Apparently it's that time again

I wish I wanted to post here more. It seems like I always find myself wanting to look back on something that I feel I must have written about, and then find that I didn't.


Things have been okay. I've been dreaming a lot--daydreaming sometimes about this idea I've had for a while about becoming a counselor, and daydreaming a lot more about designing and building and sometimes even living in tiny houses of the variety that can fit on an 8x20' trailer, and be hauled around the country. I have such a love of efficient design, and of the idea of efficient living--living without the unnecessary accumulation of the mounds of stuff that perversely ensnare our affections and weigh down our lives without enriching them at all. More recently this has expanded to include the desire for a small, high mpg car. I'm tired of using up gas to lug around all this car that I'm not even using. I'm using the driver's seat and maybe the passenger's seat too, and yet I'm pulling the weight of both back seats and a trunk halfway full of crap that was left there by the family members who drove the car before it came into my hands.

Anyway, I've been funding the daydreaming by still working part time at that daycare I thought I had quit back in the spring, and doing some odd jobs for various people, mostly extended family members. I am tired of this, and I want to find doorways into something new, but I don't know where they are. And I don't know how to stop being afraid of committing to a plan.


And I love Christmas, and it's my favorite holiday, but I am tired, so tired of getting depressed every Christmas season. Back when I was with David (Oh Lord, his name is still like honey. Will that ever fade?) I thought that my issues at Christmastime were due to strife--some new one each year--within our relationship, but it doesn't seem to have changed. Or maybe it did, and maybe I am just in another doomed relationship and I can somehow feel it and it is hurting. I don't know. Was I sad like this last year? The year before? I can't remember. Lately I feel like I can't remember anything. And sometimes that's okay. Sometimes I feel like I just live in the present, I just am where I am, and maybe that's okay. But sometimes I feel this void where memories should be, and I feel like I am surrounded by nothingness, and it's a frightening thing. Obviously I don't exactly have alzheimer's, but I was listening to this radio special last night, and a man from Ireland was talking about his childhood Christmases, citing memory after memory after memory, and it was lovely--but I don't have that. I have a handful, but for the most part it's all a haze. Everything runs together. Why? Does that happen for everyone? Does everyone's mind feel like a chalkboard in the rain?


I admitted to myself tonight that I've been unhappy. It's been going on a while--weeks? Some months?--but I have not been seeing it. But sobbing on the floor (apparently that is my red flag of choice this past year or so) is difficult to ignore. So. Now what.

The River

Sara and I (and Brian, but he doesn't come into this story) have lived by the river for nearly two months now, but until this evening we hadn't gone. So today after everyone was awake and fed and had sat around watching the cat and wasting time on the internet for a while, Sara and I changed into swimsuits and headed off down the hill. It's a very short walk--maybe half a mile--and well worth it, because the parking down there is horrendous. We walked past lines and rows of waiting and parked cars, right down to the water's edge, and then upstream along the bank until the people thinned, and we found a spot to leave our towels. The water was deliciously warm, and the rapids relatively soft, and we waded and stumbled and half-swam, laughing, halfway across through the current until suddenly deciding to make camp on a half-submerged boulder. We sat in the sun, half-in the water, and talked and people-watched and drank in this gloriously beautiful setting-sun landscape in our backyard, and after an hour or so we collected ourselves and walked back up the hill toward home.

I hung my wet skirt and sarong on the back deck to dry, and was bombarded by a wave of childhood memories and nostalgia for all the countless days I walked to the pool and walked back, or walked to the creek and walked back, and hung my wet things to dry.

I smell like the river. It is the most perfect smell there is.

Look, I never said I was cool.

The other day (alright, a few weeks ago) Ian and I had dinner with my best friend and her boyfriend, and camp came up. Specifically, the fact that this new job I've got will mean that I can't work any sessions, and that I will therefore most likely be spending a lot of weekends up there. And Ian, in an attempt to be all wise and mature and winning (and maybe a little condescending), said something along the lines of, "maybe it's time to accept that the door is closing on that part of your life, and move on."

And that seems like a totally reasonable and obvious thing to say, I guess, but I was floored. I was so floored that I just keep talking about this story. I'm honestly getting a little sick of it, but I keep thinking about it every so often. Because it just doesn't work that way. I was writing about it the other day, in the van, on the back of some papers from work. Here's part of what I said:

"It is difficult to explain and a little embarrassing to admit how shocked I was. In truth I am actually sickened by the thought of 'the door closing' on Alkulana being a part of my life. How could I explain that sometimes a place, a community, an adopted family will get under your skin, and that Alkulana has seeped into my bones? I feel like Wolverine, except that instead of adamantium, my skeleton has been infused with the love of Christ." Because of camp. I love the way I do (and, considering the person I could be, I think I love rather well) because of this community.

Probably nobody cares who hasn't been there, and that's okay with me I suppose. Why should the cool silk of the creek at midnight hold any sway over you? Why should you feel warmed by the early morning sun swimming through the mist and touching down on our daily prayer circle? By the smell of campfire on all your hoodies? By the blissful quiet of rest hour or the welcome relief of a raucous late-night kitchen after staff meeting?

I can't make him, or you, understand. That's how life is. But I hope nothing ever changes the fact that when I am at my worst, when everything is unbearable and I can't find any light, I am sustained by this. It seems ridiculous. (Maybe it is ridiculous.) I know that. But those memories feed me when I am starving. I don't plan to put them away any time soon.

Perspectives

Sometimes I live my life in a swirl of smiles and affection--the sometimes-dreary trudge of days is highlighted for a time with shining memories or glimpses of my cousin's beautiful red hair, my best friend's smile, my best guy friend's hugs, gorgeous slanting rays of sunlight and the earth warm beneath my feet--and those are the things that matter. Those are the things I hold onto.

But other times, other days, other moments, it doesn't matter how much time I've spent with the people I love. It doesn't matter how much they love me. It doesn't matter how great I felt or didn't feel earlier in the day. The beauty of the sunset slides right off my temporal lobe and disappears into the cold river, and all I feel is bleak and alone.

To a fading muse.

It's been years, but still
I sometimes taste those memories
unexpectedly: one moment I'm walking
a dog at midnight; the next we're flying
through Virginia wine country in the autumn sunlight,
all windows open and the feel of fresh
ripe apples in the air,
and all our darkness
just a distant smudge
on the far horizon.

Ok Go (reflections on college idiocy)

The night that I met Ok Go and didn't even realize how GDMFing awesome they were will forever live on in my memory in awesomeness and infamy. I had only heard one song, and only because Zach had put it on a mix cd for me, and I harassed him until he answered my "who the hell are these guys? So awesome!" questions. It was this one:



And then they came to play at our school. For free. And after some deliberation, and some assurance from my music source that they were good, I went. And they were awesome, I'm sure, but concerts are always better when you know more than one song. And at the end, when we cheered them back onstage for an encore, they said, "You know, bands always sound much better on cd than they do live, so we're just going to play a song from our new cd for you." And we thought,

Surely, they must be joking. Then a cd was placed into a boom box on the stage.


A joke, right?


They all lined up, pushed play, and stood still. We're almost on the verge of booing at this point. But then!

The A Million Ways dance. No one had seen this before. The video hadn't been released yet, as far as I know. And it was awesome.





And they came and hung out for a while afterward, and they were great. And so patient with an obnoxious freshman (sophomore?) like me who obviously knew nothing about them, didn't even know that they had a new member, bought the old cd and asked the new guy to sign it. Several of us took a picture with Damien Kulash with Megs' camera. I never even saw the picture. I could die. I spoke to Tim Norwind and had no idea that he was hilarious. I spoke to Dan Konopka and didn't know he was great. I made Andy Ross sign his name on Andy Duncan's album page. I'm an idiot. I guess these things happen, but it's a little painful to think about.


But anyway, I love them now, and that's the best I can do. Not in an "I know everything about every one of them and I dream about them at night" sort of way (actually, I had to get most of their names from Wikipedia just now), but in an "I think you guys are great. Your videos are great. Your music is great. I love the way you left your label so you could do what you wanted. If you ever decide to stop making music I am going to be quite sad" sort of way. And do you know what else I love about them? I love that they don't play into the "we're famous and sexy" BS that goes on in the world of music. I love that you get to see all of their faces in their videos. It's not "Damien and band"--it's Ok Go. And they're not demigods--they're guys from Chicago who make great songs and great videos.

For reference, the first video above, "Get Over It," is great in a pop rock, "our lead singer is hot" kind of way, and it does have a little bit of OkGo flair in the insertion of things like a random bale of hay and a few seconds of ping pong, but it's bland. I still like it, but it's really bland. By contrast, here is one of their more recent music videos:



Thoughts? They're so odd and so awesome, and I'm more in love with the music from "The Blue Color Of The Sky" all the time. It's in the mail right now, on its way into my very own loving hands and cd player. (And it's all because of you and your Best Buy Rewards Certificate, Sara. What would I do without you? I don't deserve your friendship, I'm pretty sure...)

Camp.

I'm surprisingly tired tonight, and I'm babysitting so I can't sleep and can't do much of anything else either, and it seems like I've been jumping from one topic to another in my mind. Being bored. Being upset about Marcus. Being upset with Marcus. Missing David. Missing R-MA. And now, missing Camp. So much. I miss the greenness and the water. The tall trees standing so close together, and the dusty gravel on cabin row, and the cool stream running straight through the middle of Camp, always ready and waiting to cool feet, to rinse caving clothes, to facilitate a swimming lesson, to host an Alkulana Challenge, to act as a meditation garden for a midnight swim. And the sound of the creek is omnipresent, and the green of the trees is everywhere. At lunch in the dining hall, you can look up at the ceiling and see the sunlight reflected off of the creek below. And the water is so clear that you can stand on the bridge and look down and watch the fish swimming over the rocks, and the crayfish moving cautiously through the pebbles. I miss the blackberries that grow in the patches of sunlight that fall onto the path back toward little lodge, and I miss the rope swings and the bullfrogs calling and the canoe trips more than I can say. I love sleeping every night with nothing more than a screen between me and the night air, with the moon shining down onto my face, and the water music floating up the hillside, and the night breeze blowing through the trees above the roof, and the sweet sounds of children sleeping a few feet away. I miss the slamming of screen doors, and I miss pulling on muddy jeans and tennis shoes for caving, and I miss rushing to get the kids ready for their next adventure. I miss the bats in the night sky, and the sun setting over Jenny's little garden. I miss the rocking chair on Beth's porch, and I miss being able to walk down to the water with a bathing suit and a floatable bar of Ivory soap and just take a bath, if the showers were full.  I miss morning and evening staff meetings--I miss working with such wonderful people, and planning such great things for the kids. I miss paddling a canoe and singing Disney songs with Ryan at Lake Moomaw, and I miss swimming in the lake. I miss swimming in any lake--now Ouachita.

This past summer was so hot that the water in that lake felt like a bath, so we'd take deep breaths and drop down as deep as we could stand, just savoring the only taste of coolness we'd be able to find for hours. I miss the nights we stayed up for hours and hours playing Texas Hold'em, whether in the cabin or at a concrete picnic table by the water. I miss lying in my hammock in the hot summer shade. I miss the night I spent on the air mattress next to Chloe, and us next to Lenny and Larry and Ryan and Zyrone and Zorrell and Kim and Meghan, all sleeping quietly but me. Once I gave up on the idea of sleep it was beautiful to just lie back and listen to the thunder from across the lake, and watch the lightning flash. It was the only dawn I've ever watched all the way through. I've said before that dawns are not like sunsets, and it's true. We all know sunsets, I hope, but dawn seems so much slower. The moon sets, and midnight's bright stars begin to go out, one by one. Soon the darkness seems less complete. The tree shapes blur, then sharpen against the sky, and color slowly seeps back into the world. Then you blink, and realize that the sky is bluer, and that the East is lightening slowly. Once this happens, regardless of whether the sun has actually risen above the horizon, it's soon bright enough to be called day. On that morning, Pup came out and looked over his field of sleeping grandchildren with pride and satisfaction, and took a picture with a disposable camera. I heard the click and crank of the plastic. I love that man.
And after I got up, I walked down to the water for a goodbye swim, and a high, complete rainbow arced over the lake, delicate and perfect.

I miss the green and blue and brightness of it all. I miss the warmth and the wetness. I am ready for summertime.

A few things.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
but sad mortality o'ersways their power
how with this rage shall beauty hold a plea
whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
against the wreckful siege of batt'ring days
when rocks impregnable are not so stout
nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

O fearful meditation! Where, alack
shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none, unless this miracle have might,
that in black ink, my love may still shine bright.


This is, I think, the first time that I have ever noticed that in line six, the word is "wreckful"--not "wrackful." Wow. Anyway, I memorized this in 11th grade. I love it even more now. I did pieces of the Crispin's Day speech, too, but I'm not sure how much I can remember. There are always a few places in any memorized piece that tend to slip through the cracks. In the above, sonnet number God-knows-what, it's line nine.

What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland?
[No, my fair cousin, if we are marked to die, we are enow
to do our country loss; and if to live,
the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
it yearns me not if men my garments wear;
such outward things dwell not on my desires:
but if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor
as one man more, methinks, would share from me.]

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host
that he that hath no stomach for this fight,
let him depart, his passport shall be made
and crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
that fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
will stand a-tip-toe when the day is named,
and rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
shall yearly at the vigil feast his neighbors,
and say, "To-morrow is St Crispian."
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars
and say, "These wounds I had on Crispin's Day."
Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot,
but he'll remember with advantages
what feats he did that day. Then shall our names
familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd;
This story shall the good man teach his son,
and Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
from this day to the ending of the world,
but we, in it, shall be remember'd.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers
for he today that sheds his blood with me
shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile:
this day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now abed
shall think themselves accursed they were not here
and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
that fought with us upon St. Crispin's day.




Lastly, here is a quote, and then a thought.

Quote:
All things are shadows of the shining True:
Sun, sea, and air...
Every thing holds a slender guiding clue
Back to the mighty oneness.

-George Macdonald.

I have no idea whether this is a full quote or some kind of butchered excerpt, but I like it. It is posted on one of the blogs of David's sister-in-law. I would link you, but I forgot to get the url before closing the window.

Another of her blogs mentioned feeling wonder at the snow, and at most things, during the lifting of an illness. I left a note ("The best, most wonderful, most glorious thing about deep illness is the euphoric moment when it lifts"), and then realized how true it was. That many of the most poignant moments of my life have occurred right at the moment when illness (I use the term loosely here; illness ~ misery) suddenly lifted. The moment Chloe gave me a cup of unsweetened black tea, and my migraine dissipated into nothing. I had always disliked that mug before, but it's been one of my favorites ever since. The moment I awoke from my first (and only, thankyouverymuch) post-alchohol-poisoning sleep. The moment I awoke from my first hours of real sleep in weeks. I felt like a desert, and like a rainstorm had just begun in me. There was air.

Why I love my nose; why I love the world.

Something in the air outside smells like Turkey in 2008. Maybe, to be a little more specific, it smells like Adana. I can't really be sure of that, though. My nose just grabs it, and rejoices, and cries "Turkey!" to the heavens. It smells like Mary Helen's apartment, where I stayed for my first week there, or maybe like a late-morning walk up to Kadifekale in Izmir, to wander the ruined walls and watch all the city but the birds and the wind become still at the afternoon call to prayer. It could be the biting night wind on the way to the covered market in Istanbul. I don't know. But it's Turkey.

Bendy pencils, shankless tothbrushes, and rain.

That pretty much sums up my day, I guess. I felt/am feeling pretty good, but it's a strange "pretty good"--I don't know. A not that great pretty good? I feel great but am thinking negatively or something. But this morning my mom made some Turkish tea, which I drank before/on the way to/in the morning at work, and it was delicious and wonderful and I loved it so much. And it rained all day, but it was alright. I mean, walking around in the slightly chilly light rain made me feel like I was in Turkey for a while, so that was nice. And the guy I was with actually seemed like an honest, decent guy, which made the day a lot less stressful for me. Most people were pretty nice, and we met an inventor! He was the creator of the abovementioned bendable pencils and shankless toothbrushes, among other things. He mostly markets them to prisons (typed museums at first...?), but sells them for hikers and such, too. ALSO, we stopped at Starbucks before heading back to the office. I got parfait, which made me think of the American Realism class Sara and I took at VCU. It was so awesome. (The class, not the parfait, particularly.) Sigh. I feel like there was something else, but I don't remember it at the moment. Maybe I'll post it later. Ta-ta for now, internet!