... means: hot chocolate, Martinelli's sparking cider, cake, New Year's Eve ...
No Dick Clark. No Satellite T.V. No internet unless I scream at the screen a couple times (due, not to the cabin's lack of service, but to my computer's insistence that it has better things to do than internet connections).
That is all; I haven't any time for more. Mexican Train calls my name.
Happy Almost-New Year, everyone. I will write again when the ball drops. Even though I won't be watching--unlike every other person in the United States.
Dec 31, 2008
Dec 30, 2008
If I leave here tomorrow, Will you remember me?
Operation: Abandon-the-Desert and Move-to-the-Snow is about to commence. in T-minus eleven hours I will pack myself into a car with my lovely family and traipse up to Hume. After a week of merry-making they're leaving me to fend for myself, living in the basement of the cabin, eating Ramen and a few other goodies, and writing..
Writing writing writing.
Fortunately, my "confrontation with nature" involves something that will look more like: me, sitting in a dark room at a tall black table, staring out sliding glass doors at the piles of snow, and sipping hot chocolate between lines of poetry. No campfires or tents or bear attacks. Unless I get cabin fever and need an adventure.
I hope my mom doesn't read that.
The point is: 1. I will have internet. 2. The connection is not reliable. 3. There is no cell phone service. and 4. No, I am not giving out the cabin number.
Iso. Lation.
Crazy. Let's hope my brains either stay in my head where they belong, or escape onto the blank pages to produce some magnificent work of genius that gets me into grad school. Or else just lets me retire for life ;-)
just kidding.
Here I go.
Oh, one more thing; When I get back to civilization, I'm taking a trip up north to San Fran to check out the Pirate apartment. I may get a peg-leg after all.
Pray for my Sanity. Pray for my Future. Pray for my Patience.
But above all, be really jealous you don't have my life right now.
heh heh heh.
Mmmkay. Here I come, Nature. God: do what You will with me.
Writing writing writing.
Fortunately, my "confrontation with nature" involves something that will look more like: me, sitting in a dark room at a tall black table, staring out sliding glass doors at the piles of snow, and sipping hot chocolate between lines of poetry. No campfires or tents or bear attacks. Unless I get cabin fever and need an adventure.
I hope my mom doesn't read that.
The point is: 1. I will have internet. 2. The connection is not reliable. 3. There is no cell phone service. and 4. No, I am not giving out the cabin number.
Iso. Lation.
Crazy. Let's hope my brains either stay in my head where they belong, or escape onto the blank pages to produce some magnificent work of genius that gets me into grad school. Or else just lets me retire for life ;-)
just kidding.
Here I go.
Oh, one more thing; When I get back to civilization, I'm taking a trip up north to San Fran to check out the Pirate apartment. I may get a peg-leg after all.
Pray for my Sanity. Pray for my Future. Pray for my Patience.
But above all, be really jealous you don't have my life right now.
heh heh heh.
Mmmkay. Here I come, Nature. God: do what You will with me.
Dec 28, 2008
No cure for the common cold.
Alas. My brain has decided to make an escape out my nostrils, pressurizing my sinuses and swelling my throat nearly closed.
It's actually a little bizarrely entertaining and I feel like I'm walking about in a bubble. Well. Half-full.
And: good news--I've solved most of my food dilemma. One Costco trip and about three hundred dollars later, I've accumulated enough consumables to last me through my month of snow and script.
Joyous. Off to suck on some more Vitamin C and to continue the ONGOING search for the floor of my room.
Yeah. I'm STILL cleaning.
P.S. I have no idea why, but for some reason the rest of this blog has gone MIA. I hope you all can still see it. My computer likes to throw temper tantrums and occasionally freaks out. So I hope its just my bipolar computer, and not some freak accident which caused all my online writings to vanish into hyperspace . . .
It's actually a little bizarrely entertaining and I feel like I'm walking about in a bubble. Well. Half-full.
And: good news--I've solved most of my food dilemma. One Costco trip and about three hundred dollars later, I've accumulated enough consumables to last me through my month of snow and script.
Joyous. Off to suck on some more Vitamin C and to continue the ONGOING search for the floor of my room.
Yeah. I'm STILL cleaning.
P.S. I have no idea why, but for some reason the rest of this blog has gone MIA. I hope you all can still see it. My computer likes to throw temper tantrums and occasionally freaks out. So I hope its just my bipolar computer, and not some freak accident which caused all my online writings to vanish into hyperspace . . .
Dec 27, 2008
I really don't understand Why it's Called a Funny Bone
In the process of conducting an all-out search for the floor of my bedroom, I have managed to smash that oh-so-tender portion of my elbow into: the corner of my desk, the sliding door on my closet, and one very stubborn little bookshelf.
On top of that, each time I catch a glimpse of the white carpet peering through the rubble, hope quickly dashes itself against more boxes, more paperwork, and a suspicious amount of accumulating black, pink, and blue yarn ...
I’ve put my I-tunes on the 'Ultimate Shuffle' and have been sifting through the chaos, listening to everything from Jefferson Airplane, to Backstreet Boys, to Foo Fighters, to Damien Rice, to Rockapella.
Does anyone know why there is a child crying in the background of Aaliyah’s entire “Are you that Somebody”?
Other than confronting my room—which is currently, as you may have guessed, congested with four years’ worth of dorm room junk—I am preparing for my “dive” into the wild. Which, as I have previously mentioned, will consist of creative writing, Ramen Noodles, and burial in a couple feet of snow.
The things we do to get into grad school.
Departure for Hume Lake is scheduled for December 30th, and I’ll be there—stranded—until someone decides to drive back up and get me, around the end of January. Before then, I have to get all my recommendation letter paperwork sent out, order transcripts, organize a lifetime of short-stories and poetry, and decide how I’m going to feed myself for a month with no grocery store.
Whee.
Meanwhile, my elbow is still buzzing. And I’m suffering a debilitating amount of vision loss from my left eye, due to a lingering infection we thought was pink eye; however, as it has extended itself over a week’s duration, it threatens something else. Not sure what, yet: but each blink is—ominous.
My I-tunes has shuffled itself into a recording of chanting Benedictine Monks. I skipped the song and it flipped to “Playas Gon’ Play” by 3LW.
That about sums it up.
On top of that, each time I catch a glimpse of the white carpet peering through the rubble, hope quickly dashes itself against more boxes, more paperwork, and a suspicious amount of accumulating black, pink, and blue yarn ...
I’ve put my I-tunes on the 'Ultimate Shuffle' and have been sifting through the chaos, listening to everything from Jefferson Airplane, to Backstreet Boys, to Foo Fighters, to Damien Rice, to Rockapella.
Does anyone know why there is a child crying in the background of Aaliyah’s entire “Are you that Somebody”?
Other than confronting my room—which is currently, as you may have guessed, congested with four years’ worth of dorm room junk—I am preparing for my “dive” into the wild. Which, as I have previously mentioned, will consist of creative writing, Ramen Noodles, and burial in a couple feet of snow.
The things we do to get into grad school.
Departure for Hume Lake is scheduled for December 30th, and I’ll be there—stranded—until someone decides to drive back up and get me, around the end of January. Before then, I have to get all my recommendation letter paperwork sent out, order transcripts, organize a lifetime of short-stories and poetry, and decide how I’m going to feed myself for a month with no grocery store.
Whee.
Meanwhile, my elbow is still buzzing. And I’m suffering a debilitating amount of vision loss from my left eye, due to a lingering infection we thought was pink eye; however, as it has extended itself over a week’s duration, it threatens something else. Not sure what, yet: but each blink is—ominous.
My I-tunes has shuffled itself into a recording of chanting Benedictine Monks. I skipped the song and it flipped to “Playas Gon’ Play” by 3LW.
That about sums it up.
Dec 26, 2008
Christ is in our Midst
Lifting myself from silken sheets this morning, I breathed a stretch and opened weary eyes to the glow of the morning light, thinking: Last night, The Christ was born.
Not, reflections on a man in a red suit.
Not, curiosity encircling a muddled array of colored stockings pinned over the fire.
Not, mused guesses as to the identity of certain suspicious packages beneath a tree currently tilting in our living room.
Not, even, the bursted realization that meat will once again enter my diet.
No. Mere awareness that the Nativity holds one more occupant.
Thus, my year begins. Not, at the dropping of the glittered ball at the stroke of midnight in a few weeks. My year begins this morning. And reaches fruition in the spring when Christ infuses this day with its imPassioned meaning. And then, the waiting for: the next Nativity.
This morning marks the beginning of the life assumed in His earthly flesh; a life only made significant by the next anticipated event: the spring’s crucifixion and resurrection of that same Christ when He fulfills His promise to Love His people. To. Love.
Centuries of Christians wait for the Second Coming of our Beloved. But my friends: He comes again every year on this day. He dies, is resurrected, and ascends again in the spring—and then, yes, we wait: separated from Him in our earthly prison.
But He. Comes. Again.
Wake up, sleepy world. Not to silver and gold and packages and bows.
The manger glows our Redemption.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good Night.
Peace.
Not, reflections on a man in a red suit.
Not, curiosity encircling a muddled array of colored stockings pinned over the fire.
Not, mused guesses as to the identity of certain suspicious packages beneath a tree currently tilting in our living room.
Not, even, the bursted realization that meat will once again enter my diet.
No. Mere awareness that the Nativity holds one more occupant.
Thus, my year begins. Not, at the dropping of the glittered ball at the stroke of midnight in a few weeks. My year begins this morning. And reaches fruition in the spring when Christ infuses this day with its imPassioned meaning. And then, the waiting for: the next Nativity.
This morning marks the beginning of the life assumed in His earthly flesh; a life only made significant by the next anticipated event: the spring’s crucifixion and resurrection of that same Christ when He fulfills His promise to Love His people. To. Love.
Centuries of Christians wait for the Second Coming of our Beloved. But my friends: He comes again every year on this day. He dies, is resurrected, and ascends again in the spring—and then, yes, we wait: separated from Him in our earthly prison.
But He. Comes. Again.
Wake up, sleepy world. Not to silver and gold and packages and bows.
The manger glows our Redemption.
Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good Night.
Peace.
Dec 18, 2008
Filling Spaces between Fingers
Creases of the Hand
Between the rivulets
of Lover's cracked embrace,
His face peers from the shadows of
the calloused wrinkles' trace.
And, flexing palm to close around
holes pierced for Kingdom's song,
His smile sighs your Silence--His breath
a whisper to: Belong.
(c) Kellie Parkinson December 18, 2008
"My hands are small, I know, but they're: not yours, they are my own."
.wrong.
the Listener re-writes that song and every other lyric referencing my supposed independence, my isolation, my self-sufficiency and says 'Grace, Child."
"Your hands," He says, "Are small, I know, but they're not yours: they are My Own."
Each time I gaze at the centers of my palms, they seem a stranger to my eyes. Even the history twitching in the fingertips feels foreign; the potential pulsing in their core comes from a source Outside myself.
So far. Outside. myself.
Between the rivulets
of Lover's cracked embrace,
His face peers from the shadows of
the calloused wrinkles' trace.
And, flexing palm to close around
holes pierced for Kingdom's song,
His smile sighs your Silence--His breath
a whisper to: Belong.
(c) Kellie Parkinson December 18, 2008
"My hands are small, I know, but they're: not yours, they are my own."
.wrong.
the Listener re-writes that song and every other lyric referencing my supposed independence, my isolation, my self-sufficiency and says 'Grace, Child."
"Your hands," He says, "Are small, I know, but they're not yours: they are My Own."
Each time I gaze at the centers of my palms, they seem a stranger to my eyes. Even the history twitching in the fingertips feels foreign; the potential pulsing in their core comes from a source Outside myself.
So far. Outside. myself.
Dec 17, 2008
"Her hair is--always--a mess."
You would think that with a statistics final looming over this coming Friday morning, I would be doing something along the lines of preparation for said final. Nay.
Instead, I'm acting like a spaz and lashing out impulsively. Case in point: emailed a potential renter for housing in--no, not my free, safe, secure little family home in Santa Clarita--but San Francisco. Yes. San Francisco. Treasure Island nonetheless. Well, if it goes through, I did always want to be a pirate.
Arr.
Bad Joke.
Next month I traipse my way up to Hume Lake, get dropped off in the middle of "nowhere," and spend a month in seclusion in my aunt's luxury cabin. Life is very hard. I sometimes just have to grit my teeth and bear it. ha. But really, I am spending those long weeks/days/hours/however-long-I-last finishing/starting grad school applications I should have been crunching on weeks/months ago. Sigh.
After that I must get some job to fill my currently empty--no, not exaggerating, empty--bank account.
You're all enthralled with my life, I can tell. At any rate, considering my current behavior, who knows where I'll be in the next few weeks. Or next month. Or tomorrow.
Time for more procrastination. My calculator's glaring up at me from my sad little desk, crying, "Stats me! Stats me!" Instead, I'm going to get dressed.
And go shopping.
Instead, I'm acting like a spaz and lashing out impulsively. Case in point: emailed a potential renter for housing in--no, not my free, safe, secure little family home in Santa Clarita--but San Francisco. Yes. San Francisco. Treasure Island nonetheless. Well, if it goes through, I did always want to be a pirate.
Arr.
Bad Joke.
Next month I traipse my way up to Hume Lake, get dropped off in the middle of "nowhere," and spend a month in seclusion in my aunt's luxury cabin. Life is very hard. I sometimes just have to grit my teeth and bear it. ha. But really, I am spending those long weeks/days/hours/however-long-I-last finishing/starting grad school applications I should have been crunching on weeks/months ago. Sigh.
After that I must get some job to fill my currently empty--no, not exaggerating, empty--bank account.
You're all enthralled with my life, I can tell. At any rate, considering my current behavior, who knows where I'll be in the next few weeks. Or next month. Or tomorrow.
Time for more procrastination. My calculator's glaring up at me from my sad little desk, crying, "Stats me! Stats me!" Instead, I'm going to get dressed.
And go shopping.
Dec 14, 2008
it's Good to be in Love
Either I'm suffering a delusion, or there's only one test between me and the two letters--BA--that will label me fit to launch upon the world.
Nope. I did take my meds. Not a delusion. Reality hits.
Gasp. Someone please fill in the gap that should buzz with memories of the last four years of my life. My mind seems to have chiseled away the landslide of moments that I should be recalling when attempting to reminisce. Instead, I walk away from Westmont clutching a vague, misshapen sculpture of feeling, rather than specific memories. Joy. Times of serious soul-searching; aimless floudering; and meaningless fear--parallel toes tingling with the kiss of rain; smiles shared over a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, a plate of really horrible DC spaghetti. Late-night conversing: while crammed eight-in-a-car, or two shrugged against the laundry machines. The plucking of guitar strings. The pounding of piano keys.
Tonight I am humming contentedly. I began the day lunching with Zak (which, of course, consisted of electricity, vegetables, and Peace), filled the sun with crystal blue oceans and espresso-rimmed conversation, and concluded the day with blessed reunions, a stunning pecan pie (compliments of Lara), warm Fellowship, and this steaming mug of hot chocolate.
Exhale with me. Who needs 'ultimate purpose' when Peace breaths such relief? :)
<--He wearsmyhood so he doesn't get cold in
44degree weather. :)
Nope. I did take my meds. Not a delusion. Reality hits.
Gasp. Someone please fill in the gap that should buzz with memories of the last four years of my life. My mind seems to have chiseled away the landslide of moments that I should be recalling when attempting to reminisce. Instead, I walk away from Westmont clutching a vague, misshapen sculpture of feeling, rather than specific memories. Joy. Times of serious soul-searching; aimless floudering; and meaningless fear--parallel toes tingling with the kiss of rain; smiles shared over a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, a plate of really horrible DC spaghetti. Late-night conversing: while crammed eight-in-a-car, or two shrugged against the laundry machines. The plucking of guitar strings. The pounding of piano keys.
Tonight I am humming contentedly. I began the day lunching with Zak (which, of course, consisted of electricity, vegetables, and Peace), filled the sun with crystal blue oceans and espresso-rimmed conversation, and concluded the day with blessed reunions, a stunning pecan pie (compliments of Lara), warm Fellowship, and this steaming mug of hot chocolate.
Exhale with me. Who needs 'ultimate purpose' when Peace breaths such relief? :)
<--He wearsmyhood so he doesn't get cold in44degree weather. :)
Dec 11, 2008
On Keeping Secrets
All major transitions should include the beginning of a new journal. Not to mention a lot of Advil and stress-relief tea--preferably the Zen stuff that comes in the little green bags from Starbucks.
My current, 'life-transforming' transition (outside of my dramatic decision to paint my hair a dark, disturbing shade of brown): an immanent college graduation. Which--considering my tendency to live in contented denial--I would be ignoring, however, tomorrow just so happens to be my ... last day of college classes and, after two finals next week, I will be a free "person" with a nearly useless BA in English and a head full of dreams. In this launch from the sheltered bubble that is Westmont, we begin my enslavement to a society plagued by consumerism, taxes, rent, and espresso.
Sign me up for the next Job Fair.
You'd think that three and a half years of undergraduate education would have prepared me to step forth boldly and take the world by force. Instead, it served to prove that I know ... nothing about life and its intricacies. Although I may have a few insights about its eccentricities. Ha. The silly little 'what-goes-up-must-come-down' type of wisdoms--
- don't stick a screwdriver in a socket, no matter how well you think it fits
- a flat iron is for hair, not dress pants
- walking from Westmont to Conejo dressed as a pirate at 11:30 at night is a good way to get hit by a car
- procrastination is okay. Writing an eight page paper an hour before it's due ... probably not the best.
- The online RPG game, Elven Blood, will eat your soul and cause you to use your friends' facebook profiles for Stamina. And they. don't. like. that.
- Declaration of "It won't happen to me" means it most assuredly will.
- you CAN fit in the cupboards above your closet in VK
- Walking confidently at a bridge in the dark does not make the bridge magically appear beneath your feet. Most likely, you will end up in the ravine a foot to the right of said bridge.
- Tall, old trees are not as breathtaking as small green shoots pushing through charred soil in the wake of the flame
- Brushing your teeth is one thing you can't fake.
- the 24/7 Courtesy Hours do not apply to people with bongos.
- Your suitemates will let you scream Britney Spears at the top of your lungs all night, either because they like it, or because the sounds are too horrifying to confront.
- Quotebooks are only funny if your name is in it.
- wine + bad renditions of Shakespeare + fluffy bread dipped in cream cheese = a good time.
- Credit cards are trouble for impulsive spenders. Like me.
- its more fun to go to Chapel when you don't have to fill out a card.
- Setting your alarm for 8pm is a sure way to sleep through class. Then, when emailing your professor an hour into class, claim the alarm didn't go off.
- If your professor has the same name as a friend, make sure you don't accidentally email the professor while you're facebooking the friend in class.
- Half the people who say, "We should hang out!" don't really mean it. The ones who do know they don't actually have to say it just to be your friend.
- History isn't in a textbook. It's in the Retirement home down the street.
Our Listener is always present; we just shout too loud to hear the whisper.
No words thrill deeper than the hush of a good poem.
"These poems were written in silence, in solitude, mainly out of doors. A reader will like them best, I think, who reads them in similar circumstances - at least in a quiet room. They would be most favorably heard if read aloud into a kind of quietness that is not afforded by any public place. I hope that some readers will read them as they were written: slowly, and with more patience than effort."--Wendell Berry
My current, 'life-transforming' transition (outside of my dramatic decision to paint my hair a dark, disturbing shade of brown): an immanent college graduation. Which--considering my tendency to live in contented denial--I would be ignoring, however, tomorrow just so happens to be my ... last day of college classes and, after two finals next week, I will be a free "person" with a nearly useless BA in English and a head full of dreams. In this launch from the sheltered bubble that is Westmont, we begin my enslavement to a society plagued by consumerism, taxes, rent, and espresso.
Sign me up for the next Job Fair.
You'd think that three and a half years of undergraduate education would have prepared me to step forth boldly and take the world by force. Instead, it served to prove that I know ... nothing about life and its intricacies. Although I may have a few insights about its eccentricities. Ha. The silly little 'what-goes-up-must-come-down' type of wisdoms--
- don't stick a screwdriver in a socket, no matter how well you think it fits
- a flat iron is for hair, not dress pants
- walking from Westmont to Conejo dressed as a pirate at 11:30 at night is a good way to get hit by a car
- procrastination is okay. Writing an eight page paper an hour before it's due ... probably not the best.
- The online RPG game, Elven Blood, will eat your soul and cause you to use your friends' facebook profiles for Stamina. And they. don't. like. that.
- Declaration of "It won't happen to me" means it most assuredly will.
- you CAN fit in the cupboards above your closet in VK
- Walking confidently at a bridge in the dark does not make the bridge magically appear beneath your feet. Most likely, you will end up in the ravine a foot to the right of said bridge.
- Tall, old trees are not as breathtaking as small green shoots pushing through charred soil in the wake of the flame
- Brushing your teeth is one thing you can't fake.
- the 24/7 Courtesy Hours do not apply to people with bongos.
- Your suitemates will let you scream Britney Spears at the top of your lungs all night, either because they like it, or because the sounds are too horrifying to confront.
- Quotebooks are only funny if your name is in it.
- wine + bad renditions of Shakespeare + fluffy bread dipped in cream cheese = a good time.
- Credit cards are trouble for impulsive spenders. Like me.
- its more fun to go to Chapel when you don't have to fill out a card.
- Setting your alarm for 8pm is a sure way to sleep through class. Then, when emailing your professor an hour into class, claim the alarm didn't go off.
- If your professor has the same name as a friend, make sure you don't accidentally email the professor while you're facebooking the friend in class.
- Half the people who say, "We should hang out!" don't really mean it. The ones who do know they don't actually have to say it just to be your friend.
- History isn't in a textbook. It's in the Retirement home down the street.
Our Listener is always present; we just shout too loud to hear the whisper.
No words thrill deeper than the hush of a good poem.
"These poems were written in silence, in solitude, mainly out of doors. A reader will like them best, I think, who reads them in similar circumstances - at least in a quiet room. They would be most favorably heard if read aloud into a kind of quietness that is not afforded by any public place. I hope that some readers will read them as they were written: slowly, and with more patience than effort."--Wendell Berry
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