate the mother. She stared ahead.

She closes her eyes again, as she is accustom to do. Continuing on her daily walk, she passes an old man, blind and trapped in his own decaying body. He calls out to her for help, for some food, for company. Her high heels click with each step, moving ahead as the grey man has a heart attack.

Stepping off of the curb, brakes squeal and metal collides. People scream and curse, but the girl wraps her scarf about her ears and strides on. Sirens obey Doppler's effect. Police gather to cover bodies with plastic.

She arrives at her apartment. She drops her coat into the closet and watches it slump into the corner. The frayed couch creaks. She kicks her shoes off and unwinds her grey scarf. None of the windows are open. Thumbing the remote, she comes to the news.
Fatal crash caused by jay-walker. Click.
Famine in Uganda made worse by civil war. Click.
Suicide rates rising in America. Click.
Abortion clinic to have grand opening. Click.
Global warming threatens to—Click. Click. Click.

The television screen goes black. She walks over dusty floorboards to the window. Her mouth is like a distant memory. Her eyes are clamped shut as she stares out the window with grey curtains drawn over it.

Fog

2008-03-26T09:02:00.000-07:00

Shoes at the door.
Late again.
Empty halls.
Empty of welcome,
full of woe.
The fog's at the windows.
Condensation
On the leaves.
Drip drip,
My dissatisfaction
Descending the eaves.
The view is distorted,
The framework is crumbling.
At least when this
Is all broken down
We will be left with
A solid surface to stand on.
And perhaps it will then
Be daylight.

Edible Identity

2008-03-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

There are girls in this class
with names like
“Margarita”
and “Carmella”.
Why don’t more people
name their children
with such scrumptious names?

The Sound That Blood Makes

2008-02-15T22:03:00.000-08:00

I am the sound that blackness makes
When it hits the pages of your thoughts.
It is recorded without your knowledge,
Without your help or guidance,
Without your approval. Such as it is
One day you will thank me.
Until then I am just a sound.
Just a hum. Murmur.
Like your head was upon your mother’s chest
And your eardrum captures
The reverberations of her heartbeat
Deep beneath her rib cage –
But she is gone, gone, gone.
And has been for years.
I am the sound in the blackness
That heightens your thoughts.
Perhaps it will return! The plague!
Your ignorance is what I have left to hold
In the darkness; the sound of blood,
Surging through organs to bring life.
You curse my lifeblood while gazing
Into the shallow sea of my eyes –
This cage, you hear the echoes.
But it is dead, dead, dead.
And has been for months. Yes, me.
But I am alive -- like her.
With your curses you spring hope.
My hope is what you aim to smother.
But fear not, I will not drown. Not now.
Not for you or for us, but for It.
I am the sound that your heart makes
When the blackness has left your pages
And your thoughts turn again to Blood
And It will surge through your hope organ
And play a tune so soft
That it will revive us
And we will live, live, live

Signs of Renewal 2.4.08

2008-02-04T10:25:00.000-08:00

I want to snatch
Those signs that say
“Turn or burn”
“God hates fags”
And throw them
Into rushing traffic
Watch them crushed –
Smashed – destroyed
Beneath the wheels.
I want to insert
Signs that say
“God is Love”
“I’m sorry for
Not loving you
Like Jesus”.
I want renewal
Of old paradigms.
I want revolution.

My Initial Response to the Winter Poetry Slam

2008-02-02T12:39:00.000-08:00

The judges are chosen
By random decision.
And the host reigns
In his supreme jurisdiction.
This is how the Poetry Slam runs.

Some of them rhyme,
Most of them don’t,
Many are quirky.
Peace! Peace! they promote.
A few stand out – gems.

One girls walks on stage,
Jeans skin-tight and boots.
"This girl dresses in sizes too small",
Says I. Who am I? I;
The self-proclaimed jury.

But her voice is strong,
And her words more so.
My ears perk to listen,
My mouth opens without words.
And my shame grows.

It is clear she is what Keats
Calls a “poet”,
What Coleridge would
call “a poet”.
And I belittle her no-more.

Criticism turns to applause
As goose-bumps light up my skin:
Proof of the timeless lesson
That I’ve learned within.
Strangely,

The finger that pointed is now
The voice that cheers loudest.
She might think I was a fan all along,
But she would then be the judge –
To assume me as a good person,
Would make us both bias judges.

My Response to "Into the Wild"

2007-11-24T23:44:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-11-20T15:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T12:43:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-05T09:28:00.000-08:00

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

2007-10-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

"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

2007-10-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

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.