Doodles

I hate Macs. I miss Microsoft "Paint." :( Anyone have any ideas for a potential equivalent?

On an entirely different note: I am going to graduate school at Mills College in Oakland. In about two years, I will have an MFA in Poetry.

Look out, world. 

And I don't mean Mickey

I currently crouch in the center of a carpeted space.

Which is new for me, since I spend most of my hours slouched on the stone floor of the Cave.

Instead, I have committed to spend this evening in the "dorm"-style bedroom, due to the fact that my room is currently occupied by one of four couples staying up here this weekend. 

Also, a child is running loose around the upstairs. He looks about ... 1 1/2? and keeps throwing his shoes off the balcony. Earlier, I was in the kitchen making some cereal and he stuck his nose between the balcony rungs and shrieked at me, causing me to jump and dump soymilk.... everywhere. 

Interesting atmosphere change, for me. 

Oh, and I purchased a mouse who doesn't like cheese.

That may be a metaphor. Maybe.

I'm going home after school tomorrow. Not, not looking forward to the drive down the windy mountain road. Nor am I looking forward to returning to Fresno's sketchy health clinic to get the needle-hole on my arm "read." Read my Tee Bee, I shall say. Then sign on the dotted line.

Interesting, Atmosphere: Change for me. 

However I am looking forward to the familiar grin of sisters and the calming presence of my parents. 

Interesting atmosphere changes: Me. 

Some call me Crazy, the Hermit in the Cave

I'm (fairly) certain that at one point in my life, my parents instructed against committing absurdities.

Like spending a fortune on something that isn't happiness.

Like taking impulsive trips across the country to see a statue you've never seen before.

Like purchasing fuzzy rodents on a whim.

Like chopping all you hair off and dying it the color of its complement.

Like parking your car in the middle of a ghetto and sitting in a clinic next to three unwed, pregnant teens, and a fourth who comes in demanding a pregnancy test, gives her birth date (something, something, 1992) and walks out annoyed when she has to get a permission slip.

I did two of these things today. 

shh

Wind whips through the trees

and--sometimes--I remember my knees;

but mostly I stand, swaying in the

persuasive Breeze. 

and on other days I kneel in discarded pine

to converse with the stagnant

forest floor. 

(c)krp

Cuddled alone in the Cave again

I've returned to the mountaintop after a quick dash to the desert, where I was expecting sunshine and warmth and instead got hail and rain. But my sister is back from college for a week, has brought her amiable boyfriend ( :-> ), and my heart is filled with joy from the reunion. On top of that, I touched base with two of my closest companions--Heather and Beth--and am now wishing I could have swung a trip to see Bre at the beach as well.

It was a good couple days. My scrapbook from my London trip (two years ago) has finally been completed, and I toted it home so I could leave the fat thing on the kitchen table in my parent's house. Next project: painting. I brought back up here all of my blank canvases, all my paints, my overpriced paintbrushes, and am trying to come up with something to use as a makeshift easel.

It's snowing white chunks all over the car outside and sometimes I think I can hear them hit the pavement, though I know it's just my imagination giving their sparkle an impossible weight.

-------

I am purposefully not addressing a traumatic experience I had this weekend but I feel I should bring it up. My personal laptop has crashed and died, taking with it to its grave some of my longest journal entries, some of my oldest poems, some new words I've inscribed in the last year, and nearly all of my photographs from this life. 

I feel as if something inside me has died and I am in the first stage: Denial. 

Denial that I will never see some poems again, because I never gave them to anyone else but my screen.

Denial that those frozen images of ghosted relationships will never be lovingly caressed by my nostalgic eyes.

Denial that some of my creative stories have vanished, and taken their worlds with them into the nether of the electronic age.

Down with technology. Down with internet and typing and hard disks that crash. 

I almost thought I wouldn't be able to get onto my blog, because I couldn't remember the password. But I made a lucky guess and here I am. 

-------

I'm excited for this week. Even though "snow" is on the forecast for the next five days.

Ireland Itinerary

Greetings and Salutations.

After the airline proceeded to harass me for the um-teenth time yesterday morning, I decided to finalize my Ireland Itinerary.

Having done so, I am--thrilled--and on a planner-high, ready to hyper-organize every hour of the next three weeks.

I just love planning.

I even scheduled "Do nothing" into the Itinerary.


Look it even gets a capitalized "I" because it's official.


I'd sum it up but it'd take hours. And I'm not going to post it because, well, I'd find it creepy knowing you're knowing what I'm doing every hour of the day while I'm overseas.

did you plan EVERY hour, you ask?

Down to driving time and directions and sleeping reservations?
umm. No comment.
And I'm not going to say whether or not I know where we're eating each meal.

-------------------

Time to finish scouring the internet and the world for the cheapest flights to Detroit so I can complete my upcoming trip across the country w/Zak.

I love travel-planning.

Chipmunks and Irrational Fears

I woke up with a chipmunk in the house.

And no: that's not a metaphor.


Short story: I left the door open all night. I opened my bedroom door. There was a creature the size of my fist, sitting in the center of the floor, staring wide-eyed up at me and holding something clenched between his forepaws. I twitched. He scampered out the door.

Bizarre.

I also made my way halfway down the mountain, intending to go to Fresno and get my TB test, then turned around when a bout of panic swept over me due to my consideration of the impending encounter with a doctor.

Now, I'm eating my feelings, popping Poptarts into my mouth, and listening to soothing piano tracks.


I should really get over this doctor thing or I'm going to die without ever knowing I'm sick.

It all started with a craving for the Sea

Ask me what I did this weekend.

Go on: ask.


I'll tell you even if you don't ask, because it's my blog and I get to write what I want.

Short version of the story: I followed an impulse and ended up in San Francisco, on a beach, in the arms of the one-and-only Zak Landrum.

Long version: I learned all over again what it is to feel yourself so poured out, so poured into, that any question may be asked and the answer freely given; any task may be proposed and the completion eagerly fulfilled; any dream may be shared and the hope willingly infuses the entire air so all you both breathe is Light and all you feel is Belonging.

Mmm.

Ask me what I did this weekend. Sunday morning I woke up in my bed on a mountain. By eight I was at church in Merced. And an hour after church I was nose-to-nose with my dear Friend--with my cherished Heart.

----

(photos all by Zak :) )

I prefer the ocean over the forest, over the mountain, over the plain, over the desert, because the Ocean is old without being ancient, it's young without naivety, and it's friendly without being invasive. Every wave feels new, no matter how many times I've seen the crash of white foam on the rocks, or smelled the salt as it seeped up the shoreline and across my skin. The ocean feels--is--endless. The ocean breathes eternity and I sing back Rest into its quiet expanse.

Holding on to Everything

There are people in the house.

I must not talk to myself.

In the past few days I have taken on the habit of verbally conversing with myself. I'm an aural processor. I like auditory things. So I talk to fill the spaces between the walls where people usually go. Yesterday I had a conversation with the stove, insisting that the attitude with which it was refusing to cooperate over the baking of tortillas into chips was not acceptable.

It shaped up.

But now that the house is actually FILLED with 15 Biola females, I must not talk to myself.

This may be the least of my worries. I also like to sing very loud and have perfected the art of projecting my voice through all the walls. I have whole concerts in the shower. Last night it was Phantom of the Opera. Tonight's rendition of Les Miserables will have to wait.

Who was it that once said "Cellar door" is the most beautiful phrase in the English language? I must agree.

Another tidbit from the life of a hermit: I am allowed to repeat my favorite phrases as many times as I like. Roll them on the tongue for the full flavor.



----

On top of all of this, I have so many things going on inside my head that I want to talk about with somebody but there are fifteen strangers instead of one close friend.

God's being strange lately. I don't know how to read Him and I can't tell if He's reading me, or if He's just waiting to see what I do next. I feel at a loss for direction, for purpose. but mostly just for direction. I wouldn't need a grand, sweeping Purpose if I just had instructions as to where I should put my feet in the morning.

I try getting out of bed on different sides so that it'll switch it up a bit and make Him start to pay attention again.

No such luck.

As soon as I begin to depend on one thing, it vanishes and I'm left with the empty hands just barely beginning to close those tired fingers around an already absent Comfort.


What does He think He's doing?


I'm endlessly perplexed and we have many conversations on the matter. One-sided conversations, of course. But we talk. When nobody's around.

I talk too much.

"Oh no, I've said too much. I haven't said enough."


It'll be nice when I return to civilization and people start talking back.

Not rock bottom.

Out, out, out the tipping cup slips
sideways, from her fingers as her sigh
presses it further, drips
the hot liquid onto the
tabletop.

Drip, drip, drip, the tipping cup licks
liquid out from its rim
as her exhale,
grim, waits to be poured
in, to fill up
again.

(c)krp

I'm tired tonight. Drained. Poured, poked, and prodded and trying and falling short and getting up again at the base of the cliff, preparing to hike back skyward.

And I do re-start the ascension--but sometimes, I need a break.
So right now I'm just resting in the harness until my Spotter yanks
on the rope, signals, "Climb," again.

Moses

If I stare long enough at the trees, the leaves
become palms and wave.
For one who lives in a cave, the wave, is a welcome breach
between the sleeping world,
the waking world,
and me.


Make us children of quietness and heirs of Peace.

Affirmative: going to bed angry is like letting a wound fester.

Going to bed angry two nights in a row is just tempting doom upon your head.

Between the Rock and the God-Place.

Today I stared at a sea of faces, wondering: "Why listen you, to me?" As their wide-eyed gaping blinks descended between sentences I wondered, "Why listen, You? To me?"

When the silent school-bell rang, releasing students into lunch, I slunched against my desk and sighed, "Why hear me, Lord, in Pride?" My fingers flipped through tomorrow's agenda--a debate, a paper, a quiz, a presentation. Somewhere past World War II and through the Battle of Bull Run and in the footsteps of General Grant, of Harry Truman, of Nikita Khrushchev, the papers stop rustling and a head flickers up while the eyes wink--staring--at a point of interest.

It helped that I added exploding sound effects to my Power Point today. When I blew up Fort Sumter, the Mississippi, and killed Stonewall Jackson with his own gun, the drooping heads jerked awake while the familiar grin of engagement re-ignited across the room.

Gloom? No, not today. Not this morning, anyway. Even though I returned to an empty house--to an empty fridge--at one, my smile still ghosted across my face in the wake of: Contentment.

I am Content with my Share. I realize there could be more; I realize there could be less. But today, and for hopeful days to come, I resolve to be Content.

It's worth the glimmer of a grin I see on the chins of the older students. It's worth the chuckle that disperses through the youngers. It's worth, it's worth, it Is. Worth.

What am I doing here? I am learning how to Learn and I am listening that I may be Listened to.

Mmmmm, Lent, you are Good to me.

You're sure gonna be the Lucky one

"Let her Sleep Outside."

One-way flight to Fresno
sends the Skylight overnight
and her hair curls round the bedpost
while he's screaming out in fright
(for her toes are pressed against his thigh;
and, dry-eyed shaking sin, he swipes
his sweat from aching brow).

And sends her back to Fresno,
but only God knows how.


(c)krp

"Memory the Trigger."

Her forehead resting on the desk
sags ditches in her skin
and the touches trailing down her chest
drags finger-printed sin.
His breath, the burdened memory
fades, slippery as the night
and the Stranger's press against her face:
a vapor in the Light.

(c)krp

i tried to post this two nights ago but it didnt work... so i post it now.

Well! Tonight I threw campers off a bucking bronco all night. I think I said "Put yer hand in the air!" about two hundred times and "A buck for a buck!" is going to haunt me till morning.

But it was SO wonderful.

I'm working the weekend for Camp--tomorrow's the skate window at the Ark, then "El Diablo" (the bucking machine), then who-knows-what-else. What a blessing to have adventurous things to do all day in the snow with PEOPLE

REAL PEOPLE, by golly! ;-)

Too much fake-saloon-lingo-with-jolly-piano-music. What's that stuff they played? I think it starts with a J...

Anyway. My life is full of so many wonderful surprises.

Time to shrug into sheets so I can pull myself back out of them in eight hours and do it all again!

Mmm mmm, good. God's so cool.

Come quickly

Lent.

The season of waiting--of endlessly waiting and being reminded that I am: waiting. For Pasca. For Christ. For salvation to sweep across us again. In flesh I may be--sequestered--off in the mountains, surrounded by fat, lush snowflakes falling from the grayed sky and the tired clouds. Surrounded by the warmth, the welcome, the love of the Protestant faith and hospitality. Of family encircling a dinner table, listening to a child reading and learning from his "Children's Bible."

Of those parents telling their children they should be like "my boyfriend", should desire that same selflessness, that same attentiveness, that same desire to Learn, to Understand the God and Creator of us all. Of me sighing: agreeing.

In flesh I am the former Protestant, familiar things but in heart I am the latter: the Love, the Wonder, the Journey into ... the Lenten season.

And they ask me to pray and I say: okay. Bow your head before the Lord and whisper to Him your shouting fears, for He Hears--He Hears,
and I Listen. I obey.

Come quickly, my King.

In Lent my soul Longs to cease Waiting, to Welcome.
To prostrate before the One, beside the Many, among the Few
who Know and are Known and long to
be Understood in the mind, in the Eternity
of Our Creator.

Today I didn't eat alone.

"Lunchtime"

Today I shared lunch with a deaf man:

tried a few signs to indicate my meaning

when I wanted the salt, when he asked where I'd come

from and watched as I helplessly tried to describe

Santa Clarita

in mime. "Magic Mountain?" I mouthed, indicating

a roller-coaster:

His eyes followed my palm as it climbed up, dove

down, scooped skyward again.

And a light flickered in the clarity

of communion: from his world of Silence

to symphonic--Sound.

(c)krp

Mmmhm

Today, friends, I am sitting before my computer, having just completed a long--but full--day of work. With the heater blasting in an attempt to counteract the dreary gray sky that lurks outside my window, I'm curled up in a robe, sucking on milk chocolate and waiting for my coffee to heat up again.

Teaching is hard work. But it's wonderful.

Sometimes, at the end of a day I will drudge my heavy feet home and sulk in the basement, staring at the ceiling while I press myself deeper into my sheets and trying to pretend the day didn't happen. Trying to talk myself out of spending the months till May, cooped up in the wilderness and leering at the stars.

Other days, I linger behind in my classroom, staring at the whiteboard on which I had scrawled the day's assignments and willing myself to erase the words--to end the day and begin another.

Still others, I hesitate: leave the agenda on the board a little longer because today--today, unlike yesterday and most likely unlike tomorrow--was a Good day.

The kind of day where a student irks me because he forgot to turn in his homework, then blesses me because he answered a question with care.
The kind of day where the Struggler squinted at the board while the rest of the class sludged in their chairs--and then, wide-eyed, the wondered "OH!" catches her classmates unawares.
And the classmate who responds to her Understanding with a smile
Still later, the parent who grins, shakes surprised finger in the air, and says "I KNEW my son had it in there--Somewhere."

Knowing, through all of the light and the soft touches and the minute glimmers of clarity in the fog--Knowing that tomorrow, that same student will scowl at another assignment, that same parent will demand answers for slipping grades, that same classmate will tweak an ear, pull the hair, shame the name of that Struggler.

Knowing through it all that today--even if it's the One out of days, out of weeks, out of Months of wrestling with, scolding, desperately throwing my hands up at, and heart sinking because of these students. Even if its just the One. It's worth it.

Because she said "I understand."
Because he took the time
Because the parent let it slip
Because the peer gave the sign

That today: Today, I know why I
am
Here.