A Study in Haiku

Unrequited love
As sure as the waxing moon
Solace in chocolate

Swift

She blinked
and a thousand words sifted through her eyelashes
The windows to her soul
were actually barred
Letting only the occasional sheet of feeling
slip between the rods in a shielded palm

Her lips remained locked
the current of emotion would go no further
than the dam of sticks made of her misgiving
Hers was a quiet love
the gentle swish of the washing machine
His a surge
devouring and uplifting

A cotton string was all
that tied her to another
Finding comfort in warm and tousled bedding
But inside
a chimney swift
tapped on the glass
of the window to her soul

9/11/11

It’s hard to believe it has been a decade since the September 11th tragedy. The whole thing has always been a little bit unreal for me, even watching videos and hearing first-hand accounts. Since the events on 9/11/01 many many things have happened, but everyone still remembers. It’s interesting to read and hear about where everyone was during the 9/11 attacks ten years ago: how they heard about it, where they were, who they lost. I remember exactly where I was. I was at home, getting ready to go to another typical day of middle school. I walked into the hallway with my backpack on, all set to walk out the door and to the bus stop down the street. I stopped in the doorway of the living room, where the television was on and my family was sitting and watching videos of the Twin Towers burning. I joined them, barely comprehending the magnitude of the tragedy, kneeling on the carpet with my backpack on.

The next few days were similarly surreal. At school we always watched a college-run news show called Channel One, and one day they did a story about Fremont and the large Afghan population there. It crossed my mind the story was about hate crimes directed at Middle Eastern-born Americans, but all I really thought was, “Hey! That’s where I grew up!” They filmed an interview by the fruit stand right outside our old apartment complex.

It took me years to fully understand the depth of the events that occurred on September 11th, 2001, and they are still just beyond my grasp. It wasn’t until I stood staring down into the rubble of Ground Zero and listening to a woman tell a story about her son, known only as “the man with the red bandanna,” a volunteer fireman who saved lives before losing his own, that I felt the chasm of sorrow associated with that day. It wasn’t until I stood looking at the countless memorials on display in the St. Paul chapel that I truly understood how many people lost their lives, how many people were deeply and personally affected by the catastrophe. Living in relative safety on the other side of the country, I never knew what it meant to have the World Trade Center fall.

Sometimes I think in terms of before and after. I see a movie set in New York and there are the Twin Towers, blazing in the sunlight, and I think, “This was before 9/11.” I read a book about Middle Easterners getting held up at the airport and I think, “This is because of 9/11.” National security before and after. The wars in the Middle East before and after. Friendships before and after. Families before and after. I didn’t personally know anyone who lost her life or even who lost someone dear to them, and my life didn’t really change before to after. But every year I hold a silent personal vigil: in the dedicated moment of silence at the Embassy, in a white flower with whispered well-wishings dropped into the river, in communion with the full moon.

As magnificent as the scope of tragedy that day held and in the years of aftermath, I can only believe in the goodness and resistance of the human soul. I am amazed at the tributes of art, music, novels, architecture, and film dedicated to those who lost their lives. People will find hope and strength and rise above wretchedness. They will stand together, bound by links that withstand time and tribulation. As my mother taught me, all people are inherently good, and I will believe till the day I die that when the day ends, people will do the right thing. People will come together and help each other. People will lift each other’s heads and hands and help each other live. People will find quiet strength in the community of the human spirit. People don’t wish harm on others. Even in the wake of tragedy, even in the crisis of financial ruin, even on the brink of destruction, people just want to live. Even in the supposed triumph of the killing of Osama Bin Laden, it’s still just another death. All we want is a quiet place to be still and listen and learn and love. We must and will rise above death and sorrow to create a stronger, more beautiful world. A world that has the resilience and trust that has been shown by countless individuals in the past ten years.

In the clear morning air
Smoke and dust and human souls
Rose above the shining Towers into the sky
Pillars of strength and internationalism
Brought down by impact
Metal on metal

Years later
Foundations rise
Hands build
Differences unite
Hope where once lay terror
And tears

In the wake of tragedy
A new light
Strength from sorrow
Faith through fear
Courage from calamity
A reviving city
Not a broken one

O brave new world, that has such people in it

In Time

Sorry it's been a while since I wrote last. After coming back from California I almost immediately started a house/dog-sitting job and I have been adjusting to the new schedule. I sleep at the house in Talent, get up, take care of the dog, go to work, come back, take care of the dog, hang around, take care of the dog, and then come back to Ashland for a bit to hang out with Stanley Copernicus before I go back to take care of the dog and go to bed. It's not very much work, but it's a pretty inflexible schedule and I'm still getting used to it. However, it's kind of fun and I've gotten used to showering outside and having dance parties to the music channels on cable. Only two more weeks and I'll be back to living at my own place (I've started to think of Talent as "home" now, which is kind of weird).

I had some strange dreams last night. There are two things I distinctly remember. One is Liz and I singing "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist" to Mom while we were all seated in an auditorium, and some woman telling us to be quiet (she said something specific but I can't remember what it is now). The other part involved a giant gorilla (not unlike King Kong) called The Front Runner, and he was kind of like John the Baptist except instead of preparing us for the coming of Jesus he was a representative of the party of vampires that was soon to take over the Earth. Go figure.

I've a mixed mind when I think about the coming school year. On the one hand I'm involved in a lot of projects that will prove both interesting and challenging. On the other hand I'm involved in a lot of projects that will prove both interesting and challenging. I'm afraid I won't be able to put my full attention to everything and that my work will suffer. I'm not a complete perfectionist but I like to do my best wherever I can. We'll see how it goes. I'm wondering if Scene Design is offered in the Winter then I can postpone that for a semester and only take three classes. That will definitely lighten the work load. And after Fall I only need a few more classes to graduate. Yippee! I'm still waiting to hear back from OSF about the dramaturgy internship. Cross your fingers!

I wish I could write more, but I'm off to read "Jurassic Park" to my friend Jenna!

Shalom!

Blackberry Picking

There is something magical about the first blackberry picking expedition of the season. You step out of your front door into the rush of traffic and the flicker of lights and fifteen minutes later you are walking quietly along an abandoned railroad, feeling the caress of the late sun on your cheek. The season is early and only a few berries have begun to swell and gleam in the golden light. It is like a treasure hunt, your eyes darting back and forth to find the rare burst of blue-black amidst the sea of green and pink. You relish the simple sounds of the evening. The slither of water through the weeds and bamboo. The crackle of conversation between the crickets and the birds. The whisper and clatter of the trees as the wind turns their leaves into gentle castanets. Even the cars on the distant highway have a rhythm and melody of their own. You walk along the railroad track, keeping a keen eye on the bushes to the left. There are no ripe berries, and the ground is too steep. You turn around, focusing on the other side of the track. A berry here, a berry there, dropped into the plastic bag with a satisfying plop. And then, there it is. The first clump of ripe berries, clinging with plump self-satisfaction to the prickly branches. You step carefully but eagerly and thrust your hands into the bushes, heedless of waiting thorns or spiders, to pluck the fat berries from their perches. These are moments of joy: the rush of fulfillment when you have to tug a little too hard for the stubborn berry to come free, or the burst of childlike satisfaction when a too-ripe globe crumbles at the slightest touch and you have to greedily lick the burgundy juice from your fingers. And soon the bottom of your bag is covered as you break free every last ripe blackberry from the flowering plants, avoiding the temptation to eat as many as you pick. You step back, satisfied, knowing that in a few short weeks those berries left behind will swell and darken and be ready for your next expedition.

And then you walk home, crunching through the gravel and gripping your plastic bag, admiring the sinking sun and darkening sky as you slowly reenter civilization. The berries are washed in cool water, dried and re-bagged, and placed carefully, reverently, into the freezer. You shut the freezer door with a quiet pride, knowing that in no time at all you will be sharing your rich bounty with dear family, savoring the taste and smell of a town and state you have grown to love. As you eat every last bite and lick your spoon clean, you are reminded of the melodious evenings of blackberry picking that has brought this delight. And then once again, in a year or so, you will embark on the first blackberry picking expedition of the season, eager to share the lovely memories of an evening in the late sunlight.

Why I Don't Like to Exercise

This is me when I'm exercising.


I don't like going to the gym, because at the gym I get all sweaty and self-conscious and feel judged that I can't even handle 40lb on any of the weight machines. So instead I choose to just walk around outside while wearing sneakers and running shorts. Sometimes I walk briskly. For much of the time I think about running but realize that while it is pretty outside, it's hard to appreciate the scenery when you're dying inside. But sometimes I do choose to jog for a bit, which always ends up being an unfortunate choice.

I think, "I'm going to start jogging when I reach that sign and keep jogging until I reach that other sign." I reach the sign, take a deep breath, and start jogging. After about 10 seconds, I'm like, "Yay! This is great! I could jog forever!!!" After about 20 seconds, my knees start going "Arrrgh! No! What? Why? Pressure!" And then my heart is like, "Dude, I was already going at a pretty good rate there, and now you want me to accelerate? Do you want to collapse on the side of the road?" And my lungs are just all, "....hhhrrreeegh.....hhhhrrrooooouuuuuu..." Plus, my legs are itchy. But I keep jogging until I reach the other sign because that's the goal I set for myself, and when I do I try and recuperate and convince my organs it was all for the best. I do this three to four times on my walk, even though it takes me a good five minutes to catch my breath. And while I'm gulping in air like a dying fish (because you can never get enough oxygen through your nostrils), bugs fly into my mouth.

And that's why I don't like to exercise.

P.S. This blog was inspired by the humour of Allie from Hyperbole and a Half and I wish we were friends so she could illustrate my story (especially my lungs).

Sunset swim in the lake.

Enough said.