Monday, March 31, 2014

Upbeat Whining: At Least, That is What I Tell Myself

The thing is, I don't want to live in a dystopia, I don't want to raise a family in a dystopic society. I don't pretend to be an expert, but books of that genre don't end well. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl and everything is wonderful for a short time until they get torn apart through horrible and inhumane circumstances involving a crippling, crushing government.  What could be more important and more dangerous in such societies besides love and friendship and human relationship in general?
In a lot of ways, this society feels like it is dystopic, and getting worse. However, even as I do my best to navigate the bureaucratic hell of emerging into adulthood, there are also bright, beautiful people growing organic gardens in their front yards, and other people building tiny homes for themselves and others out of reclaimed materials. There are organizations working for the betterment of the human race and condition, and individuals crying out for the inclusion of environment and kindness in all of our dealings instead of pollution and greed.
I'm hopelessly apathetic, but also detrimentally idealistic. Even as I despair for the future, mine in particular and the world's in general, I can see seedlings of change growing from the ashes of everything past.
I've had an allegory for many years now, related in the following paragraph, that I used to tell my mom whenever she was despairing about the direction the world was headed in. I'm not entirely sure I believe in it as much as I once did -I've gained experience and some degree of cynicism, but the allegory has become woven into my being, enmeshed within my thought processes and viewpoint;
Even as society drags humanity deeper into depression and oppression, there are vast numbers of people waking up and figuring out better ways to live and grow and cooperate. Humanity is in the midst of the creation of a new world, and destruction of the old. There's a graph in my head for this concept, a sort of crossing of lines, the gentle slope of hope and change for the better, intersecting the jagged line of corruption and oppression, fighting for every pinnacle even as it slides deeper into oblivion.
It takes time for things to balance out, and I know I won't remain unaffected by everything, but I can still hold onto hope and choose to see the optimistic light amid the sometimes overwhelming darkness. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Musing Upon The Writing Process

To sit upon and further articulate, incubate ideas as T.S. Eliot once said. To allow them to mature and grow in complexity, giving them free reign before fully writing them out, or even beginning to write them at all.
But to leave them too long, in my drafts, is to allow them to stagnate and decompose, becoming dead bodies in a still pool.

Beat at my Ribcage, Prayers 'round my Head in place of Flies

I walk a balance 
That is anything but equal 
Between letting go and gripping tight
The world in my head 
Isn't enough, 
Never was.

I draw red Xs
And I scream silent war cries
I fly to far away, and I leap into nothing 
Through shattered walls

I hung that curtain
In front of connection and understanding
Other people stop at its boundaries
And I continue to respect it
As I curse its existence


I draw red Xs
And I scream silent war cries

I fly to far away,
Leap into nothing,
Shattering walls.


Saturday, March 29, 2014

More from the Utaha hippie girl

I catch myself worrying about other people's judgment of me occasionally, nothing new in the human race.


I don't shave my legs, love, personal choice.  I'm pretty sure our relief society visiting teachers glanced down at my unevenly shaggy legs a couple times last Wednesday. I honestly didn't care. It might, truthfully, be an effect of their affiliation and purpose, but whatever.

The opinions of people I care about, am close to, or want to impress are a bit more important to me, however, and they still very much influence my actions and thoughts.

The thing is, I've found that judgements most often exist only in my head, not even in the head of the person I'm so afraid is judging me harshly. 
My writing is like my head, full of air and spacey. 

Friday, March 28, 2014

Tranquil storm

The hills that day, to the north of us as we worked, were heart-ache, soul-ecstasy-beautiful. I have never seen anything like them; dark blue clouds misting upon low, smooth crowns, like some moor in an old English novel, like I'd imagined the heath in "The Secret Garden".

I wanted to be in the middle of it. But I suppose it might not have been as pretty, beheld as a tiny human from far away, lent god-sight by proximity and imagination. My favorite way to observe landscape much of the time is from the passenger seat of a car moving rapidly down the road, my eyes acting as fingers and hands feeling the geography. In my mind, feeling the ground and trees with fingers and hands that exist only in my eyes.

I desperately wished I'd had a camera of some sort, or my iphone. But I rarely take technology on jobs, especially that far away, so I have only my memory and whatever I manage to put down in writing.

Barefoot Utah Hippie Girl Chant

Grow more trees,
Quit killing bees.

Plant more seeds,
Quit killing weeds.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Time Slipping By, But My Pen Is Dry


    I am in the weirdest writing slump lately and it's reminding me of how I write often of time slipping by, or not being able to write. There are about a million different ways to explore these subjects, and I suppose they are all unique and interesting, but I think I revisit the same subjects repeatedly. This is a redundant way to write, and therefore very boring.
    I'm working on a story, but I've run out of steam and inspiration, and I really don't know where to go with it next. I have sixteen drafts on blogger, but some are more than a year old, and I have no idea what to do with them either, or never intend to publish them anyway.
    I've hit a wall with my poetry, no inspiration there either, and it all seems unpoetic, or worse, sappy and whiny. There's no heart or soul in my poetry lately, no passion or beauty due to a lack of creative inspiration and new material. I swear all of the poetry I try to write is either preachy or it reads as sterile. This has happened before, and to write about it now is repetitive, just like I fear.
    Considering how well all my other writing is going, of course essays are going to be dry and difficult. But I'm pushing on through this creative desert.
    I suppose all of my writing is just repetitive, and I don't really know how to break through that, except to keep writing and therefore repeating until I unearth a gold nugget of new amidst all of the dull old subjects in my mind. 

Sunday, March 23, 2014

A Few of the Animals Living in Tibet

Tibet is home to an astonishing array of creatures, many of which seem like copies of animals from other countries in the world, dropped into harsh and unforgiving landscapes.
A species of snake inhabits the areas around hot springs generated by the massive underground activity of the Chinese and Indian continental plates smashing together. Similar to Utah's garter snake, it seems surprising for the cold-blooded creature to inhabit Tibet, one of the coldest and and highest climates on earth, but its living there is made possible by warmth radiating from the hot springs.
The Plateau, or Black-lipped Pika, related to the rabbit and belonging to a genus found all over the world, inhabits Tibet's plains, moving vast amounts of earth tiny hole by tiny hole while hunted by the Tibetan brown bear and Tibetan sand fox. The Tibetan brown bear, also known as the Tibetan blue bear, horse bear, and Himalayan snow bear among other monikers, is related to the Americas grizzly, with a similar hump on its back. The Sand fox is lightly dun colored, has a wide face with eyes set far apart, and isn't particularly territorial. The bear and fox sometimes share a commensal relationship hunting pikas.
Another inhabitant of Tibet's plains is the Tibetan Antelope, or Chiru; a snub-nosed creature with long, slender legs. The males of the species sport long, tapered horns used in the seasonal battles for females. Males guard varying numbers of females, usually two to nine, and will fiercely defend their herd from other marauding male antelope.
The animals native to Tibet are at once familiar and surprising, as if various animals from the US were scattered across the steppe. However, this comparison may be rather unfair; as familiar as the Tibetan Brown bear, Pika, and Sand fox might seem, they evolved in Tibet, filling specific niches and developing physical characteristics and behaviors very unique and well suited to them and their surrounding environment.

(Sources: http://www.bioone.org/doi/full/10.1644/817.1
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibetan_antelope and "Wild China: Tibet" (we watched the documentary, but you can find info about it online at http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0884762/))

Saturday, March 22, 2014

This Is What Happens When I Can't Sleep

When someone reads what I write, in their mind's eye I would like them to picture me speaking to them, my gaze steady and penetrating, my voice calm and flowing, and my posture solid and straight. 
I would like my writing voice to be objective but still kind, benevolent and considerate, true and logical. 

Thursday, March 20, 2014

The resurrection of the beautiful dead

Your iconic Starry Night, troubled life, and self-taught technique inspire me and lead me to despair. You fascinate me, and of course, as human beings perceive about all other human beings, I see sparks and flashes of myself within you; your obsession with the beauty and wonder in nature, your stubbornness and determination to teach yourself painting, your disdain of institutions, and religious fervor removed from religion.
Certainly, Van Gogh, you have managed to spark my interest as no other artist, of any genre or time period ever has. This may be entirely thanks to my local college's impressive array of books documenting your life and works (I have discovered two thick volumes so far), but it began long ago, certain paintings of yours stuck fast in my mind and memory, and later, that amazing, heartbreaking Doctor Who episode.

Oh beautiful beautiful, I know so little about you still. I am learning more; and It will never be enough. Comforting are the long-dead people resurrected in our heads by their own works and other's words. 

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

We All Have Our Own Astonishing Light

Some of us want to be Scarlett Johansson
And some want to be Tom Waits
Others want to be Liam Hemsworth or Edward James Olmos or Marilyn Monroe
Still others just want to look like that popular kid back in highschool
Or their Aunt, a little bit older than them, who's always seemed to have her shit together.

All completely different, but one thing remains the same all the way through;
Most people don't want to just be themselves,
Few people are satisfied with the color or thickness or texture of their hair,
They think their eyebrows are too thin,
Their noses too long,
Everybody knows freckles are ugly,
and the freckleless crave constellations on their own skin.

I would say
Who cares about acne?
Why bother with the thickness or slenderness of your own wrists?
There's always going to be someone with longer hair, stronger muscles, tanner skin.
Why chase after ghosts when you are real and right in front of me
And astonishing in your own light. 

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

March 13th (Thursday)

Last night I was so, just, happy. Purely, simply, completely happy.

Nothing worried me, nothing bothered me. Everything was absolutely right.

The world had conspired to make everything right for a few moments just then.

Funny how such simple things, green peas and casual conversation, can make me happy.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

A sunset and a moonrise

I decided to watch the sunset a couple evenings ago, just as a way to slow down and free myself from some of the frustration and ennui I've been experiencing lately. 
(You'll have to click on most of these to see them full size, a few are panoramas and mobile posting is so finicky anyways.) 












Fish fingers

"The fault in our stars" is every bit as beautiful as you might gather from the quotes and gifs and fangirling floating around the internet. 
I did my very best not to put it down all day, sadly, however, reading is not as uninterrupted as it once was in my life. 
I am so sad, but it's a selfish sort of sadness, a vain sort of ennui I suppose. Ah well, I managed to read the whole thing before bedtime, and now I have another empty night to sink into, full of dreams before entering another day that will lead to another week that will lead to another month like living fish slipping through my fingers. 
Ah well little one. 

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

The best sunset in a while






Subject: Lovely Town & Good Company 
Monday the 10th of March, 2014
Walking and running down the street with my sister, the sun setting gloriously brilliant in the West as we anticipated walking the chocolate chip dog.

A Greeting and an Anecdote

Hullo Little one. How be thee?
It would seem I was more eloquent in years gone past, 2011, to be exact in my thinking. How strange is that?

Yesterday I was witness to a hilarious happening, a sort of classic movie moment. My brother was testing out my longboard on the hallway floor as my sister had said it was turning rather strangely and stiffly. I think it's a bit stiff too, but I turn all right on the road with enough speed.
My brother coasted slowly up and down the cracked and chipped laminate until we heard a faint clunk. "What was that?", we all wondered and looked around to identify the cause of sound. A large bolt appeared on the floor in front of my board. We all looked at it for a few seconds, and once more wondered out loud, "Where did that come from?". My brother peered at the bolt inquisitively. He picked up my board, and we watched in astonishment as the front truck and wheels fell from the board piece by piece, like some enchanted creature ceasing to be held together with magic. Clink clunk clank.
And that is the story of how I almost died long boarding yesterday, as one of my trucks was, apparently, missing a nut. (Not really, my other brother scoffs whenever I make this announcement, as he says his truck actually fell off when he was riding once and it was fine, he didn't crash spectacularly or anything.)

Monday, March 10, 2014

Anything might happen
Until it happens
And then whatever happens,
Is the only thing that could have happened. 
The future is limitless, 
The past is fossil.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Cut not thy limbs, dam(n) not thy own blood

My life, my soul mimics the waters I was born from,
Two rivers joined together,
Nine other streams branching from their union.

My pattern follows theirs,
Even as I choose my own path,
My own feet will carry me, their hands rest on my shoulders,
We have bound ourselves together.

In this world as it is, as we've found it to be,
Nothing much is permanent,
But we hope to create a permanence of bond
In this swirling, fluctuating society.


Thursday, March 6, 2014

Prayeralells

(Written a few days ago, I really am not sure how true it may hold still. Today is grey and disgruntled.)
Set as we are, to the East in our valley, surrounded by mountains on all sides, the view we enjoy is incredible in any season, in all directions.
Today clouds hang low and wispy; the palette: deep blue and tranquil white.

We accuse humans of anthropomorphism, especially those with the occupation, curse, and liberation of Poet. But suppose the Earth does feel emotion? Suppose the animals feel just as deeply, or even deeper than us, the homo sapiens?

Wouldn't we feel more responsibility and kinship with our surroundings and quiet neighbors?



Our valley today feels tranquil, just a little sad, and slightly huddled. Waking up after a strange, strange winter, sleep sand spilling from crevasses slowly.


Suppose we don't superimpose our own emotions on nature. Instead, nature taught us how to feel;
The anger and jubilation, the absolute, raw power of thunder and wind and downpour. Sweet sadness and release in quiet, grey rain, pure and so beautiful. The awareness and hidden mysteries hidden and revealed by the moon in all of her incarnations, the silent encouragement of her consorts, so far away. The sun's crankiness, wisdom, and benevolence, it's faithful nurturing of the earth's green (and pink) things, sometimes far surpasses the rain's trustworthiness. The Buddha or Jesus voice and touch of snow and its muffled blanket, its quiet meditation and inner eye.
The parallels of the seasons and all of life; birth, flower, maturation, death, recycle.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Unknowable Future

"I don't know if tomorrow will bring rain or storm,
    still, I shall pull the weeds in the rice paddy."

"Chapter Nine
1. Autumn in Japan is the typhoon season, which not uncommonly ruins entire rice crops. Hence, the farmer pulls weeds in the rice paddy never knowing whether or not he will be able to harvest the crop."
-both from "How to Cook Your Life" by Dōgen with commentary by Kōshō uchiyama Rōshi

Saturday Sunset



Shadow photography

(Clickedy for full size)