Just writing for the heck of it.

Have you ever had that very odd experience of someone saying your name, and as it springs forth from their lips, it sounds somehow different then you expected it? It’s a very odd sensation.
Let me explain the context
I have a friend, Alex, who goes to Evergreen. Yes, he’s that Evergreen kid that. If you come from Washington state, you know all about him. He’s the pot smoking, tree loving, sex having, tobacco breathing, philosophy major who looks like he is tripping on acid every time you see him. For Christmas, Alex brought home his roommate, Ain’ger. For those of you who are really confused looking at that name and need a way to hear it, she pronounces it “ON-yay.” Now, Ain’ger and I have hung out a few times before. She’s really chill and pretty easy to know so I would call her my friend and she would return that. However, she’s not a ‘good friend’ nor have we seen/been in contact enough for her to be overly familiar with my name.
Enough info! On to the story!
Yesterday, I was over hanging out with the two of them when Ain’ger called my name.
“Mary Wise!”
Why, you ask, should this be worthy of a story? It was not so much that she called my name; it was the level of familiarity with my name as she called it that was startling. I wondered suddenly how she came to say my name with so much authority. I almost asked but figured that would be weird, so I didn’t. I would soon have my answer anyway.
We sitting on the couch watching a movie later when Alex left the room. She leaned over and said “Alex and I have decided that your name is pretty perfect. Sometimes, when we’re feeling silly, or want to see you, or just whatever, we say your name back and forth over and over and over again.”

Ah-hah! Mystery solved!

Nothing very complicated (or: the problem as I see it)

No, I don’t want to talk.
I want to listen to good music.
I want to watch a movie.
I want to listen to blues and drive too fast,
With the windows down and the heat turned up.
I want to grab an ipod, two pairs of headphones and a splitter
And hop busses for hours.
I want to go to the District and watch beautiful people walk by
And talk about them as they turn away.
I want to plant a tree.
Hell, I want to plant dozens of trees!
I want to write a book.
I want to read a play.
(I’ll be Beatrice and if you’ll be Benedick?)
I want to get lost
Wandering through streets I’ve never seen.
I want to drink too much coffee,
And then get really confused and laugh at your ridiculous statements.
I want to make a meal
And then I want to clean a kitchen.
I want to climb a mountain
Then find a patch of clean dry dirt,
Put down a blanket and lay there for hours in quite.
I want to play a game of chess.
I want to play a game of hide and go seek tag.
Fuck it! I just want to play!
I want to spend a day praying to a god that I’m not sure’s there,
Then I want to spend the night swearing loudly
While smoking a half-dozen cigarettes.
I want to build a fire,
A big fire,
A fucking huge ass fire!
Then put away all theoretical talk of magic
And dance around it.
I want to go to Compline.
I want to walk through a graveyard, find a tree.
Sitting there in the quite I want to tell a story.
I want you to tell one too.
I want to jump in a lake.
I want to sweep a porch,
Then sit on it, drinking beer and watching the grass grow.
I want to go to a Mahler concert
And during the boring parts
I want to annoy people around us by playing tic-tac-to on the program.
I want to ride a train.
I want to play in the waves.
I want to walk through the forest for hours and hours,
Listening to the trees talk to the birds talk to the soil talk to us.
I want to hang out, not having to worry about what to say next.
I want to...
Well...
Just be.

Popsicles

“You’re never quite alone, are you?” the old man asked as we crunched through the snow. Our breath making beautiful shadows as it trailed behind us.

“No. no sir, I guess I’m not.” I responded in a half thought out whisper. I had forgotten I could whisper so silently.

“No of course you’re not. How could you ever be?”

Yes, how could I ever be? So many people’s thoughts dancing wildly round and round about, jockeying for attention. So many thoughts, wanting to be sorted out, pleading to be put to rest, like a bunch of spirits praying themselves out of purgatory. No, I guess I’m never alone.

No of course you’re not. How could you ever be?

Yes, how could I ever be? For through this chorus of ideas, also is playing (always playing) music. There is no alone, because every second of everyday is filled with someone elses' music banging around restlessly. More spirits wishing to be prayed from purgatory. No, I guess I’m never alone.

No of course you’re not. How could you ever be?

Yes, how could I ever be?

Speak.

Today, I wandered through long forgotten poetry.
Poems I wrote long ago
And forgot.
Today I revisited them
And as I read prose I wrote,
Trying to remember who they were for,
I realized,
I wrote them for you.

Today, a term of endearment made my being ache.
Dear.
A word that if said normally would grate,
Or make me giddy,
Instead, made my whole heart beautifully ache.
And I found (wonder of all things wonderful!)
It ached for you.

Today, I read about how a man created divine music;
How every note and breath
Was in longing for a presence.
And so I sit here, creating not so divine poetry,
Trying to breathe words not as inspired, but just as powerful
I long for you.

Today, I dreamed of beautiful immaginings.
Imagenings?
Oh Shit.
Well, anyway,
I dreamed them of you.

Today, I swam across an ocean of uncertainty,
Pulled my heart through miles of distance
And drew not a labored breath knowing
I came here for you.

Today, I laughed loudly.
I spoke loudly too.
I spoke for you.

Today, I break the rules
I break them for you

For you

Good Tidings.

Whenever I make pie crust there always comes a point when I am positively sure that the crust will not turn out. Sometimes it’s when the flour, water, and other various ingredients come together. I look at that mix and think to myself that it is either far too sticky or just too dry or impossibly flaky. Sometimes it’s when I roll it out. The dough rips over and over again or sticks to the pin or counter or just won’t roll into a circle. Or sometimes,that incredibly frustrating thought occurs as I’m transferring the dough to the pie pan. It will be a little too short and not quite reach the sides of the pan, or it will rip in two during the transfer from counter to pan.

In any case, there is always the moment when my heart sinks a little and I realize that there is NO way that this crust is ever going to become a crust. Now, I do realize, a crust is a crust. I can always just start again, flour, Crisco, water, repeat. But for some reason the depression that sets in when I am sure that the dough is going to fall apart is just a little overwhelming. I paid such close attention to everything. I measured out each cup and half cup carefully making sure not to cut corners. I didn’t play with the dough but moved quickly through each step. And I was newborn baby gentle while picking transferring the rolled out dough from counter to pan. And yet I watch and feel and know certainly that such a fragile and delicate thing is going to fall apart in my hands.

So, dejectedly, I continue to go through the process of forming a crust, knowing that there is no way this thing is going to make it through. I patch and fold and mend the broken holes, I add water or flour depending. It’s going to take more time and effort to go back and start over so I might as well delay the inevitable and work with what I have. Besides, I’ve kinda become attached to this crust. When I’ve done what I can I look down to find that I have a pie crust. No, it’s not perfect. And no, it looks like nothing I wanted or expected from a pie crust. It’s patched and odd shaped and not quite as thin as it should be. But, it’s a crust; it held together, functions as a crust and tastes good. Not perfect, but functional and better then the last I made. I might not ever make a Good House Keeping pie crust. It might always be patchy and kinda funny to look at. But it will be good, and maybe that’s all that counts.

I love you. I don’t love only your heaviness and I don’t just love your lightness. I couldn’t understand your softness in isolation and your hardness in and of itself would scare me. I don’t love only your heart because that would be impossible and to love only your head would be a contradiction. I love your “confluence of being” as a dear friend would say. And screw Plato and for making it any other way. To concentrasim and let the separation be damned.

New News?

The News Today
Source: The New York Times
Summarized by: Me.

India's economy still growing, Rural Villages Still Poor pg.A4
Canada Still Apathetic pg. A4
Jails Still Full of Immigrants pg. A13
China Accused (again) of Abusing Prisoners pg. A8
Church Playing Politics (Really, Pope, WRONG CHOICE!) pg. A15
Politics Playing Church (dumb asses) pg.A26
Nintendo Excited for Christmas, because that's what Christmas is all about! pg. B2

Kinda pisses you off doesn't it?

4:30am

Some nights
I can’t sleep
And I know I won’t be able to.
So I sit
And read
Trying to hard to be productive
And I think
About what
I could accomplish if it was day
But it’s not
So I'm here
Making up shitty poetry



I think that if only,
if only I could unite the sounds of my heart,
The words of my head,
And the motion of my lips,
If only I could unite them
I could say what my...
"Confluence of Being"
Wishes to express
And then maybe, maybe
I could be at peace.

Musings from a predictable mind.

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
and proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
-Jeffrey McDaniel

I stumbled upon this poem a while back. I liked it so much that I wrote it on a random piece of cardboard and duck taped it to the white brick wall above my drawers. Romantic right? It became part of my wall and I subsequently forgot about it. This evening however, as I was looking around my room for a distraction from homework, my eyes fell again on this poem. I still think it is beautiful. No, it is not a brilliant representation of what the English language is capable of doing. Nor is it particularly stunning as a work of art. Why then, do I like this? Because it accomplishes what it sets out to do. There is an idea here that is floating around and it makes you want to find it. What I think is so beautiful about this poem is that is encourages, no forces the reader to see a side of love and human interaction that we see little of. Silence. By the order of the government, McDaniel forces the reader into a world in which the form of communication we use best, words, are limited. And then he takes us one step beyond merely the shock of limited speech, he forces us to read of silence in love. We live in a world where words are held up as THE form or communication, where touch is becoming more and more sexualized and silence, demonized. I believe that we are left with a great longing for human interaction (and more specifically love) that is not synonymous with noise, but consists of important statements said over and over, silence, and intense concentrated listening to something as quiet as breath.

- Ernst Junger

…all these adventurers, fairy tale princes, sea pirates, and magnanimous criminals, I don’t complain that they have passed on but I would wish that they might find with every new orbit that life affords us successors on whom the whole sum of love and belief dedicated to them might be carried on.

Dear Heart.

Open your window.
As wide as it will open
Can you feel the wind?
Or a breeze even?
Can you smell the fall,
It’s rotting leaves,
And it’s cold water
And it’s clouds?

Do you see that rain
As is pours down
Cooling the ground
Cooling your soul?
It’s beautiful.
You could weep.
You could watch it,
And cry for the freedom.

Wind! Can you hear it?
You felt it.
But can you hear it?
It goes and comes
And moves and sings.
Can you hear it?
Wind with the trees
Moving like lovers,
Moaning with pleasure
And freedom.

Breath! Look out!
Look up at the clouds.
The patch of blue,
The height and depth of such
Is staggering to the soul.
Unable to understand
Stand in silence and awe.
Maybe that’s the point.

Changing the World

Is not going to start with a major, or a minor, or four years of school, or sixty
It’s not going to start with prayer, or a fast, or a trip to find our spirit
Transforming the world will happen when we bow our heads and
When we bend our knees, becoming guilty before one another
When we open our eyes and find that the cave is inescapable
When we look around and realize goodness cannot be seen
Because we are chained to each other down here,
And when we think we are seeing
We are really just dreaming.
Changing the world will be
Waking from our dream
Soundlessly reaching
Grabbing cold hands
And whispering
Over and over
Forgive me.
I love you.

Forgetting.

Nothing was as good

As when we walked on rainy days
And you leaned your neck forward and around
In an act of pure acrobatics
Just to look into my eyes
Looking for something
Or waiting for something.

Your steps are seared into my memory
A gait that I will never quite forget
Your neck and shoulders leaning forward
Unable to wait for the next step
Long legs jutting and thrusting
An awkward stride, a telling stride

Words and steps pouring from your body
As rain from the grey blue sky
Your high voice echoing in my ears
Expecting from me words of understanding
Leaning your body forward perhaps
To find that understanding

When my thoughts were elsewhere
You would ask what I was thinking
And that would stop my breath
Your persistence when I wouldn’t answer
And your satisfaction when I did
Was always satisfying

Honesty was not our strong suite then
We fed ourselves on half truths
And were satisfied by that
In silence and lies we were comfortable
I wonder if you still are
I wonder if you still are anxious for the next step.

We taught each other our games
Of manipulation and untruths
And we laughed when we played with others
Because they were ignorant to our ways
And they couldn’t see that we were playing
Demons in the skin of children

We turned our games on each other
Laughing like those drunk on wine
At how clever we were
Knowing that these games of hurt
Stopped us from playing a game we didn’t want to play
Complete honesty

What would we have said if forced to play?
If the demons were expelled
And the children were forced to come out
And play in the rain

My love
I don’t
My friend
You’re not
My game
You played
My demon
You saved


Goodbye

Her and Me

Last night I saw her across the room. I made my way over to this child, and being a child asked her how she was. Her response was uninvolved and scripted. But, as I stood looking into her eyes those two bright lights became somehow brighter as they, as if fed my some sacred spring, welled up and overflowed with holy water.

And today for the first time in months I missed you. That wave of yearning washed over me again and I almost cried aloud with the ache that was a part of me. This miss welled up from some forgotten part and I sat wondering at my sanity and the endurance of my heart. All I remember is the unbearable burn of your presence and yet the cold ache of your absence is too much for me.

Forgive me.

What if He never speaks back?
If no prophetic words are spoken into my soul and no healing is experienced?
What if that audible voice that I so desperately long to hear is never heard?
How long will this shaky faith stand?
How long will this grace filled hypocrisy hold?
Where will I turn if this Love I seek so desperately to hold is never reassured?
How long can I fall on my knees, open my mouth and cry "I give up! I love you! Please let me hear your voice" without answer?

"God is telling us 'I want to speak to you in a way that you don't have to go searching for, that won't scare you, and that you understand.'"

Becky Jo, I believe you but what, for the love of God, do I understand?

"I had someone tell me that he knew God hadn't forgotten me. And I knew at that moment that God never forgets us."

Becky Jo, I hear you but what if I never receive a prophetic word? How will I know God is even there?


"I want to speak to you in a way that you don't have to go searching for, that won't scare you, and that you understand. Because I never forget you."


God?
Is that you?
Are you there?
Yes, that makes sense.
Maybe I will never hear You in your voice
But maybe I will hear you in people
Who I can understand
Who I am not afraid of
Who I do not have to search for

And maybe my prayers need not be of things that reek of hypocrisy.
No "Father"s or "Where are you"s or "Please bless so and so"s
Maybe something simpler will do
"Oh my God, you make it hard not to pick the apple and Lord I long to give it back.
Forgive me."
Forgive me.

-MM

"I feel like a hypocrite so I can't pray."

Yes, this is what I wrote about today. Don't be judging.

I will always mince my own garlic. Yes, I do know that pulling pre-crushed pre-minced garlic out of the refrigerator and scooping it out of it’s glass bottle is in fact, easier, more timely, and cleaner. And yet, I am going to mince garlic. Yes, my hands will smell like garlic after this process. I do realize that many people might find garlic a slightly offensive odor. If someone were to come up to me and say “you, friend, smell slightly of garlic” I might apologetically reply “yes, it is a very strong smell.” I would scrunch up my nose and raise my eyebrows in the correct look of disgust and apology. But I would walk away thinking, “Yes, it is a very strong smell, it reminds me of home. Though you may find my garlic scented hands a bothersome presence they are one of the things that tie me strongly to this world. I will not give up the cutting of garlic.” You see, hands that smell like garlic are Saturday mornings with mom and dad in the kitchen making four pots of spaghetti sauce for our church potluck, dancing that crazy beautiful dance that two people know after years of cooking together. Both of them talking about kids and church and family. Garlic, onions, mushrooms, olive oil, sauté them all together and you have the smell of my house when it is the most that my home can be. Garlic hands are my mom’s hands, my dad’s hands, my grandma’s hands, my grandpa’s hands and now my hands. And I would not give that up for anything. So, when the recipe calls for it, I will buy garlic, unwrap it from its papery shell, take a large flat blade and crush the clove, then cut it into very fine pieces. And yes, my hands will smell like garlic for a few hours. But we are human and scent ties us not only to object and people we love but to our humanity as well. I will not give that up.

In an attempt to clear my vision

Standing at the bus stop with Rilo Kiley on repeat I looked down at my feet and realized I was standing on something. A metal plate trapped in the sidewalk read:
~Buried Capsule~
~Indian Plum~
~Contains Indigenous Seeds~
~DEPTH, TIME~
I stood and stared at this odd sight and then looked up the side walk to see an additional four identical plates. The only exception to their uniformity was the name of the seed contained within. It struck me as odd that these seeds had been entombed in metal and cement with no thought to their purpose. Whoever had buried these seeds had believed not in the power of growth but instead entrusted this source of life to stone and metal, giving the seeds a stunted existence in the name of protection and preservation. I wonder what would happen if these seeds were excised and planted in good soil. I wonder, given the opportunity, if they might grow and produce more seeds? And, if nurtured and kept clear of weeds might not those seeds grow? And so on and on. If the process was continued the possibility would be a garden, full up with not only the seeds, but the stalk, and the leaves and the fruit of these native plants. But, I guess it’s easier to bury them, TIME, DEPTH. Let some other resurrect the seeds and take the trouble to cultivate them. We did our part by preserving them. At least we did something. That should be enough. Someone else will spend the time and have the courage to let them grow. Right?

A broken and disjointed Psalm

Fuck you
Fuck you and your invocation of a name
That you know nothing about
That I know nothing about
A triune that is separate but never apart
Fuck this invocation of yours

A Father who does not speak to a blind child
A Son who does not illuminate the room he stands in
A Spirit whose actions cannot be felt
This divided person and single nature
Whose very presence I have not experienced
And still I wish with all my heart to know

I had forgotten
A summer of fires and argument
Has made me forget that You and I
Have never truly met
That I cannot love You, nor follow You
Until I see Your face and experience this grace

So, I pick up this task: I wish to love You
Please know that (in all persons and in one)
It will not do for me to know of You
I will not be a friend of a friend
I would rather give You nothing
Then give You a part and settle for acquaintance

If You are there
If everything that screams inside of me is right
If the sound of this invocation is important
Then this doubt that I’m about to slam against
is more then it has been before
It crakes louder and cuts deeper

This fog that has settled over my eyes
This haziness that has clouded my senses
Is getting the better of me
And I must find my own way through this one
Please be where I look.
God, please be where I look

Playdough or Plato?

So, I’ve thought about these ideas and now talked about them (thank you Rani Ban) and am ready to write them down. I’ve decided not to give a flying rip about whether or not I sound intelligent...this is a blog.

I’ve been reading The Republic, maybe reading isn’t the right verb, masticating…yes, I’ve been masticating The Republic. It’s a good word for this reading Plato business because it looks a lot like masochism and masturbation, both of which could also describe my experience with Plato thus far. It’s good for my brain to spend hours and hours understanding something and it’s a pretty wonderful feeling to know that I am getting Plato enough to form opinions. But, at the same time, I can’t help but feel like it’s wrong to spend a painful hour reading ten pages...and to enjoy it. This man/his teacher has/have (I’m going to stop /’ing and just refer to Plato. Do understand however that I speak of Plato and Socrates) a very interesting philosophy. I’m not sure if I agree with some crucial parts of it. I’m not sure if that is due to the fact that I am new at this philosophy thing and just don’t understand, or if my concerns are valid. So, here we go.

Probably the one thing that has been bugging me the most about Plato is his Forms. This is a central thing for Plato. It might even be THE thing for Plato and it kinda scares me that I disagree. Even more concerning is that I am not sure how to go about disagreeing. We’ll see where this ends up. So, from how I understand this thing, Plato believed that there is the world, which is merely a reflection of something more perfect. More specifically, the world and everything in it are reflections of perfect ‘forms.’ Among these forms are things such as “Beauty” “Just” “Truth” and “Good.” Plato argues that nothing in this world is beauty, just that things that are beautiful reflect the perfect form of Beauty. Same goes with things that are just and good-they are just reflections. ....................... Oh fuck

I just talked myself out of some of the problems I have with Forms...

My problem with Forms was that they somehow cheapen the physical world. Forms make this world less because they are the thing to be strived for and looked for beneath everything else. That somehow seemed wrong to me a second ago. However, now, I’m not too sure. That’s annoying. If I believe in Truth I believe in a form, something not physical that is to be strived for and is. And, I think I have to believe in Truth. If I don’t then why the hell do I care about anything other than the physical? If there is not something to be found then why read Plato or study philosophy or think in the first place? Something rather odd has been occurring recently. I’ve looked at physical objects and not just seen those physical objects but seen ‘truths’ hidden in them. It might be a house or a road or a child but within these I am seeing metaphors of meaning. It seems like that almost could take me into a belief in forms. So, why see those if there is nothing to anything? Because I have to believe there is Truth or Goodness and we can know it. I must believe in Forms. Right?

I still have problems with Plato and his Forms. My disagreements are just not as simple as I thought they would be.

Moral of the story: Don't write things down. You will change your mind before you're done and confuse the poor people that read to the end.

Four miles without shoes and THIS is what I came up with?

I recently started to read my Bible again. When I was younger I was a Bible maniac and could recite half of it by memory. However, that was then. In the last few years my Bible has fallen by the way side. Put away and shunned like tricycles and dolls when you believe you are far too old for such things. However, just as I have gone digging in the garage to find the old red tricycle I use to ride or have been found rifling around in boxes trying to find a long gone doll that comforted me on dark nights, I have pulled out my Bible. Not, mind you, for school, or for such obligating reasons as ‘study’ but for …. A story. A beautiful, tragic, meaningful (or rather full of meaning) and important story. Each section of this book was written and chosen because it needed to convey something. When taken in this form the Bible is no longer an archaic book meant for an ancient religion but alive in the things that it must convey to us. And, even more personally, Jesus becomes even more interesting when forced to stand on the scriptures as they are with cultural context and without the dogma. Maybe I am just looking for an old forgotten sense of security against the dark night that ‘adulthood’ seems to be. Or maybe I’m just looking to reclaim the freedom and comfort that only comes from knowledge that you are supported by three wheels. But, I think not. There is something to this Bible that begs to be examined on its own. Without the constraints of the labels I have given it over the years. But, that is neither here nor there. The point is, is that I am reading this cool book. I'm enjoying it. We shall see where it takes me.

To someone....it escapes me.

I don't know who this is to. I wrote it without thought. If that cheapens it, well, it was worth nothing to begin with.

As we come back to life
Let us remember who we are
As the struggle ends
And the light begins to show itself
Let us look to one another
And rediscover
What we are, who we are,
Where we are going
And what we are looking for
As we begin to touch at daylight
And forget the night ever existed
Let us remember
That we are children
Ever changing
That you are in my heart
Always there
That no matter how much we grow
And how much we change
Or how much we revert
To the time before the dark
You are you
I am me
Let us rest in that
Peace.

Slash

I am almost certain
that you have a beautiful soul.

/

You're starting to convince me
that mine is beautiful as well.

huusssshhhh

I want to be on the Oregon coast, in the grey and the cold and the mist of a fall day at the beach. I would find a stick that fits perfectly, beautifully in my hand, a perfect writing stick. I want to find a spot of beach right where the water licks the sand, where the waves have washed the beach glass flat. With my perfect writing stick I want to write “I DID THIS.” I would write it in gigantic, grotesque, awkward letters, destroying the sands perfect flatness, an ignorant child molesting a peace which is beyond my knowing. I want to then turn my back on this giant monstrosity that I created, and wait. 1...2…3
huuussssshhhhhh
I would know before I turned to look. All the ugliness created by me and my perfect pen, would be uncreated by the sound of ‘huuusssshhhhhh.’

Not going back.

Tiered. That’s all that is running through my head right now. Tiered and achy. My eyes feel as if someone through sand in my face and my body feels like I’m been hit by a 16 hand horse. I’ve sat down the last few days and tried to write fearing that this brief vision of….what? Inspiration?..... is slowly leaving me. These last few weeks I’ve felt the urge to write every day. And I have. These strange bursts of inspiration I have grown to expect over the years. They come and hit hard, telling me and teaching me the lessons I have absorbed in the previous months. And then it dies. This ability to articulate thoughts and feelings in a written form leaves such a hole when I feel I can no longer do it. So, I sit to write this hoping that I have not run out of words. Clinging to the thought that maybe this bit of dryness can be waited out. That somehow I might be able to force through this none-communicativeness of my “soul.” Terrified that I have run my ability of unforced expression to its limit.

Looking Down.

When all is said and done and we are left looking down, will we wonder if it would have been better to stay on the ground?

All of us just babies.

Me: Okay, guys, that was a great chapel wasn’t it. Now I want you all to grab your bibles and head to a quite spot and spend some time talking with god. Read your bible, pray, or just sit and enjoy the last sun rays of this splendid day. Ready, BREAK!

All of the campers take off up to the house. There are five boys this week that I swear can make it from the barn to the house in 3.4 seconds.

She walks up to me slowly with her neck hanging. She’s wearing a black hoodie and has dyed her hair pitch black. I know from camp records that she is 13 but she looks more like 15. ‘Uh-oh’ I think, ‘I wonder where this one is from.’

She: Um….( she fiddles with her coat)…. I don’t really ha-have a Bible (The stutter is not due to shyness or difficulty speaking but from a strange restlessness that seems to boil in the heart of this thirteen year old)

Me: Oh well, I can fix that
I head to the cabinet where we keep the stack of bibles we give to campers who don’t have them.

She: No, I don’t want one.
Now I’m interested

Me: Um….well, okay….can you tell me why you don’t want one.

She: Well, I don’t read the bible or go to church or anything. (she is perpetually pulling at her black hoodie and sliding her feet around the floor. Boil.) My foster mom sent me here because I like horses but I didn’t know it was going to be a god camp.

Me: do you have something else that you want to do? Something quite, like a book or…something?

She: I was going to draw but my counselor said I couldn’t be in the room if I wasn’t going to read my bible.

Me: (really angry and irritated at her counselor) Well, I’m sorry about that. Would you like to come sit in the common room with me. I’m just going to be doing a little bit of work and I would love the company. Go grab your drawing stuff and come sit with me.

She knods her head and shuffles her feet.

She moves away about to climb the stairs to her room when I interrupt her progress.

Me: (gently, you don’t want to push kids like this one) Do you believe in god?
She: (She pauses to think and then says quietly) I-I just don’t know.

As she walks away I whisper under my breath

Me: Me too baby child, me too.

Please, convince me.

‘We are not Machines.’

They grind the phrase into my ears

Piercing and screeching and wining

Trying to convince me of something

I cannot see.

I know I should believe them.

My mind ticks and turns and tries to silence itself

Into this strange thought:

We are more than a ticking, whirling reason.

There is a silent, invisible, weightless, and unreasonable

Part of us, the Ghost of our hearts.

But I cannot accept this.

Because all I can see, all I can find

Is the reason behind the movements

The motivations behind the actions.

I see no ‘geist.’

All I want is to sit here quietly

Touching in wonderment

that which I wish not to understand

And wish not to destroy.

But it seems

Like everything I touch

I must break.

Tear the machine apart

Piece by piece dismantling and labeling

Lay all out in front of me.

And I stare at the bloody mess I’ve created

And shown to the world.

I am proud at this,

This corpse of a soul I’ve torn apart.

When I should be disgusted

By my invasion.

Just some poetry.

My feet are covered in Dust and dirt and sun.
My muscles have come to Accept the constant ache.
My hair is Lighter and my skin darker.
Let this get Better.
I Accept.
Let this be my Season.
Let me Rest in it.

All I have is the People I can see.
All I want is to be quite in this House.
All I need is to sit here, quite and Still and loved
For seven Weeks.
I'll Wait.
For what is here is what I Need.
For Rest is this time.

My questions about you and your Will and your plan,
My anger and My tests,
My disbelief, they are like Fire.
I can stand It
I'll Burn
I must wait for my Vision to clear
I must try to Rest