Furthering Finality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

allowing It to be

"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...

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.

wealth

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

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

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!

returning

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

shelter

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

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

If the apostrophe stands for what is unsaid, then:

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

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

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.