Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
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
‘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
My muscles have come to Accept the constant ache.
My hair is Lighter and my skin darker.
Let this get Better.
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.
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 must wait for my Vision to clear
I must try to Rest