Sunday, July 26, 2009


I am almost certain
that you have a beautiful soul.


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

Thursday, July 23, 2009


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
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.’

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

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.

Friday, July 17, 2009

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?

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

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.

Monday, July 13, 2009

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.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

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