The day after tomorrow, I throw my life in the back of a car and make the trek once again into solitude. I approach this realization with mixed feelings.
- I'm about to teach my favorite subject--ENGLISH!!!-- and my favorite period of history--World War II--to a classroom of students I've never met. Memoirs of the holocaust (both perspectives) are stacked on my desk and my notes from Night have been resurrected from the underbelly of my closet, eagerly awaiting re-use.
- Faced with shelves of my cherished novels, I have to pick which ones should make the journey up the mountain, and join "Ms Parkinson's Library": an 'extra-credit' book collection that will be used in conjunction with "Book Bingo" to encourage free-reading outside the classroom.
- Though I have a closet full of clothing, I am carefully selecting my most "Teacheresque" garments. You wouldn't believe the stuff I've come up with.
- Memories of the lonely basement and the dark, silent nights are beginning to creep their way back along the corners of my mind. Whereas the whole point of my last adventure was the loneliness, I thought I could handle it because 1. It was on purpose 2. It was the point and 3. It was temporary. But my isolation is now a casualty of a brilliant opportunity ... and I'm already longing for a companion. Moments like these make me realize that no matter how poetic I might think it sounds, I would never want to live the rest of my life alone. I learn life in companionship.
- My room at home is no longer "my room." After I move out at the conclusion of my trip to Ireland this summer, it will be converted to an office for my dad. I've already re-painted the walls, covering over every childhood memory, every tack-hole in the wall, every place where poster tape had peeled off the chaotic paint. Soon, even the decoration scheme will be altered, from the noisy floral to a soothing "Beach."
- Even if I don't have home in a place, I have home in a heart. In many hearts, in fact. Beyond the current Blessing of my (pardon the phrase) "love life" (warm smile), I am surrounded in spirit by family and friends and friends who are family--all of these, relationships that have nestled in my chest and blossom daily through prayer, thoughts, laughter, embraces, and sweet telephone conversations. I will always belong with these people. That's why, even when I go away for months and return, I know I can still text Beth and say, "What the heck you doin?" And we're out ransacking the town two hours later. That's why, when I text message Bre, it's always a message of love, missing, and the memory of incessant, joyous laughter. That's why, when I pick up the phone to call Alyssa, she always will answer no matter if she's on a date with Matthew, or getting her hair done at some obscure salon in the middle of a Beauty College ( :) ). That's why, when I arrive on the streets of San Francisco in the middle of an early Sunday morning and Zak lifts his head in surprise, my stride across the street is a sprint into his heart and an embrace that sends a smile through his eyes and into the deepest part of his soul.
That's why, when I get a letter from a professor it's like a whisper from a friend.
And when I curl myself up on my parent's bed, my mom instantly runs her fingers through my hair and listens to me rattle on about my hopes and dreams for the future, about my fears for tomorrow, about my joys of today.
And when I open Scripture, Paul's admonition of relationships and of love and of Charity all seep themselves into my life and I see Heather in Corinthians; I see Westmont in David's Psalms; I see today in the Lord's Prayer; and I see Tomorrow: in the Hands of God.
Feb 7, 2009
Palmdale
I took the CBEST today (that's the teacher-test) and ... couldn't remember how to add fractions.
Ridiculous.
A. When am I ever going to do math without a calculator?
B. When am I ever going to use math?
Sigh.
And I wrote an essay about drugs.
But it was part of the prompt.
And I'm not getting a cat. Hume won't let me.
Ridiculous.
A. When am I ever going to do math without a calculator?
B. When am I ever going to use math?
Sigh.
And I wrote an essay about drugs.
But it was part of the prompt.
And I'm not getting a cat. Hume won't let me.
Feb 6, 2009
Still Furry-Friend-less
I found the cat I wanted but I didn't bring it home because I don't want to die at the hands of my parents. Although Beth was very persuasive. Note to self: don't take her to a pound cause she'll make you want to bring them all home.
Twenty one years old and still can't own anything cause I am borrowing every living space.
Twenty one years old and still can't own anything cause I am borrowing every living space.
Please don't tell my mother
After a long month of isolation up at that dang Hume cabin, I'm afraid to return to the lonely, companion-less environment.
So I'm going to the pound and intend to return with a cat. A gray one. Now taking name suggestions. And I declare that sissy things like Misty, Shadow, Fuzzball, Puff, and Spot are immediately ruled out.
Give me something exotic.
And please,
don't tell my mother. Yet.
heh heh
So I'm going to the pound and intend to return with a cat. A gray one. Now taking name suggestions. And I declare that sissy things like Misty, Shadow, Fuzzball, Puff, and Spot are immediately ruled out.
Give me something exotic.
And please,
don't tell my mother. Yet.
heh heh
Feb 5, 2009
A little Fall of Rain
Though the rain pours in torrents I cannot help but hear its touch on the window as a caress, rather than a series of violent abrasions.
I long for lightening to streak across the sky and instead the clouds form their murky embrace across the heavens and the occasional star peers through to watch the world glisten as the light of the moon slips across drenched streets and dripping windshields.
My heart is soft, as I lean over this screen and peer again out at the world, sleeping beneath the patter of rain. I am alone, but not lonely. My family dreams in the rooms surrounding and my smile hums an echo of remembrances over the quietest moments of this past weekend: a certain gaze returned over the flicker of candlelight, his laugh as answer to my joy, quiet arms enfolding a moment of silence stolen in a crowded room or a noisy bus or a moonlit street. Conversations that transcend all levels of understanding we'd previously striven for, pushed at, run towards, and fallen from--until we finally became nothing, and surrendered everything to He who drags the stars down from the sky to rest their glow in our cheeks. The deepest parts of my heart memorize every word until I can replay phrase after phrase and recall the precise moments when our souls Communed: when the lightbulb flickered on in the attics of our minds: when our breath finally released in the triumphant sigh.
How do I describe the Intercession of the Creator?
It begins with a question: his hand offered, palm up. And the answer: my own palm against his--slides,
like the dew from the leaf in the gold glow
of the dawn.
I long for lightening to streak across the sky and instead the clouds form their murky embrace across the heavens and the occasional star peers through to watch the world glisten as the light of the moon slips across drenched streets and dripping windshields.
My heart is soft, as I lean over this screen and peer again out at the world, sleeping beneath the patter of rain. I am alone, but not lonely. My family dreams in the rooms surrounding and my smile hums an echo of remembrances over the quietest moments of this past weekend: a certain gaze returned over the flicker of candlelight, his laugh as answer to my joy, quiet arms enfolding a moment of silence stolen in a crowded room or a noisy bus or a moonlit street. Conversations that transcend all levels of understanding we'd previously striven for, pushed at, run towards, and fallen from--until we finally became nothing, and surrendered everything to He who drags the stars down from the sky to rest their glow in our cheeks. The deepest parts of my heart memorize every word until I can replay phrase after phrase and recall the precise moments when our souls Communed: when the lightbulb flickered on in the attics of our minds: when our breath finally released in the triumphant sigh.
How do I describe the Intercession of the Creator?
It begins with a question: his hand offered, palm up. And the answer: my own palm against his--slides,
like the dew from the leaf in the gold glow
of the dawn.
No more ice cream before bed.
I woke up this morning, stared at the ceiling, and thought, "What the hell was that?"
I dreamed I was the wife of a dictator, sold into the marriage by my unfortunate parents who wanted money to buy a yacht. The dictator (who looked vaguely familiar but I can't pin his face) in turn used me for "diplomatic relations" between countries: selling me out as the "peace treaty." Many children resulted from these "peace offerings" and they became mini-assassins, stalking through the night, killing rebels and the infidels of the nation.
They all looked like little china dolls, with porcelain smooth faces and plastered black hair that hung straight from their scalps. But beady little blue eyes that glowed in the dark.
After a few foggy events and a lot of killing, I ended up pegged on the "most wanted" list for no reason other than that I was getting old and my face was wrinkled. So, in the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of my own child breathing in my ear and turned to meet her crystal eyes, knowing:
I was about to die.
And then I woke up.
I dreamed I was the wife of a dictator, sold into the marriage by my unfortunate parents who wanted money to buy a yacht. The dictator (who looked vaguely familiar but I can't pin his face) in turn used me for "diplomatic relations" between countries: selling me out as the "peace treaty." Many children resulted from these "peace offerings" and they became mini-assassins, stalking through the night, killing rebels and the infidels of the nation.
They all looked like little china dolls, with porcelain smooth faces and plastered black hair that hung straight from their scalps. But beady little blue eyes that glowed in the dark.
After a few foggy events and a lot of killing, I ended up pegged on the "most wanted" list for no reason other than that I was getting old and my face was wrinkled. So, in the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of my own child breathing in my ear and turned to meet her crystal eyes, knowing:
I was about to die.
And then I woke up.
Feb 4, 2009
The stars in your eyes light up the Skies
Well I have returned to the comfort of four familiar walls and now place myself before a blank computer screen, beginning to attempt to sum up the past six days in something that gives you at least an inkling of my grand adventure. For now, I'll stick to a summary of events. The emotions, I will save for another journal entry.
It all began with Thursday's trip through the airport: my lonely gaze out the window as we swept over unrecognizable terrain, heading north along the California coast. After an interesting adventure involving a confusing bus line and a homeless man asking me if I needed directions (while he eyed my conspicuous luggage), I arrived at my ugly, 70's-style hotel with its gold decorations and cigarette water.
The bathroom: pink tile~ and the Carpet: green&gold.
After settling into the room, I took my own adventure down to Fort Mason, said a surprise hello to Zak Landrum, and then traipsed about the city in search of USF and a good cup of coffee.
I ate dinner alone in a crowded restaurant and the waiter gave me a series of pitying looks and flirtatious remarks, including, "Hey. You're keeping me company, too."
I thought, This is very, very sad. But strangely liberating. I ate dinner alone, surrounded by lovey-dovey couples, and instead of staring at my plate, I made conversation and got a free drink and left a cute tip. I should do it again.
Thursday night, I sat in a round room on a squishy sofa in the heart of the University of San Francisco and discussed the MFA program with a representative and about five other prospective graduate students. The night concluded with a glass of wine at a wine bar, by the light of a candle and the warmth of conversation with Zak.
Oh, and a round of gross battle wounds erupted across my heels so I was forced to take action, involving the purchase of tacky socks and a lot of bandaids.
Friday, I made my way through the deepest part of Oakland's ghetto and arrived at Mills College: the all-girl's oasis nestled in the middle of a large forest surrounded by barbed wire in order to maintain a safe separation between the students and the gang-infested surroundings.
On the bus ride to the college, a black woman leaned over the bus chair behind me and said loudly, "Whatchou-Doin here, White girl?"
On the other hand, the college was gorgeous. And the interview was fun. I went on a tour of the school and spread myself out on the grass, reading and burning my skin.
Saturday morning, after a breakfast of crepes with Zak, I met up with my cousin (well, actually, I am her mother's cousin... my family's weird) Erin and had delicious tea and GREAT conversation. Like I've said before, I love family. I hadn't seen her since I was a kid, but she's as lovely as I remember her, with sparkling eyes and a heart full of wisdom.
The rest of the weekend is a blur, bookended and caressed by moments of self-realization and a continual outpouring of myself into the nurturing of a beautiful friendship. Zak and I visited the Opera House on Saturday and the San Francisco ballet gave us a performance of a classical piece that was familiar to my aching limbs, an interpretation of Ibsen that moved my heart to tears, and a more modern piece that dragged me to the end of my seat and left me begging for more. I also saw Zak's play Saturday night--the Magic put on a performance that displayed raw, beautiful human relationships--at both their best and at their worst--driven by the conflict surrounding a cancerous diagnosis, one woman's desire for survival, and the ultimate acceptance of Surrender. I am so proud to know that Zak was involved in its development.
As far as the Super Bowl goes, I still have no idea. But I did win one round of Mexican Train.
After wandering through a few bookstores, after a few more long conversations, after a dinner adventure at Cora's and after a rather normal viewing of the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I bade my farewell to the city and all its beautiful occupants, and returned to the airport, where I got felt-up by a security guard, got my bag opened and inspected, and wondered, "Do I really look this threatening?"
When I spotted a little girl being returned a violated-looking teddy bear, I felt a little better. But not much. I mean, seriously. Do I look like I have a gun hidden in my cleavage? Or a bomb under my belt? I don't think so. America.
Needless to say, my graduate interviews are complete. I came home to a telephone call offering a raise for my pending job (which I start next Tuesday, by the way). I will have about four more students, twenty more dollars a day, and not much more work. So now, not only am I responsible for the 8th-10th grade English and History, but I'm also proctoring the English independent study course for the 11th and 12th graders.
Life's ridiculous. But grand.
I've missed you all. Thanks for putting up with the overflow of information. Now: to clean my room and pack for my next move.
I'm reminded again of how temporary every resting place has come to be for me: I visit a city, I sleep in two beds and a couch, I come back here and spend a few more nights beneath my parents' roof, then I make my way back to the snow and to a basement without the warmth of another human to press their comforting hug around my shoulders at the end of a taxing day, or to join me in prayer at the beginning of another. I long even more for permanence. But I am excited for my next grand adventure.
It all began with Thursday's trip through the airport: my lonely gaze out the window as we swept over unrecognizable terrain, heading north along the California coast. After an interesting adventure involving a confusing bus line and a homeless man asking me if I needed directions (while he eyed my conspicuous luggage), I arrived at my ugly, 70's-style hotel with its gold decorations and cigarette water.
The bathroom: pink tile~ and the Carpet: green&gold.
After settling into the room, I took my own adventure down to Fort Mason, said a surprise hello to Zak Landrum, and then traipsed about the city in search of USF and a good cup of coffee.
I ate dinner alone in a crowded restaurant and the waiter gave me a series of pitying looks and flirtatious remarks, including, "Hey. You're keeping me company, too."
I thought, This is very, very sad. But strangely liberating. I ate dinner alone, surrounded by lovey-dovey couples, and instead of staring at my plate, I made conversation and got a free drink and left a cute tip. I should do it again.
Thursday night, I sat in a round room on a squishy sofa in the heart of the University of San Francisco and discussed the MFA program with a representative and about five other prospective graduate students. The night concluded with a glass of wine at a wine bar, by the light of a candle and the warmth of conversation with Zak.
Oh, and a round of gross battle wounds erupted across my heels so I was forced to take action, involving the purchase of tacky socks and a lot of bandaids.
On the bus ride to the college, a black woman leaned over the bus chair behind me and said loudly, "Whatchou-Doin here, White girl?"
On the other hand, the college was gorgeous. And the interview was fun. I went on a tour of the school and spread myself out on the grass, reading and burning my skin.
Saturday morning, after a breakfast of crepes with Zak, I met up with my cousin (well, actually, I am her mother's cousin... my family's weird) Erin and had delicious tea and GREAT conversation. Like I've said before, I love family. I hadn't seen her since I was a kid, but she's as lovely as I remember her, with sparkling eyes and a heart full of wisdom.
The rest of the weekend is a blur, bookended and caressed by moments of self-realization and a continual outpouring of myself into the nurturing of a beautiful friendship. Zak and I visited the Opera House on Saturday and the San Francisco ballet gave us a performance of a classical piece that was familiar to my aching limbs, an interpretation of Ibsen that moved my heart to tears, and a more modern piece that dragged me to the end of my seat and left me begging for more. I also saw Zak's play Saturday night--the Magic put on a performance that displayed raw, beautiful human relationships--at both their best and at their worst--driven by the conflict surrounding a cancerous diagnosis, one woman's desire for survival, and the ultimate acceptance of Surrender. I am so proud to know that Zak was involved in its development.
Sunday we basked all day in the light of the sun and in the warmth of a deepening friendship, then took an adventure to Cory's, where we witnessed (and, unfortunately, sampled) a bacon concoction just begging for a heart attack, played a few rounds of Mexican Train, and tried to remember who played in the Superbowl and half-heartedly wondered who won.
(Zak's domino creation before he let me destroy it)
(Zak's domino creation before he let me destroy it)
As far as the Super Bowl goes, I still have no idea. But I did win one round of Mexican Train.
After wandering through a few bookstores, after a few more long conversations, after a dinner adventure at Cora's and after a rather normal viewing of the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I bade my farewell to the city and all its beautiful occupants, and returned to the airport, where I got felt-up by a security guard, got my bag opened and inspected, and wondered, "Do I really look this threatening?"
When I spotted a little girl being returned a violated-looking teddy bear, I felt a little better. But not much. I mean, seriously. Do I look like I have a gun hidden in my cleavage? Or a bomb under my belt? I don't think so. America.
Needless to say, my graduate interviews are complete. I came home to a telephone call offering a raise for my pending job (which I start next Tuesday, by the way). I will have about four more students, twenty more dollars a day, and not much more work. So now, not only am I responsible for the 8th-10th grade English and History, but I'm also proctoring the English independent study course for the 11th and 12th graders.
Life's ridiculous. But grand.
I've missed you all. Thanks for putting up with the overflow of information. Now: to clean my room and pack for my next move.
I'm reminded again of how temporary every resting place has come to be for me: I visit a city, I sleep in two beds and a couch, I come back here and spend a few more nights beneath my parents' roof, then I make my way back to the snow and to a basement without the warmth of another human to press their comforting hug around my shoulders at the end of a taxing day, or to join me in prayer at the beginning of another. I long even more for permanence. But I am excited for my next grand adventure.
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