Yertle the Turtle Days

Where one hiccup cascades until all comes falling down.
Today, a Bible verse:
But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him** who loved us. 

This verse is a triumph, which I felt was needed today. Everything seemed to go wrong and I suspect tomorrow will feel the aftershock.
sometimes I wonder how much Christ is like my father or my mother, walking behind me and sweeping up and forgiving me my mistakes; shaking his/her** head at my foolishness; praying I choose wisely at each juncture, but not forcing me in a direction; celebrating with me in my accomplishments and holding me in defeats.  It is a testament to the quality of my parenting that I can even make such a comparison.
Yet, how awful a child I can sometimes be. I argue and whine and fight and disagree, just because I can't see clearly, and how could I possibly be wrong? And there are days when I forget things for work (like how I forgot to bring home my iPod and samsung media player for programming), and I panic and run around in frantic terror until God shows me another way. Or days when I inadvertently delete a large portion of the database for work, and am pretty sure I'll be annihilated on the spot,  or where my fever breaks a million and I can't sleep for weeks.
As awful as I am in the bad times, I suspect I'm probably worse in the easy times.
There are tough days, but they never last forever.
There are bright days; these, too, will pass.




**I'm a bit of a wimpy feminist. That is to say, I'm a feminist, but I haven't done much about it because I'm spineless. Punching someone out over my beliefs is on my bucket list, but it's at the end, in case I get punched out afterwards and the rest of my dreams are prematurely terminated. However, I hate gender pronouns when it comes to God. I wish I could invent a new one, but it seems disrespectful inventing gender pronouns for divinity (especially lousy ones). Sometimes I switch off between his and her to keep people on their toes. Sometimes, I use both at the same time. When I'm quoting, I just leave it, even if it makes me grumpy.


0.2v
painted shell with legs, you've no hope
to dislodge the bird riding your back.
ferry him across muddy waters,
stomp up the beach while he preens.
ah, friend yertle, the turtle king
if king ye be, and I were thee
I'd bear the weight of eternity
and all the world, not just one bird,
and harbor this, my secret identity -
or maybe whine indefinitely

Daylight Savings

a fake wind blows in a steady, oscillatory rhythm, and my eyes are punished. I'm crying unemotional tears, from sleeplessness, from slight allergies induced by the upcoming season, and only one eye possesses such soulful resolve. It's early, but my body feels late, despite the time change in the other direction. Circadian rhythm out of whack, my mental state is revolving on a hypnotic hampster-wheel, and with every revolution my eyes are drooping, my faculties are fraying towards sleep - what time is it? not even late? one of those nights, huh?
 I received my first drawing battle-wound today. I got a little enthusiastic about erasing (I probably do more erasing than drawing - that's probably telling about my current calibre of artistry), and paper-cut a good chunk of the unnamed finger away. It's okay... I didn't need that one. Other than that, I mostly rested from the long drive, the wedding-weekend, the several visits to radioshack trying to get everything collected for work.
I started reading the Brother's K; I finished Simic's Walking the Black Cat; I regretted leaving my guitar in Oregon; I browsed the internet absently for too long (twitter is the new bane of my existence); and I ate more chips and salsa than dinner. That's my day. And family.

Night swoops in on hawk talons
and distantly a creek trickles
through the fairy woods,
or frogs croak with the day,
or wind scuffles by
like a jazz-drag-shuffle
tipping hat at the empty trees as though they,
like ballroom ladies standing 'round,
might agree to dance -
or maybe a solemn silence
drizzles down with the rain
as the plumage of clouds illuminated
in street lamps collects in soulful puddles
on the ground -
I don't know, did you stop
and look?

Heart-String Bard

I'm a heart-string bard with a guilty bow
fiddling all night in concerto solo
beggar me with stories and I'll break into song -
tonight, regret memories - please, sing along
rainy percussion beating its drums
the man by the bar, tromb-moans on and on
and I'm just a blind-bat muse, facing the music
and when the dawn comes, I'll leave this world to it
chime in with the  flute 'til we lose track of time,
love trills and my lute, this night is yours, and mine



I went to a very lovely wedding today. I only knew the groom, and I hadn't even seen him for almost nine years. When I first received the invitation, I wondered if the groom was hoping for a high-school showing, and I was interested to see if anyone from that era of my life might show up. None did (save one: a groomsman).
The theme was fireflies, and several lines of bare-bulbs were strung over the aisle, and at the front, a crystalline "chandelier" blinked with lights like lightning bugs behind glass. Curtains hung on either side over which dim blue lights shone, and above the strung lightbulbs were the venue's original lights which looked like upside-down bells with metallic rose-thorns circling around the outside. The venue was held in a building constructed of distressed wood to grant a barn-countryside appeal, despite its location in south-downtown seattle.
At the venue, I realized how much I wish I wasn't terrible with colors. I'm a concrete sequential thinker with a miserable lack of observational ability. If all of my friends walked into the room, one-by-one, and said hello to me and asked me about me day etc, and then left. And someone else subsequently came in and asked me what each one was wearing, I suspect I'd have a less than 1/20 success rate. I don't think in colors, I don't describe very well in color. When describing a scene, I'm more apt to define it in terms of movement.
Seeing motion comes naturally to anyone with athletic background: a ball is flying at my head, so I should duck; someone is passing me the soccer ball, so trap it, and so on. But what hue of green was the grass, what flavor blue the sky, and that yellow-bellied goldfinch - your beautiful color haunts my dreams. I just want to notice you; teach me to notice you.

sonnet fails and other unfinished ramblings

Every year, I struggle with what to give up for Lent. Again, I don't know. Instead of giving up nothing, I generally make a mess of things and give up an assortment of tiny pieces of life. One thing I found I enjoy doing is giving up a specific time of the day. Like saying: 10-10:30 in particular is not mine anymore. It's something like devotions except more like an additional meditation. It doesn't seem like quite a "fast", but I'm bad at this Lenten thing anyway.
The problem I've often faced is that I don't really find myself craving anything. The things I do, I do for one of two reasons generally: personal growth, or social growth. I don't watch television by myself, because I don't consider television to be a point of personal growth. And giving it up socially doesn't make sense, since that isn't a positive sacrifice (it affects my friends more than me).
I don't like chocolate, or alcohol, or coffee a whole lot. I don't drink enough tea to consider eliminating it from my life. Food isn't really an issue in general with me, I think. I could give up certain foods, but unless I'm eating socially, I don't generally have many cravings (except juice and chips and salsa - maybe I should give up those someday... but I'd probably starve)
So what else is there?
I could give up people (just kidding!)
Or reading (terrible, terrible idea)
Or writing (nope)
Or gaming (I just do it socially - so that would only eliminate how I get to interact with a few people. Not worth it)
Or work? aha!
Nope nope nope.
I wish I could give up computer-time after work. That doesn't really work, unfortunately. I could give up facebook, but I'm spending less time on facebook anyway. It's still an option.
My roommate A once gave up his beard. I could do that. Nah.



I fear, more than anything, those days where my heart is a giant hole, a whirlpool at the center of me dragging everything in, and its obverse: an eruption, an explosion of everything falling out without aim, direction. I fear these not, except as uncontrollable spews of devastating days. Where you find yourself lying and staring at the ceiling, wondering how long it might be until anyone noticed you could fly; you collect the tears of angels and brew a bitter tea, and sing the most beautiful outpouring the world has ever seen, but if you are a tree in a forest, great and empty, what joy does it bring?
I think two nights ago was thus, the staring endless at the ceiling.


kneeling, my knees battered, gnawed to the bone -
like the doe that's panting, grant me water -----zzzzz
to fill the cup of dawn, dry and alone.
intercede, holy ghost, and heav'nly father
bring honey and mead, lead on beside streams;
though we e'er falter, help me rise again
grant me the grace of being, of sharing dreams
until nothing of me but love remain.
imploring of the stars, merciful Lord
one wish, upon all the singing sea sands
oh how long, how long will we be ignored?
I'm whispering; praying such things thus ends:
I begged for great things, and of it naught got.
I asked of a little, and gained a good lot

I think there is a reason I don't try to freestyle slant-rhyme sonnets. I probably shouldn't try sonnets in the first place, let alone quickly. This is a testament to my sonnet shame. 

Champaign

everywhere
bronzed and golden wheat, and flatlands
covered in cornstalk greens lay
beside endless meadows beneath
the charioteer sun,
which stretches higher without mountains
nipping at its wheels -
I know, les miserables, why
they call these the plains;
without opening my eyes, I see
every bird, butterfly, soul, and shadow,
forever east, forever west, without trees.
in this country land,
you are I, and this is thee,
and we never without another breathe.
that is the story of the champaign:
battling plains and empty terrain of unity -
or so the story goes...
in the sanguine sunsets,
sometimes I see only crows
and know too readily why they're circling.
not comprehending hope, you hunt it viciously



It's my older brother's birthday tomorrow: happy birthday, Phil! You, more than almost anyone else, are responsible for my being who I am, so thank you and hopefully many more.
Tomorrow is a busy day, so I shan't stay up too late (and I want to read some more about "Dave at Night"). I hope and pray that everyone is doing well, tonight. Only a couple more days until my drive north towards Seattle (and then a little north and east), and I'm pretty excited. I rather enjoy visits to my parent's house - any getaway into the countryside restores me.

Last time I was home, it looked a little like this on the left portion of my backyard, glancing into the forest. I'm excited to see the buds of spring poking out on the maples (maybe - might be a bit early to hope for too much), and the oaks hopefully have something to show me. If not, at least the evergreens will brighten up my days.

Transitions, Dreams, or Artistry

My dreams last night were beautiful, though I remember them so poorly. There was a beautiful forest of oceanic greens and blues, waving in slender, gentle hues and towering towards the heavens. I remember there were people, great and illustrious people, illuminated from within like angels, shedding auras of gold and drinking from crystal clear waters, singing in songs that moved the waters and the wind in an organic dance.

You always wake up, of course, without knowing where the people are going into the woods and for what, or whom, they sing. But I knew they were singing for me, and it was a procession of sorts, not unlike a wedding or funeral, except with a natural festivity - a religious festival.

Today, my drawing assignment was an apple, with light shadow effects. I can tell you that after less than a week's worth of practice, I'm still quite miserable at drawing, but I can already see a little difference in my outlook on things. Really, this is a practice in visual comprehension more than mechanical aptitude. Normally, I see a door and think: "functional; means of passing from indoors into nature or vice versa; opens in or opens out" and so on. 

Already, I've noticed a fractional improvement towards, "door: crimson red with small, indentations like a subliminal window underneath a low-sloped triangular threshold. Immediately over the door is a thin, rectangular window that allows little light through due to the overhanging threshold; brass, rotund knob, and no lock; door is constructed of a light, polished wood though paint is peeling; swivels outward onto a small block patio of cement surrounded by rhododendrons, with ivy crawlers sneaking up the walls on either side of the door" and so on. But mostly, shapes and shadows, moods and tones. What can I reproduce in simple pen or pencil sketches using my current knowledge of such things?

Even though this will be a long process, I'm excited for where the journey will lead me, and already I'm enjoying my little sketchbook and flipping through the pages, noting the small improvements and mistakes as I've learned tiny new tricks.

Virgo Rosas

A small hill before the larger climb

beneath the clear-blue sky, punctuated

by a low line of clouds
crowding in purple-white against the horizon

like the shadows of mountains, erupting

in the setting of the sun -

a purple, thorny coronet
around the heavens.

I summit the wide, eagle peak

spreading its craggy, ridged wings,

bald-capped, save a fairy ring of trees - 

it pauses before flight, locked in ice

and an angel in a tee and casual jeans

prays, kneeling, desperate for some way.

daisies braided in her hair, and roses, but

she's crazed and

a little fae from the nightmare of her days

she begs for love, and faith, and light

to guide her on the path that fades.

the sun descends and the owls, too,

ask unanswered questions, who

am I, passes through my mind, 

as the beautiful girl and the flowers

in her hair, become but ghosts in the mists -

who am I, Antheia, to love thee

Antheia please

The flowers, the blooms, I can smell them heady-strong, and I'm drunk with their love. The starlings nesting in roof slats warble obnoxiously; the trees shrug the world of ice from their shoulders with deep, ancient groans; the stars glitter and parade into new locations while the sky subtly lightens her hue; but it's the flowers, the blossoms I await in my room.

The prickly roses are sleeping beauties, tulips, voluptuous lips of spring, the wildflowers showering the mountainsides paint a picture so brilliant, I discard my easel and become a boy again, rolling down slopes and beneath the willows and evergreens. Spring, spring is coming, the season of life-giving green, days where the light is greater than night.

Where baby bunnies cluster around in the tall grasses, glancing at the true blue sky between the shivering pines, and the sing-song breeze brushes past and whistles to the tune of life; as deer pause by the shimmering silver of streams and lap at ease; when the squirrels chatter with the chirping chickadees, and cottonwood seeds float along the streets and hillsides. Antheia, please, clothe the mountains extravagantly; Rhea, lady of the wilds, wrap the stones, forests, earth, and living with verdancy, and let us see something worthy of a resurrecting.

Sometimes, the loneliest of places are within the wildest of crowds full of unfamiliar faces. You catch fleeting glimpses of passing emotions like sparks from a fire, but never linger long enough with another soul for warmth. It's like a dream, in a city street full of ghosts (are you walking through or with the stream? it's impossible to tell. Is anyone moving?), and the voices and noises around could be the hiss of the wind as easily as the words from the lips of these empty, translucent beings. (am I the same ghostly figure as these? what do I look like in their eyes?) Sometimes, the most fulfilling talks are held from hundreds of miles away, and you only wish they would drag you through these crowds, or that you might fight through them together. But it's only a dream, and the sun will rise and shed new light on life if you wait long enough. 

Sometimes, the greatest joys are those where it's just the holy spirit and I, and she doesn't mind that I know not how to pray, she intercedes anyway.