poetry, Uncategorized

Strange Fog

Mute dawn
seems
in supernova glow
again today.

Beneath gray sheets,
our eyes lay
naked
to rays that should blind…

This time, we wish
ears
had lids
instead… for

we hear
of another garden
taken
as offering…

We breathe
sick sacrifice
second-hand.
Some wear masks. Others

evacuate. Then…
come virulent winds
and we know
there’s no other way.

But not you.

You say
it’s “water”… or
“ocean spray”… or
“just fog”…

You close your eyes
to ash
and soak in
sweet toxicity.

You cough more
than you used to…
but
“that’s just how it is.”

I wonder if
you’ve
ever known
blue skies…

But you
insist
this strange fog
will pass.

And you won’t leave…
So I’m forced to
watch
you dance…

you dance…
in the acid rain…

 

*My heart goes out to everyone effected by the NorCal fires.

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poetry

When Tasked With Reconditioning,

the planner foolishly thought
the brain would be laid out
like the streets –
associations like interchanges –
traumas like stop signs – stop –
then proceed.

the skeptic foolishly believed
poltergeists are as fictional in mind
as in films…
Down haunted halls of the amygdala,
solid phantoms roam and dance and laugh
and kill.

the poet foolishly forced
every memory – every object –
into symbol
so that tree equals him equals
fear equals man equals self
equals pistol.

the addict foolishly strangled
the planner and the skeptic and the poet
so it could
rule the brain as a puppet rules a stage…
Perhaps one day, it could kill the ghosts
for good.

poetry

Nocturne

I guess it might be like that,
like the syncopated symphony
that roars in the sky
every Fourth of July.

Maybe
it’s like the onset,
when the conductor
taps the stand
and the players tune their instruments
and the theater lights dim
slowly…
And for a moment –
before the first blasts –
the crowd sits
still.
Eyes tilt upward
expectantly,
fearless
and filled with only anticipation…

Or maybe,
it’s like the drumbeats
that pulse through the heart like tremors.
Reverb
wracks the body
as cacophonous colors
explode in the heavens
and each member of the audience
jolts back
as though only now realizing
the irrepressible power
of each detonation…

Or maybe,
it’s like the encore,
when every musician
pounds an instrument at forte
and the sound never breaks
and for a moment
it all might be so very grand
that, like the sun,
it might blind those
who gaze too intently…

Or maybe… maybe
it’s more like the curtain.
Maybe,
when the drumbeat goes silent
and the colors
take their bow,
the impenetrable sulphur shroud
is all that remains.
It descends over the sky and the eyes
and sticks in the hair and the throat
until it’s hard to remember
there was ever a grand orchestra…

Maybe
it is onset
and drumbeat
and encore
and curtain…
Or maybe
it is just
as it seems,
just
dim lights
and sound waves
and color
and sulphur…

Maybe
it is all those things…
But maybe
you
are none of those things.
Maybe the metaphor
doesn’t do you credit
and maybe
you’re not as simple
as onset
or drumbeat
or encore
or curtain…
Maybe
you are more
than dim lights
and sound waves
and color
and sulphur…

Maybe
an orchestra
is just musicians
and fireworks
are just gunpowder…
But maybe,
for a person,
the word “just”
is just not enough.

poetry

The Silkworm

Follow your instincts. They

tell you to eat. So eat.

They tell you to weave. So

weave. They tell you to eat.

Tell you to weave. Tell you

to eat to weave to eat.

Instincts don’t fail. So

when they tell you to weave

a fortress around you,

you do as they say

and believe you are safe

in this new silken cage

that protects you from man.

Perhaps, one day, you will

claw your way out. Perhaps,

on that day, you will spread

the new wings you worked hard

to grow and discover

just how heavy they are.

personal, video

Philippians Sermon

So… they let me talk in front of other humans. Preaching this sermon was quite the learning experience. Studying was eye-opening. Writing was fun. Speaking was scary. But every bit of it was the greatest joy. I found comfort in this passage as I studied it and discovered some of my own blindspots, too. Hope these little words help you along.

personal

But I Have an Excuse…

The following are my excuses for why I’ve got nothing this week:

I was busy.
It was Easter weekend and family was in town.
The quarter system is actively trying to kill me slowly.
I have a lot of stuff to get done at work.
I do more commuting than a lot of Davis students.
I was busy.
I couldn’t write because I wasn’t feeling it. It wouldn’t be honest.
My cats ate my inspiration.
I’m so tired.
I had to make time to think about maybe possibly going to the gym.
UC Davis Memes have been dank af recently and it’s important to keep up.
Someone disagreed with me online and I needed to correct them.
Look, I don’t watch as much Netflix as some people okay?
Did I mention that I was just so busy this week?!
And look, when it comes down to it, committing to things is just so haaaarrrd-uh!

***

Yes. I was busy this week.

I’m 20 years old. At one time in recent history and in a lot of places still, it’s crazy that I haven’t settled down with someone and started popping out children and being busy 24/7 dealing with that.

Instead, I have the insane privilege to attend an esteemed university, decide what I want to do in life, work in a good job with great coworkers, and be busy in the ways that move my life forward in a direction that I actually want it to go. And I’m two years into adulthood already. Frankly, I should be busy, not just sitting on my butt all the time.

The reality is that life is busy. And it’s not going to stop being busy – not if I actually want to be a helpful, productive member of society. I want to teach and if I have any hope of being a good teacher, I’m going to have to embrace a certain level of busyness by grading and going the extra mile to care for my students.

Of course I believe in setting limits because one’s entire existence cannot be working. But my point is just that to live and breathe and do anything worthwhile makes your life busy. Working and earning make you busy. Spending time with friends makes you busy. Being a person of faith and actually trying to figure out what that means for life makes you busy.

So if I want to write, if I want to stay committed to this 52 weeks of material thing, then I have to view writing as important enough to make me busy. That’s a decision, not a feeling. And so I’m deciding it.

And now, after sitting here at Temple Coffee for the last thirty minutes – procrastinating on stuff I really have to get done – I have something: an excessive, probably annoying spurt of noise that reflects on my feelings about busyness.

I thought of sharing one of the poems that I wrote for class as a writing exercise. But then I got scared, because they are so rough. Frankly, I’m pretty sure you’d rather hear me rant, which says a lot about the quality of poem I crank out in 15 minutes.

So is this an isolated event, or the first of many blunders to come, a return to my familiar habits?

The truth is, even though I missed my deadline this week, I don’t feel like this particular missed-deadline was a failure. Because I have actually written a lot this week, but to share it now would be to force this little caterpillar out of his cocoon before he’s ready. He’d be all embarrassed, because he’s still in his awkward phase. He’s not quite a butterfly yet. He’s almost there, but his wings are still growing in  and they’d be all short and stubby if I made him present himself now. And I don’t want to do that to do that to him. In two weeks, he’ll be ready to fly.

And yes, I’m trying to cut down on my perfectionism. But this time, I’m telling you, it’ll be worth it.

So, sorry for having nothing. Sorry to myself, more, because I’m pretty sure you don’t care whether I do this or not. And that’s okay. Your lives are busy, too, and paying attention to some random chick’s rough fictional ramblings might not be an important use of your time.

I’ve got no good excuse. But at least this time, I think it’s okay, and not a sign of things to come.

poetry

Highway Flowers

A flower’s destiny depends upon
where the sower scatters seeds. There are
those flowers which live in gardens

and spring up to be watered and
tended and bought and sold as they
make plain spaces lovely again.

White lilies bloom on the steps
in a church. Their petals wil bandage
the grieving, fractured hearts

A sign in a storefront reads, “Roses,
sweet roses for sweeter lovers.” Several roses
sell. Some sit and wait until they wilt.

Some flowers spring up in the fields
where once all flowers lived, and they thrive
for the spring and die in the summer.

But the highway flowers landed in
crevices where they pray for a quiet life
among pavement and shaking earth.

When the sower tossed his seeds along
the path, I wonder if he knew about these cracks
where poppies somehow bloom.

I wonder if he ever visits the highway
flowers, if he waters them and cares for them
the way he gardens the lilies of the field

Are flowers born in fissures dressed
in royal splendor? Are they so marvelous as
the vineyard’s mighty branches?

The rain drizzles down on them as
each car passes, as the flowers grow just
out of grasp of a rogue tire’s tyranny

The rain drizzles down and washes
the grease off their petals, trickles through
cracks to their roots. I wonder if perhaps

a highway, too, can be a garden.

essay

Lily and James: the True Hogwarts Ghosts

Theyre dead listening to echoes of them wont bring them back (Rowling, 243). In J.K. Rowlings Harry Potter of the Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry insists that echoes cannot raise his parents back to life. And yet, throughout Prisoner of Azkaban, echoes of Harrys parents seem to constantly call them back into existence. Far from simply being bodies in the earth, the imagined versions of James and Lily which Harry conjures out of his imagination serve as dynamic forces which not only haunt the novel, but provide a kind of posthumous parenting.” Harry constructs idealized images of James and Lily who provide protection and comfort respectively. He conjures their ghostly echoes into existence and gives them space to parent him by acting in their likenesses and in a final climax to this, he recreates his own traumatic childhood in a moment which works but ultimately fails to redeem their tragic deaths.

Harry creates an image of his father as a great protector out of his imagination and limited memory, even when evidence arises to the contrary. When Harry unsuccessfully produces a Patronus to protect him from the dementors in training, he, for the first time, recalls his father yelling, Lily, take Harry and go! Its him! Go! Run! Ill hold him off (Rowling, 240) in James final moments. Traumatic though Harrys past is, it is key in shaping his idealization of James: Harrys only memory of his father is James effort to protect Harry and Lily and he views his father as courageous and inspiring. He also draws this image out of the knowledge that James once saved Snapes life (Rowling, 285). But Snape complicates Harrys heroic understanding of the event and asks if Harry has been imagining some act of glorious heroism (Rowling, 285). Based on the way in which Harry bit his lip when Snape asks this, it would imply that Harry did have a certain valiant image of how his father came to save Snape. But even after Snapes explanation of James less-than-heroic act, Harry continues to view his father in his particular conjured image. He even implies it when he yells at Snape and accuses him of being blinded by the fact that James and his friends MADE A FOOL OF [SNAPE] AT SCHOOL ” (Rowling, 361). Harry possesses a certain lack of sympathy for Snape in this, ignoring the circumstances of which Snape previously made him aware. At later points of the series, Rowling continues to complicate the readers, and Harrys understanding of James Potter. But in Prisoner of Azkaban, Harry allows his imagination and incredibly limited memory to shape his view of his father, even when Snape combats this. Harry holds tight to a vision, to his imagined father rather than tickling the possibility of James less-than-saintly youth.

Though Lily proves the more elusive and mysterious of the two parents in this particular novel, this only solidifies her ghostliness and Harry conjures an idealized image of her as well, imagining her as a force of comfort. Harry conjures her most tangibly in his encounters with the dementors and her voice haunts him thereafter. Rowling describes how Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mothers voice (Rowling, 184). Lily exists as a sourceless voice which likens her to a ghost or banshee figure; but this moment paints her as an oddly comforting one, connected to home and safety. The word dwell seems an intriguing choice. Not only does his mothers voice wake Harry from nightmares, removing him from the immediate terror of dementors, but the word dwell is connected to a sense of home. The Oxford English Dictionary defines dwell as both to linger over (a thing) in action or thought and also to abide or continue for a time, in a place, state, or condition (OED). Lilys screams, though in one sense, distressing, still offer a strange kind of comfort, characteristic of stereotypical motherhood. Rowling indicates that Harry half wanted to hear his parents again (Rowling, 243) and in his moment of greatest peril when the dementors are about to Kiss him, he hears Lily screaming in his ears She was going to be the last thing he ever heard (Rowling, 384). Harry finds a kind of comfort in what he believes is his final moment when the ghost of his mother is with him. Despite the pain which he associates with his mothers screams, Harrys encounters with the dementors provide him a space to imagine Lily and conjure her into existence, imagining his mother as the idyllic force of safety in his life. She exists as mother and comforter for him, even without a domineering presence in the novel.

The conjured images of Harrys parents function as more than just ideals: they parent him as they inspire his actions and in the case of his father, Harry acts heroically under James influence. His imaginary James gives him resolve in moments of distress. But even beyond this, Harrys vision of James inspires his decision to have mercy on Pettigrew (Rowling, 376). He follows what he believes his father would have wanted and this instills in Harry a capacity for and desire to protect those around him. Even when he seems to have little sympathy for Pettigrew, explaining that he doesnt reckon my dad wouldve wanted his best friends to become killers – just for [Pettigrew] (Rowling, 376), his actions are still in an effort to protect protect Lupin and Sirius from having Pettigrews death upon their consciences. Also, his memory of James’ sacrifice for Harry and Lily translates into a sense of duty and desire to protect within Harry. When Harry first hears his mothers screams, He wanted to help whoever it was (Rowling, 84) and whenhe hears her the second time, He needed to help her She was going to die She was going to be murdered. (Rowling, 179). Just as James spent his final moments protecting Harry and Lily, when Harry hears his mother, his instinct is to save her. The idea of James is deeply ingrained within Harry and it motivates his capacity for heroism. Even in death, the ghost of James haunts Harrys psyche and pushes him to act as protector.

Though far more subtle in her parenting of Harry than James, Lilys spirit seems flicker into existence once more in the novels conclusion, hinting that her comforting nature is present in Harry. Though various characters insist that Harry is just like his father, Dumbledore suggests that Harry looks like James [e]xcept for the eyes you have your mothers eyes (Rowling, 427). Though Harrys outward appearance is that of James, in his eyes the part of the body which most indicates interior expression and is said to provide a window to the soul Harry is most like his mother. The importance of Harrys likeness to Lily strengthens throughout the series but in Prison of Azkaban, the reader receives a clue into Harrys character of kindness. The character of James comes into question with Snapes description of James as a bully and exceedingly arrogant (Rowling, 284). But in contrast, Harrys dreamy vision of his comforting mother is never challenged. The conjured version of Lily remains undisputed all the way to the end of the novel and is even affirmed in Dumbledores praising statement that Harry has his mothers eyes. Though a less prominent parent figure than James, Lilys manifestation stretches beyond just her ghostly screaming and seems to be embedded in Harry.

Lily and James supernatural influence comes to full fruition in the climax of the novel when Harry produces a full Patronus, literally conjuring a physical apparition of his father. Rowling describes the Patronus as a bright, silver stag whose hooves made no mark on the soft ground and vanished as Harry reached out to touch it (Rowling, 412) and the stag was his fathers animal form (424). The Patronus bears significant likeness to a kind of ghost or apparition, though benevolent in nature. Harrys task in producing this apparition requires that he conjure something out of his memory and in doing so, he brings something that has passed something that is now over and dead up into the present. A Patronus, then, is a memory which blurs the line between present and past, just in the way that a ghost is a deceased person who blurs the line between living and dead. Out of his memory and imagination, Harry physically recreates a vision of his father, the protector.

Using this physical apparition, Harry inadvertently attempts but fails to redeem his traumatic childhood. In his moment of greatest peril, the spirits of James and Lily enter spaces eerily parallel to their horrid murders: because of the dementors, Harrys mother was screaming in his ears (Rowling, 384) as she once did before her death and the Patronus a figure of James – steps into the roll of protector. The final scene imagines a scenario in which James successfully defeats Voldemort and saves Harry and Lily. And in an instant, this vision of possibility, this most tangible of manifestations of the parents, is ripped away and Harry is left, once again, needing to imagine them and allow their memories to protect and comfort him. The Patronus ultimately vanishes (Rowling, 412) and Lilys screams are audible only in the presence of dementors. Harry returns to his previous state an orphan and the lone survivor of a terrible event. Lily and James, after their moment of presence, return to their previous rolls as parents who haunt Harry as spirits, flickering in and out of his consciousness. Harry is forced to take on the responsibility to parent himself by generating his own imagined versions of Lily and James and in this final climax, these visions seem to teeter on the boundary between imagination and reality. But ultimately, for all his recreation of the event, Harry cannot protect his mother or father, even with a full Patronus.

Though Lily and James are at no point physically present in Prisoner of Azkaban, Harryimagined visions of them haunt the novel and even seem to parent him. Though Harry fails to redeem his traumatic childhood and can never fully regenerate his parents, the echoes of his parents continue to provide Harry with comfort and protection. Even posthumously, the ideas the parents seem to come to Harrys aid, even if only in Harrys imagination. Tragic though their deaths are, James and Lily are never fully absent from Harrys life. Harry, and the reader, can take comfort in Dumbledores question of whether the dead we have loved ever truly leave us? (Rowling, 427).

personal

10 Lessons from a Senior Care Facility

  1. There is no such thing as “TMI.”
  2. Complaining and grumbling about problems does not solve them.
  3. There are a lot of people in this world that know a hell of a lot more about life than I do.
  4. Cranberry juice mixed with Sprite looks exactly like a rosé.
  5. You cannot assume you know anything about a person’s thoughts or beliefs based on their age.
  6. “Working with old people” should not be treated as some great service to society. At least in food service (I am not extending this point to care, which is a significantly more difficult job), it’s just like working with anyone else except with a greater percentage of patient customers.
  7. Wash. Your. Damn. Hands. (Because having the CDC step in at your facility right around Christmas is actually the worst thing ever.)
  8. Listening can be the greatest expression of love.
  9. It doesn’t take a lot to make someone feel appreciated.
  10. Caring and loving every person takes work and thought but it’s worth it.

I only worked at Eskaton Senior Care for a year and a half, and yet, it feels as though it was such a big part of my life. I am excited for a new opportunity but I find my departure from this job to be much more bittersweet than I had imagined. There are a lot more lessons that I could have listed as I feel that working there genuinely impacted me as a person. Some would be hilarious and some would be incredibly sad. But for now, I just want to use this space to thank all of my coworkers, the good and the bad, the longstanding and the week-longs; Eskaton as a cooperation and the level of care they provide for their residents and their employees; and most importantly, the residents that I worked with. Your kindness, patience, funny stories, and support are things that I cherish so much.

There are not many things that I have found myself “missing” in life. Typically, I leave and move forward into a new experience without much anxiety about it. But from the bottom of my heart, I will miss all of you. Your sweet smiles, your kind words, your stories of wars and traveling and loves that stand the test of time. I wish the best for all of you.