"Where the stars split into green fire"

I want adventure.

I've forgotten what it's like to stand on a beach at midnight and marvel at the unceasing rhythm of the waves, and the silver trail that the moon bleeds as it flees across the ocean. I miss watching the sun rise in the desert, achingly cold as it steals the stars away from the darkness. I want to chase back the night with stories around a campfire. I need to push to the top of a hard climb and feel the jubilant satisfaction of knowing that I can use my wits and skill to defy gravity. I want that hard, fey joy back. I need it.

To test myself against something that didn't come from a textbook. To marvel at something bigger than I am, and share that marvel. To be reminded that life is so much more complex and intricate and mysterious than this, and rediscover what is unique within myself. To just go, and be; something, anything, anywhere. To be alive.

Something inside me starts to die without this. I can't even define what "this" is--but one of my favorite authors said something along the lines of, "If I want to find my soul again, that means I need to go to the green, lumpy places on the map. That's where it will be." And I need to give my soul room to breathe, expand, remember what it feels like to wonder, and wander, without restrictions or reservations.

There aren't many green lumpy places around here. But there is ocean, there is desert, there are rocks to scale and shells to find and music to weave and nights to spend under the stars, far from where I sit tonight. I want this.

Five more days. Then I can cut myself loose--be free, even for a day or two, to become me again. I rather miss that careless, confident, cheerful girl in the mirror. I want to be able to lean forward, and brush the glass, and whisper, "There you are, again. Hi." I want to see her eyes glowing back at me, incandescent with secrets and fun.

Five more days. Then look out, world of mine. I don't know where yet, or how, but adventure calls. And I'm going to find it again.

"...walking the edge of the way
The world is supposed to be,
Just to be alive--
Gone
Off to places where the deep drum roll of the earth can be heard and felt
Through the soles of bare feet
Dancing to the song of the stars
Through the fire and ice of the Northern sky--
Laughing
Joining the crash of the waves on rocky coasts
Incessant rhythm of the sea
At once raging and calm,
Alone but never lonely--
Dancing
Together with the voices of the mountains
Responding to the music in the world,
Singing with heart's blood
And fierce joy in simply being alive..."

--March 2008

Again

Bloody hell.

It's not supposed to be like this anymore. I'm not supposed to feel trapped inside my own head. Not now.

Except.

Alone

I'm stressed to the max right now. Everything today has just built into this towering wave, the kind that never quite falls but keeps getting higher so you know that, when it does lose the battle to gravity, you're screwed. Basically. And gravity is scheduled to fail next week.

It makes the fragments of sunshine so much sweeter, when they come.

I just got off the phone with my little sister. She's precious, you know. This wicked sense of humor wrapped in blue-grey eyes and a careless disregard for convention and rules, all in one petite package. Despite all the fights we've had, and are probably going to have in the future, I've always admired her for being real in ways that very few people dare to be. She's prickly, but under that is this incredibly intriguing person. I always feel like there's something new to learn about her. Endlessly fascinating. 

She called me tonight. First, that's just a warm spot in my soul, because...because. She did it. And she listened to the sordid recitation of my week, and then she told me about her life, which wasn't much better than mine. She let me in. Just a little, but enough.

I like to catch those moments and savor them, hold them close like a hug from three thousand miles away. We haven't had too many of those, but they're getting more frequent, and I'm just so glad. Because...because. Just because she's so important to me.

I had this line running through my head just before she called. "But nothing's going right...and everything's a mess...and no one likes to be alone." It was so good to be reminded that, even if it's true, and it is...I'm not.

Farseeing

Every word we've ever said--
Each choice a single, brilliant thread
Intersecting, changing meaning--
The ebb and flow can be deceiving
These subtle twists in our direction
Beyond the range of our perception
Fate is tangled, changing always--
And no one can see all of the ways
A single word, a careless act
Can tear the web--leave it intact--
Or change the future altogether
And yet--to live outside of never
These passing futures, this silver web
Run through the dark inside my head
Seen whole for a moment only
Sometimes the view from here is lonely
The past now in the future stands
Silver lines run through my hands
Gossamer threads with azure lining
Possibilities rare and shining
Where we'll go and what we'll be--
Briefly, my epiphany.
But not to touch--not anymore--
I have made that choice before
But some lines broke--the threads were crossed--
And countless futures made and lost
So now these fragile silver wisps
Slide by, just past my fingertips.

Homeless

Dear God in heaven,

Is this supposed to be funny? Because I don't hear any divine laughter.

It's one of those weeks. The ones where you wake up to gray skies and they actually look brighter in contrast because the fog in your head is so pervasive, which doesn't make anything better--it just enhances the gloom. I don't know if I really have an excuse to be this way. I have plenty of food (relatively--I'm actually out at the moment, but as soon as I find the time, the problem will resolve). I have good friends who keep me smiling even in the middle of information cramming (although some of them routinely creep from the shadows and scare the bejeezus out of me). I have a roof over my head.

A roof.

Oh, yeah, actually, not so much anymore. About that.

Our landlord just had a baby. Or, his wife had a baby, which always makes it hard for me not to roll my eyes when the couple says "We're pregnant," because there's no we about it. She looks like a small planet, and he's normal. Let's be honest--unless you plan on actively going through labor, you are not pregnant. Anyway.

So, now they're living on one income, which apparently isn't enough. So, he's selling our house.

Meaning, we have to find a new place to live by Christmas. We do get a month's notice when it actually sells, but we are medical students. In school. We don't have time to look for houses, and we can't sign a new year-long lease that starts in November, December, or January; and moving? Are you kidding me? When do we have time to move?

I'm also pretty stressed about the upcoming test week. It's so intense, and I feel behind all the time. I'm so, so thankful that Sabbath starts in a little less than eight hours. Sabbath will bring Thai food and Ryan and sleep, not necessarily in that order, but all wonderful in their own way.

But this situation is becoming more and more real. I managed to ignore it last night and this morning, but then I started thinking about logistics during class. Bad idea. I'm pretty peeved, and getting angrier. It's not healthy and I'm trying to stop the spiral by leaving it here, for all of you. And by realizing that the only thing I can do is to keep studying, and look for a new place to live, and not fret about it past that.

I do fret so.

*In a sudden reversal of opinion, I have to say that I'm friggin' lucky. I have nothing to complain about. See the woman in my picture? That's her life, on that sidewalk. Look at me. I need to shut my mouth.

Eternity

To view the past secured in stone--
(In just a certain slant of light)
A moment caught in amber ice--
A thousand years would not suffice
To wonder at the sight.

Lillies

She walked through the crowded supermarket (although really, walked wasn't the right word, it was more like an idea sliding elusively through a tired mind) and chose the oranges she'd come for. No nonsense today, no shopping, no wasting time. She had too much to do (no time to actually live today, more like the day was for creating other days) and places she had to be.

But a stray flash of red caught her attention from the corner of her eye (the part of the eye that finds beauty even when it doesn't want to be found, out of the side of her vision that saw shades of pink instead of gray), and she stopped so abruptly that a man bumped into her. Hastily apologizing, she turned and headed back to the display of flowers.

They weren't much, but she didn't have money to spare. She knew it...and still she hesitated, seeing how the sun caressed the blush-red petals and lit the cores with fire. She rejoiced in how lovely they were (as you often do when your sense of wonder has not yet died, and hers was so alive that it danced when she ran a finger over the lillies), and it was done. Choice made.

With the flowers in hand, she realized that there was no vase to put them in. Her feet stole off down an aisle and deposited her in front of the champagne bottles (not the kind that leave you flushed and giggling, no, these were the kind a priest would bless and then ignore because really, what self-respecting priest doesn't drink wine?). She had one in hand and was gone, off through the doors, returning smiles directed at a happy girl who looked like she was going to a party, incandescent with a secret.

She locked the door to the apartment behind her. It was quiet and dark, and when she pulled off her dress clothes and replaced them with jeans (because nobody can study in dress clothes, you know), she gleefully put the flowers in a temporary pitcher of water and sat down with her glass of wine-that-wasn't-wine, and while normally she would feel the silence (and the weight of past and present and future and possibilities and mistakes and life getting in the way of her concentration)...those flowers glowed from the kitchen counter next to the candle, and she held the glow close.

Mine to me.

I keep writing sketches and then saving them instead of posting. I'll finish typing, look at what I've got, and say, "No...I guess I can't put that one up." And I'll rewrite it. "Well...no. That one is just for me." So now I have about six drafts that will never get read by anyone else. I think I'm ok with that.

As for medical school...still surviving. Sunday time moves at the pace of an elderly snail--trying to keep up with everything I need to learn is about like running from a lava flow wearing a snorkle and fins. Imagine that elderly snail in swim fins. Welcome to my life. But I'm having a lot of fun.

Lens

Last night was hard.

Refocusing priorities has always been super difficult for me, at least when choosing between learning people and learning facts. See, I know, intellectually, that I'm here to inundate myself with knowledge--like forging a weapon, one I want, one I'm going to need. It's not the purpose, this learning, but entirely necessary. Important. Essential. It's why I'm here.

But I've always been so much more interested in people. How they work, how they think, who they are. Fascinating. I'd so much rather sneak midnight Starbucks runs with her, or watch stars with him, or cook with them. I've been trying to keep those areas separate, but I realized as I brushed my teeth last night that I've been failing. My priorities got switched somewhere along the way, and if it happens much more, I'll be in trouble. I got afraid, and fear makes me angry...and I can do things with anger.

So. Last night was exhausting because I spent a good portion of it staring at my ceiling, reworking my thoughts, reprioritizing, refocusing. Determining.

If doing well here means I block everything else out...well then. I have to try, don't I?

I hope it's not as bad as all of this. I tend to try extremes. I hope it gets better. And if not, there are the weekends.

Quickness

I shouldn't be this happy. I'm pretty sure that there's a law somewhere forbidding human beings to be so perfectly content with where they are, and what they're doing, and who they're with. Which makes me illegal in at least 17 official countries.

In other news, there is a large black cat with glowing green eyes that hangs out around my apartment at night. I rather like it, simply because the creeptastic factor is so high. Friday night, for example, it crossed my path at least three times (before disappearing into thin air), which (barring thirteen times, or 666) is an unlucky number (if I believed in luck). And yet, the weekend was perfectly grand. Maybe I should leave food out for it. People used to leave food out for elves, you know, so that they wouldn't wreck havoc while the humans slept. I suppose I could just name it Albert, thereby stripping it of all malicious intent. I mean, how could you be jinxed by something named Albert?

Another random thing that happened was being accosted at my own front door by two large hulking teenagers intent on selling me magazine subscriptions, so that they could win some contest. They probably didn't realize they were looming, but it's kind of hard not to tower over a surprised midget slouching in her doorway. Anyway, they had their whole patter memorized, but it was too "delivered"--no natural pauses, no time to laugh at their jokes--just lines to be gotten out. I was so interested in how fake it sounded that I completely missed the whole point of their delivery and had to go back and ask why they were there. And after all that, I didn't subscribe to a single thing. When I did door-to-door, I hated people like me.

Polish

You wouldn't think nail polish would make anyone cry.

(Well, maybe a fashionista editor in a glass-plated office on a high rise in a bustling city where fashions are born, bred, and eaten,  because the color was just so off [not because it hadn't been applied with care, because it had, you could tell that right away, even after everything else], but a cold lab filled with formaldehyde and death is the last place you could find a person like that. Definitely not the student in scrubs beside the chilly steel table. So the bright red polish on the tagged toe shouldn't have made a difference.)

But it did.

Places

I found it.

In every single place I've ever lived, I've looked for it. Sometimes it's obvious, sometimes accidental, and other times takes a long, determined search. Once in a while, the timing is a perfect surprise.

Like last night. I was sick this weekend, you know. I blame the exposure to this awful California climate. Not only does it cause hypertension by making me angry whenever I step out into the blistering heat, but when cool weather actually does decide to roll up, all of my immunity is shot. Two days of rain and 55 degree temps, and I was done for.

Luckily, it was on a weekend. I did nothing but alternately sleep on my couch or floor the entirety of saturday, pulling myself into vertical to stumble to the kitchen and get some food before sinking back down. It was super lonely, but I figured I needed all of my energy to focus on getting well. And it worked. By sundown, I was feeling good enough to leave the house and take a walk through the neighborhood.

It was a chance decision to take that one road up into the foothills. I got higher and realized how hungry I was for that kind of view, the bigger picture. But I couldn't see much--too many rich, fancy houses, you know. I was getting frustrated.

But...but. I found it in an empty lot, perched on the edge of a hill, facing the sunset. Safe, quiet, high above everything else. "It"--a place to go when I need to think, when I need to remember that there are bigger things than I, a place nobody else comes. It was perfect.

I never realize how much I need places like this until I find them.

baby, it's cold outside

We sat at the table and laughed and laughed, so hard, like life (and our place in it) was the funniest joke in the world. Free merriment, no reservations. She pulled her hoodie up over her cheeks and splayed her fingers out from her face, grinning as he gestured with his iPad, as I walked to the stove and laughed back at them both, content.

The house was lit and cozy, the screen open so the cool air poured in, carrying rain and sirens and fresh basil with it. I stirred soup while Alex played Christmas music and Steph made nachos, and I thought, Hey. Hey. I like this.

Bloodlines

She didn't get angry often, but when she did, it was very quiet. Her lips compressed, eyes dilated, nostrils flared. It was like all the rage in the world was held back behind those eyes. When she did speak, the words bit, like ice scalds on bare skin. It was frightening, that fury. She just walked into a room and it felt as if the entire world was burning.

Afterwards, she was fragile, like fine gray ash barely held together after a fire sweeps through.

I used to stare at her in the mirror and not recognize a thing.

Bec used to describe me this way when I was angry. Got to thinking about it the other night. So, I haven't lost my temper in a long, long time; it's just my creative writing bit for the day.

Also, this picture has nothing to do with it, but I was searching for some kind of illustration and this is sort of cool, even if it doesn't quite work.

It would be fun to write a story from this picture.

Puddle

Blurred reflection trapped between
The fragments of an azure sky,
The world without is caught within
A worldless question, soundless sigh
Where sidwalk ends and dreams begin
I cannot tell, and will not try.

I'm going to develop this more, I think. I was walking and talking on the phone, and came across this puddle that perfectly reflected everything. Puddles are fascinating. I was like a five-year-old kid who wanted nothing more than a pair of rainboots so I could jump in it.