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.