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?

Home in the Hills

a passable castle, a fortress of solace,
these hillsides incline their white-caps at me
at the center of an empty crown, looking 'round
what do you see but the valleys and trees -
every night when I fall asleep
the grass and the leaves and the flowers all consume
me, into their petals and autumnal embrace,
lightning bolts me down and hurls me
high through the sky,
I am electric
And nature is mine, I hers
Her beautiful smile and frown, these luxurious clouds -
where her fingernails trail, leaves only frosty ground
come, see this world with me, the swallowing seas
and twisting streams, spelling cursive mysteries
I'll tell you what they whisper, the poetry of the river no one reads.

Three Thunderstorms, Rosh Hashanah, Home to Home

Last night, another thunderstorm crossed over the hills where my parents live, this one by far the most frighteningly awe-inspiring. There is that edge, I think, to beauty sometimes. The beauty of the canyon, staring down over the precipice; the beauty of the spider or the panther, elegant in their predation; and  in the volcano and depths of the ocean. The tension of safety and magnificence snatches our lungs and squeezes, and even in the thunderstorms, I felt a little of such. There was lightning like I've not seen since my childhood, too numerous for even calculating seconds between strikes, most of the time. One bolt struck not far uphill, less than a soccer field's distance away from my house, temporarily knocking out a street lamp. A fright possessed me, sitting with my nose to the screen and watching the cracks in the skyline. What if someone's house was struck? What if someone was hurt? I stayed up many hours, watching the lightning crackle and the thunder rumble, and listening to the rain tumbling down. I slept little and enjoyed myself immensely in the cradle of the valley, in the nook of the night.

Rosh Hashanah is the feast of trumpets and the Jewish new year. Rarely is a year's beginning so early in the Gregorian calendar. Unfortunately, I was in the wrong state to feast with friends, but I'll probably celebrate it in some capacity, regardless. (Matthew why you leave the country? Phil, why you at work?) I like the Jewish holy days. Especially the high holy days. Most people, often even Jews included, do not celebrate many of the Jewish holy days anymore (a land and temple thing, but also a parting from belief that the holy days are sacred). I'm not religiously Jewish, but I really appreciate the value in the appointments God prepared. Plus, they are always an occasion for a special celebration. A special appointment holy-day celebration ordained by God? Please and thank you.

And now, after a fantastic visit home, it is time to go home. With slightly more laden packs filled with new books, my heart is light and my drive looming. Goodbye beautiful forest backyard with its large maples and droopy pines, its jolly firs and wild blueberries, its garden and hills. I'll miss the nightly games, family dinners, and my charming closet of a room. Hasta luego, Redmond.

Ghosts of Faces

ghosts of faces are passing by
past they fly
could they be your friends, or mine?
or I theirs? - it's fine
for on streets or trails there's no goodbyes
for passersby living their own lives
rarely intersecting lines

and what of friends in different places
gone ten million paces
witness distant times
sharing but a moon and stars
of the sky's -
not ours
mountains here, desert there
forests and valleys
or dunes and seas

our times may meet but never, or twice
And your eyes say,
I love
I fly
my spirit's a dove
you'll never watch scrape the sky
nor the tears,
it cries,
of the endless phantoms you never meet
never treat for cups of tea
or campfire retreats
where rivers run besides
and their stories, well
you can never tell
they might have changed your life
might have loved, too
if only you, they, had chanced to say
who are you?

-----------
We celebrated my mother's birthday today. Surprisingly, the weather held. Here's to hoping it lasts a couple more days, so I might hike along the ridge or up a mountain on Wednesday. It does not look promising. We drove to the beach and went to a restaurant that mother dearly loves, and we all glanced out the windows over the ocean and into the water as the ducks paddled by, the jellyfish bounced their way through the waters, the seaweed drifted in its soggy swirls, and kayaks drifted by in the amiable waters. The sun gleamed off the waters and the windows of passing boats, fishing, drifting or sailing in the brine with sea breeze gently pushing at the waters.
Matthew is going to Korea, tomorrow, which is my last outside-the-house friend in Washington that I'm aware of (currently in the area discounting his family and my family - sorry if I forgot you). It will be quiet, perhaps, though I've long needed a little quiet. And how quiet is it really when the word games get crazy? When the card games with the family get joyful? Not. So. Silent.
Or when the coyotes howl with the distant neighbors huskies or when the wind races through the valley, stirring all the trees into frenzied whispers and wooden groans. It is a good sort of silence, and loudness. A restful set. Maybe I'll finish a few more books this week, too. Time for some creativity, time for some art, time for story magic and myth.

Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
- Everything is Illuminated

Having just finished Everything is Illuminated, I figured it was time I considered it, briefly. The tale itself is psychological - nothing of great import happens, and everything of any importance comes to pass. What is illuminated? Ah, everything is illuminated. There is much sadness, and a continual examination of the hole of love and memory in our spirits, and how that affects the present. We're drawn into the memories of the characters as a sixth sense, much like the Jewish members of Trachimbrod possess. I think the most fascinating part of this novel is the tricky way in which it deceives you into believing that Jonathan is the hero. Right from the beginning, Alex refers to Jonathan as the tale's protagonist, its hero. But, as you find out, Jonathan is merely along for the ride in helping Alex discover his courage, his identity, his determination to develop memories of beautiful things, his desire for positive change. 
During some of Alex's letters, he asks Jonathan if he couldn't just create a better world, since it is a fiction, and let Saffran love the gipsy girl, or allot Brod happiness and love. Alex has a dream, an American dream, of moving with his little brother away from his violent father, and starting fresh. Throughout the story and following the Augustine chronology, Alex sends letters to Jonathan and develops into a stronger, more courageous character. It was craftily done, and though it is not my favorite novel, I think it grants some insight into character development and the different ways that is managed, as well as providing a window into the author's soul. There is something here we can glean about his view of the human condition, no?

There was also a little part in Everything is Illuminated that reminded me of the beginning scene of Amelie. There is something strange and moving about how he says it, the section on sexual intimacy creating lights and electricity, if enough loving is collected in once place. It is a strange novel, but, I think, a good one. I'm still digesting it.

I had more to say, but I'm *all* the exhausted. Definitely a good time for sleeping.

What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little.

New Shoes and Clicking Heels - I'm Home.

A rather shoddily shot picture of my parent's backyard. Yeah, we live in a forest. The maples look positively gorgeous in the late afternoon sunlight. We also live in a valley (which makes running tricky, since I have to go somewhere so I'm not constantly running at 30 degrees up) I'd blame the camera for this shot, but it was actually my fault. I got excited and took the picture as I walked under a fir and quickly scrambled to capture the moment. I did not capture the moment, but at least I captured - for me anyway - something. The apple trees are looking splendid, the pines, firs, maples, birches, all the trees in the backyard are so amazingly beautiful. I needed this vacation. I went and bought running shoes with the mother, had dinner with the family, and then we started playing bananagrams. Turns out, my dad is a secret champ, mother is a bit slow, Sam makes up words, and Phil gets to be a combination of Sam and mother. I think my dad is also siphoning me terrible letters every game (or just not mixing them). Then we played quiddler (rummy with words), and Mother won the first game, Phil the second. It's so good to be home, almost moves me to poetry. I can wait until sunny-tomorrow for that, though. I really wish I had come home earlier in the summer season for more of this. I miss the Redmond (Carnation) country-scape so very much: the valleys, the mountains, the rich greens, the smells of pine and rich soil, the bears trampling our apple trees (just once I think. But he knocked over the whole tree to get apples. Gluttonous bear), the windy hills leading home, the waterfalls and mountains less than an hour away, the half-price books. I admit, the first place I went to was not home, but in fact the bookstore. And half-price books was having a 20% off sale! (2/5's price books?)

It all makes me want to weep with joy, write stories all night long, drink all the apple juice and chips and salsa and oatmeal raisin cookies that my parents treated me. And I want to climb that mountain. I also have a strong desire to see mount rainier.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/eb/Mount_Rainier_from_west.jpg

I have a feeling the clouds are rolling in. By Wednesday (my mid-week fun day), I think it might even be too rainy for a good view of the mountain. We'll see.

Several summers ago, when I worked at camp, I was not given much warning or information on what to bring (I only knew I was working at camp for a day before I flew out). One of the (many) things I forgot was a good pair of shoes. I brought old shoes that were almost worn out, and camp destroyed them. Because I did not have time for a lifeguard certification, I did only field activities for the kids: baseball, archery, soccer, running around, and so on. My shoes almost immediately fell apart. Especially since at the start of summer there was still quite a bit of snow (7000 feet up in the mountains?), and it shortly switched to over 100 degree days, I'm fairly certain my shoes just gave up on life. Shoes falling apart was a big deal. The second biggest problem I faced was that there was no cell service for an hour in any direction. Everyone brought calling cards with them so they could use the camp phone. I didn't know about the calling card setup, and had no calling card. I thought about writing a letter - no stamps. That was the easier of the problems, but writing a letter to ask the parents to ship you shoes? (because it was 3 hours to a location that sold shoes as far as I could find out. I had no car). The turn-around time on that is intimidating.

Instead, I borrowed a calling card, and quickly called my parents and asked them to send me shoes. This is where I made another mistake. I forgot to tell them my shoe size. I simply stated, as quickly as possible, that basketball shoes should work just fine. Apparently my parents believe me a clown, and they bought me 10.5 men's shoes. I'm not a short person, but I'm a bit below the national average for males (a little over 5'9"). My foot size, however, is not 10.5. When I got home, I bought some 9.5 sambas, which turned out to be too big also, but lasted me almost 4 years. Two years ago, I bought my current pair of shoes, another pair of sambas that are 8.5s. Today, I finally bought the first pair of shoes that I think truly fits my feet. They are 8s. Yep, 2.5 sizes smaller than my parents believed. I even have some extra wiggle room at the end for my toes.

Homeward Bound

We played soccer tonight, and I managed to hit a girl in the face almost immediately. I felt TERRIBLE. So I played defense for half the game. Following the game, Peter and I raced for the swings and the ginger beer (no alcohol content, thankfully), and discussed our weeks. It was, perhaps, the hardest day of work I've had in some time. I had such a simple task, but could not seem to get anything to work. I basically had 10 hours of poor excuses for my boss today, because I may as well have been not working.
And tomorrow I'm going home (family's home).
I think I spent an hour thinking about what books I wanted to bring with me before I realized I should probably pack other things, too. Hopefully labor-day weekend traffic isn't abysmal. Anyway, when we finished soccer and swinging, Peter and I walked back to our respective vehicles, and Peter asked if he could have his keys back from my tote bag. However, his keys were not in there. It was getting dark (8:15? 8:30?) and was nearing nautical twilight. We scampered back out to the field and carefully perused the grass. I even took off my shirt and rolled through the grass, because we couldn't see anymore, hoping I might roll across his keys. I just got incredibly itchy. Frantic, we called D and asked if anyone else had picked up keys, and he said no, so we checked the cars again. D mentioned that sometimes smart phones have flashlight apps, so we could try that. I found a flashlight in my car and we used one of our phone's flashlight apps and began searching in earnest once more. It was astronomical twilight at this time. Without the flashlights, we saw nothing. We strafed across the field and eventually, on my way back, we found the keys.

We were both, in a sense, at the edge of our faith. We shared an extra ginger beer and prayer of thanksgiving before each driving home. It was near 10. Still, I'm thankful so much for friends that will roll about in the grass with you to find keys, and friends who will pray and share their deepest fears with you while swinging and drinking ginger "beer" while sitting on the backs of cars. It was a gentle reminder of rest and a difficult week finally finished. And now, in the morning, I'll be homeward bound.

Edge of the World Thursdays

It may have taken a year, a season, it may have taken only minutes, but the boy decided, eventually, the string was to be pulled. It was not fear that stayed his hands, not precisely, but the mysticism. Was it better imagining what might happen? If the stars might fall behind a curtain of night, or the sky itself collapse; or if the earth would become the heavens, the heavens the earth, and they might all traipse along island clouds. Would the angels corral in chorus to this world on the rings of a bell, or demons rise from the gaping maws of hell?  Would the world curl into a ball, like a giant rolypoly? Or would the world's edge be drawn back, and whole new lands unveiled to explore? What stayed the boy's hand equally was the disappointing outcomes he conjured in his imagination. What if nothing happened? Or what if the string itself fell, and disappeared off the edge of the world, and he could no longer gaze upon its illustrious glamour? What if it crumbled to ash in his hands? Perhaps it was a fear of a sort, but not of his fellow's punishment.

-----

Today was an odd day. Working at home invites a certain freedom, and a certain punishment. If you have roommates, they immediately assume you are free for discussions, for chores, for having your workspace waltzed in upon - today, a general house-cleaning took place while I worked, and my work environ was encompassed by sweeping, a roommate walking in and boasting at having cleaned another room, with each room cleaned, bathrooms that had to be used between-cleans. I alternated between music and audio-books, and, thankfully, today was not filled with difficult problem-solving (put-out-fires-thursdays). I did get some good reading and writing in (are all my friends gone this week?) after work until I was passively booted from the house when that same roommate invited a girl over for dinner.
Needless to say, I'm thankful it's nearly Friday. I'm visiting the family soon, and I could not be more excited.