Tl;dr: Micah, mountains

I feel so full of ideas tonight that I'm not even certain where to begin. Full, and empty, like hands holding butterflies, so light you peek to make certain they are cupped within your hands.
I wanted to write about so much: Micah; roommate dialogues; poetry reading (ee cummings); a beautiful truth I read today in a fiction novel; relationships; frustrating goings on; a fancy poem I wrote; mountains; the fact that I'm reading fifteen (15) books right now, and I may be going insane.. etc.

But instead of writing, I watched a lousy movie (read: without plot) nearly twice, and ended up having a good conversation on the phone while walking outside in the cold (I forgot to put on gloves or a hat, and my hands were quite sad, and blue, by the end of the conversation. It was a good convo). So, worthwhile, but for the second night in a row, I'm getting nothing done. Maybe that is what weekends are about? The problem is, this week is extraordinarily busy, and I have to finish 6 books before the university library's winter break so I can get new books and return my current batch, and I get to celebrate birthday's (hooray!), and work. Writing will suffer.

I read Micah today. A certain passage caught my interest, and it isn't even the most-often-quoted section of Micah (Micah 6:8, another of my favorite passages). What I love about Micah is his consistent use of puns and irony to make statements. Right from the beginning, statements like "At Beth-le-aphrah roll yourself in the dust" - at the house of dust, roll yourself in the dust. But it is an actual city name, so it's twice as clever. Or even, "Because a calamity has come down from the Lord, to the gate of Jerusalem" (Jerusalem is city of peace, dwelling of peace etc). He's quite a poetic prophet, and though the passages in this book are not necessarily sequential - they tend to be organized by theme - he's got a poetry in his prophecy that I appreciate, even though I don't speak Hebrew.
And it will come about in the last days that the mountain of the house of the Lord will be established as the chief of mountains. It will be raised above the hills and people will stream to it....
Each of them (nations, peoples) will sit under his vine and under his fig tree, with no one to make them afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.
(Micah 4:1,4)

I think this passage struck me for at least two reasons: 1. it has some similarities to possibly my favorite verse in the bible, Philippians 4:5 (Let your gentle spirit be made known to all men. The Lord is near); and 2. I really appreciate the peaceful imagery it suggests and the strength of God. It brings to mind the God who is a consuming fire (Hebrews 12:29) with the God who gave Jonah a restful plant under which he might find shade. But I've also been contemplating mountains a great deal lately. I like hiking, backpacking, or just walking through nature, but there is something extra magnificent about mountains. Every time I visit my house, if the weather permits, I try and take a day to climb a mountain nearby.
Matthew introduced us, and we are fast friends now, my mountain and I.
As I drove home for thanksgiving, the sky was perfectly blue, a blue of an eternal peace, deep and dark as can only been seen when the sun is oblique to the world, and cold. Never have I so clearly seen the mountains: St. Helens, Hood, Jefferson to the south, Rainier, the cascades, the olympics, mount si, and the ridges surrounding issaquah. They were glossy white with their caps of snow, and I could understand why so many ancient cultures think of gods as living on top of the tallest of mountains.
There is something primal, domineering, majestic, intimidating, and demanding of our respect about the tallest of peaks, and even in summiting, we are not conquerors, but merely ants atop the pinnacle of nature, having picked our way up the glaciers, we have not ascended to the domain of gods, but, somehow, I feel closer to God every time I am in the mountains.
I really appreciate the motif in Micah regarding mountains, as I find mountains to be a place of peace and importance in my life.

The second thing I was thinking about today was relationships. I'm quite old-fashioned when it comes to many things. Well, I don't know if that is exactly true, because I'm a feminist, among other things, and that certainly isn't a traditional belief. But I generally prefer to follow the rules, and when I was a child I couldn't even understand how people could break them. When my mother said "no punching" I actually believed for quite some time that punching wasn't just against the rules of the household, but against the rules of nature. I could just as easily punch someone as I could fly. It wasn't until I was punched for the first time that I realized punching wasn't just a fake television event (like in the old batman movies: kapowie!), and could actually happen.
So if a friend of mine tells me they've had sex before marriage, I cringe. I don't believe in sex before marriage - it's very much against my rules. Then they spend an hour trying to explain how they believe that what they are doing is right and biblical even, and my stomach is turning. Now, I haven't experienced this point in a relationship myself, so I'm no authority. I've never been in a relationship nearing sexual anything, nor have I ever been in a relationship period. I've actually never even held a girl's hand outside of prayer, and I don't even have any good-single-female friends. (by next year, I don't think I'll have any good friends who aren't married). I'm not authoritative on the subject, but I have rules, and that people I know can so blithely stride past them with boasting confidence makes me feel quite uncomfortable. I really wish right now I had my own vines to sit under and my own fig tree, and that I could sit on top of the tallest mountain and stare out over a sea of clouds, contemplating such things. I want to think and write and pray and walk and stare into the stones of mountains letting water slip through their fingertips in waterfalls and rivulets, and clamber over stones into the snow-tipped peaks of the world's highest peaks. I want to walk through forests whose branches are bare, and sunlight streams obliquely through a glade, striking the sheathes of ice on each branch and blooming the forest into a fire of golden light that drips and sings like chimes, with the earth cracking beneath my feet and rabbits wrinkling their noses as dawn lights the southeastern sky, and the birds sing their sorrow-songs at not having migrated south until spring.


Well, that was a mess of words that went nowhere. A bunch of raw thoughts spewed out everywhere.



somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
 by E. E. Cummings

-----
The last stanza of this poem is one of my favorites of all ee cummings work.

Exhausted

Mulled cider, pico de gallo, and stir fry, with snow, white as a funereal shroud, veiling the  ground outside, while the whistling wind scoops handfuls of powder, sprinkling it around again. I saw myself from above and outside, tonight, wondering who inhabited that skin, really, and where might they be going. Steps predetermined or arrayed before me - mulled, my thoughts, and swirling as the steam on this cider. It is lovely having friends who love, laugh, and entertain ridiculous nights over vegetables and rice and pressed apples. May there be an endless number of such.

Too tired for writing tonight.
Powells tomorrow,  and much ado.
I'm praying for you, each one. Rest easy this night.


Steam whirls and clouds the rim of this mug
Condensation and cold rebounds from the windows,
within and without, the snowflakes unique
all nestle into the same ground, roof, trees, shroud
the light in eyes is warmer than fire
please -
curl by the hearth near to heart
remembering in each flickering log
the sparks brightening, rise -
each distinct - and disappear
deep into grey
now the cider cools, I drink
the murky brink is clear - out of steam

Nelson Mandela

I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.

For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.

Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.
~ Nelson Mandela

Today, a brave, important man died, and the world is a bit darker for his departure. But oh, how much brighter the world from his living. The man who fought apartheid, racism, and hate, persevering through anger, slavery, hate, and disregard into a triumphant model of love, redemption and forgiveness. He moved an entire country towards forgiveness and acceptance, a united people.
I read a story once called The City and the City. I've never recommended Mieville much to my friends, simply because his style is convoluted and confusing at times, though his writing can be a marvel. In the same geographical space lived two different countries, and they were forbidden any semblance of interaction. Even seeing the other country, its citizens, buildings, or possessions, was against the law. They were required to "unsee" anything from the other country, and recognized certain patterns and colors from the other country that they would subsequently erase from their conscious. Sometimes, you might be sharing the road with someone from the other city, or a sidewalk, or even a building - still you fastidiously forgot their presence, as soon as you could. Perhaps the worst crime in the city was 'breaching' or crossing over into the other city by means of seeing what you should not, or physically entering into zones restricted for the other city.
I'm reminded of this as I read through documents about apartheid and Nelson Mandela's life and South African history.
In the first quote above by Mandela, I'm also reminded of Dune (the book-nerd in me): 
I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain
~Frank Herbert - Dune

Just some thoughts, really. I read some Carl Sandburg today, marveling at the changes in his writing over fifty years. I have a book that contains all of his publicized poetry, essays, and stories, and it has everything in chronological order, so I can flip through the fifty years of writing in a breath, from his very first pieces to the things he wrote as he neared death. It is a strange thing, seeing how drastically my own writing changes year-to-year, being in a very infantile state, and then looking at a famous writer and seeing the improvements and changes he or she saw fit to make over the course of a writing career.


Cleft, together and apart into a knife
thin line separating us like sea and sky
forever apart, forever nigh
and what is the difference between death and life
the chasm crossing from black to white
and how far, really, are any two hearts
when the stars much farther apart still shine
bright and lovely
we, as the dark and light sides of the moon
~~~
each a season in its time
you,
summer eyes, spring smile,
winter hands and autumn tresses
and I
janus eyes, september smile,
vernal hair, and harvest hands
maybe meant to pass
like ships on different paths

Last Night of Chanukah

The last night of Chanukah, full of friends and laughter. We made food, set a spatula on fire, set candles on fire (on purpose), told the Chanukah story and read a children's story, talked and celebrated the festival of lights.  I've discovered two very different sorts of poets of those I've read recently: city poets and nature poets. City poetry contains a rugged, industrial beauty, full of sunlight slipping over glass and across stones, or birds fluttering between buildings. It frequently details a more somber note, of the walking death of empty souls strolling down streets toward lifeless jobs, or the dismal truths of city life in abuse and victims and solitude, despite the population. Like all poetry, it crests and troughs in oceanic waves of illustrious imagery, accomplishing that alchemical impossibility: transforming what seems worth nothing into gold.
Country poetry, nature poetry is what I love. Granted, not all poetry falls into these two easy categories - perhaps most of it doesn't. And there are plenty of other categories out there to find, like ee cumming's bizarre poetry, romantic poetry (nearly every poet ever), religious (Donne) poetry, story poetry (Shakespeare, Milton, Beowulf), mythical poetry (Wasteland, Milton, Keats: Hyperion), nature poetry (Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon, Wendell Berry).
Then there is modern and past poetry, and some of the strangest post-modern poets (Bukowski, Simic) or those who do spoken word. I'm barely knocking the hat off of the world of poetry, and I feel like every new poet I find opens a new world to me.


Everything wore the wedding cloth of frost
this morning, branches click-clacking as teeth
chattering in the breeze, even the bumbling bees know
not to hover about in this weather, no
it's safer inside clothed in the warmth of the hive and fire
blazing beside in the hearth, dreams of honey
peonies sleep, and so should I;
who knew it was only berries desired, and flowers
from the mountainside?
love is so simple, I've decided
clothed in sequenced rings, leafed and divided
as the weeping willow tree
and no less poignant.

Moving as Snails

I'm crawling inch-by-inch towards becoming a well-rounded person in knowledge, reading, writing, thinking. I realize now how much my foolish attitude towards schooling in high school was a serious impediment for learning, nearly truncating several avenues of thought which I'd closed off as a sort of teenage bravado. Now I'm frantically scrambling to patch this fabric of my learning that I left in tatters because I didn't respect the teachers, or the system, or the students in the class as viable competition, or just was an angsty teenager struggling through life.
It isn't just art history, but journalism, short story writing, poetry, chemistry, certain regions of history, music, plant physiology - I'm worlds behind in numerous areas of knowledge that I should have gleaned naturally, but ignored because I was too independent, too much of a self-deemed autodidact. I was good, too, but only persistent in particular areas, and ignorant of so many others. Smart, but naive, clever, but ignorant.

I read thirty pages of The Story of Art, and I realize that even when I finish this book, I still will only understand the margins, the barest patina of dew on the landscape of art history. But each new page is crammed with learning and tidbits that fill my mind with fancy and fantastic new knowledge. Everything just seems to move so slowly.
I read forty pages of fiction, and a bunch of ee cummings poetry. I love ee cummings, but his poetry is crazy, rambunctious, absurd, playful, and esoteric as much as it is fantastic.
It's times like this where I realize that I need extra hours in my day. At least two. I'm considering trying and sleeping less every night just to get more done during the day, though I suspect I'll have more time starting mid next year than I do this year. Who couldn't use just a little more time in the day? I guess I should count my blessings in that I have no commute time.
I just want to learnlearnlearn and read, read, read and write.

Full of prayers this week:
mother - teeth pains
matthew - work angst (quit)
s - work angst (expected full years worth)
jf - death in the family
p - job situation
sicknesses about


(thanks Lisa - I think I still hear this poem in your voice)

For a Five-Year-Old
 A snail is climbing up the window-sill
into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
that it would be unkind to leave it there:
it might crawl to the floor; we must take care
that no one squashes it. You understand,
and carry it outside, with careful hand,
to eat a daffodil.

 I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails:
your gentleness is moulded still by words
from me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds,
from me, who drowned your kittens, who betrayed 
your closest relatives, and who purveyed 
the harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.
                Fleur Adcock


Moving right along, at the speed of snails.

Choices

I was reading Samuel today, and a little bit of Ruth, and I'm a bit intimidated by people with such clear vision and bold movements. Not that Ruth knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Boaz would redeem her (he was old, she young), or that staying with Naomi was the path God intended for her - but she boldly made her choices, and followed in faith Naomi's advice when offered. And Samuel, who served as Israel's judge for many years, and the wondrous signs that accompanied his life.
Maybe intimidated is the wrong word. Bewildered? Impressed? I'm not sure any of these adequately describe this, quite.
There are many choices to make in the upcoming year: where to live, with whom, what would God have me doing - is it this?, choices of love and the trapeze swinging of life.
I'm realizing more and more each day how much I must learn before writing is even plausible. I'm reading such fabulous authors and am ever inspired by their ribbon dance of phrasing, the northern lights of rolling words.
Have you seen the northern lights? If not, you must do so; if you have, do so again. There's a transcendence in the miracle of particles that makes infantile the most extravagant fireworks in light of this natural light show. Even understanding the physics and science behind the ionization of these charged particles streaming across the sky... it defies explanation - it is too magnificent for even the dreams of words.

"What mind," he said, "can conceive aright
The floods of uncreated light,
Which from eternity hath shone
Around the Everlasting's throne,
When such refulgent glories glow
Upon his footstool here below!"
~ David Veddar

Watch with me what glories be
written in rivers and sines
in ephemeral light - what can it say
in such fleeting time?
whipping colors on heavenly line
a ribbon dancer intimating the waves
of a vast intricate ocean
spinning webs of colored truth
when my eyes are closed
my dreams still see through you

Advent Rain

There is no timeplacemoment like the rain. It's a symphony of sound, euphonious percussive bliss as the rain splashes around me, slapping into puddles like a snare, pattering against mailboxes like hat cymbals, gusts of wind brushing chimes like triangles. The bass beats in thunder and each step thrums a marching time, and rain encompasses you until you've transcended earth into a cloud of misty music: you are the river, you are the tides, you are the storm and the waterfall.
Have you ever been in a tent in such? It is my favorite dream. The winds crash and howl through towering pines and douglas firs brushing the teeth of mountaintops, and whistles a haunting nocturne while snap the canvas and flaps of the tent, flicking about this flimsy plastic which defends so bravely against the elements warring outside. And the rain, the perfect rain, singing the siren's song. I've tied a flashlight onto the tent's apex, and it sways, flickering around the inner walls and telling stories in shadows and flashes. Smells of pine, aspen, fir, and the sodden needles that carpet the forest floor rise in redolent clouds, and lightning strobes pictures of the outer-world against the tent, like phantoms of the forest, briefly alive and fallen, faster than the blinking eye of love.
You see the sun in its pinnacle of life in midsummer, staring down upon the world as a blazing brazier of heat and fire, but this, friends, is what clouds live for: those wintry days the colors of elephant skin. This the counterpoint: storms, rising up and falling down in shimmering waves. Hold out your hands, the rain fills them; tilt up your eyes, it cries and washes away your pain; close your eyes, and each puddle's an ocean, a river, a cloud to whisk you to a distant place, high in the mountains or low beneath the ocean, where nothing, except grace, remains.
Here my love grows and dies, lives and cries, in the locked and lonely places of the mind. It was never meant to move this way, a fortress, a moat, an army created every day. These feudal emotions for futile devotions, but, I tell you, the ocean is her guise and the cloudy day her mantle, and this swinging pendulum, dear grandfather, clocks when I see neither.


I can't even explain how good it is to be reading again, and writing hours less each day. I'm not planning, coordinating, defining story lines like intricate graphs of cohesive data. I can simply open my window and listen to the rain; or sit outside beneath the awning and read; or walk about beneath the waterfalls of the clouds. The rain is beautiful tonight, and just walking through it, stomping in puddles and listening to the gutters gurgle - it's enough. I need to remember to shut the window before sleep, or I'll wake with frost between my toes.