my life this term

I’m not sure I want to forget.

First of all: it was hard to leave California behind. Something was pulled out of me when the plane was taking off and “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” by Iron & Wine was playing. That was leaving home. That was what I realized, even though the whole world would tell you it isn’t true. I still miss it terribly. I miss the humming presence of humanity, the jogs around Berkeley up toward the hills, buying food at the Bowl, walking down the Mission, coming home tired with the smell of the city on me and washing my hands and face, eating the best pizza and homemade soup and huge salads and delicious tea, the clean peace of Pam and Brian’s house, jazz and culture and friendships and acceptance and love all wrapping me up and holding me close so far away from the cold emptiness of my country home and my ruthless college. Watching the TV when Pam and Brian were away; great conversations at dinner when they came back with flowers from the Canyon; feeling in love, deeply and forever in love with that place.

I discovered Billie Holiday and Tom Waits and Coldplay and played them incessantly. I read “Brand” and Eugene Onegin and tried to read Her and couldn’t do it. I felt held, like I hadn’t for a very long time–by the place, by the people, by every detail of my life. It felt like that life had been waiting, patiently, kindly, for me to come and live it. The faces of Central Americans passing by me on the streets of San Francisco. “Tell Me Momma” and “I Don’t Believe You” and “Too Many Mornings” from Dylan’s live ’66 concert blasing from my iPod. Trying to watch “Birth of a Nation;” watching “Apocalypse Now.” Writing letters. Becoming a vegetarian and loving it. The way we unpacked my father’s family. Even walks in long golden sunlight up through the impossibly beautiful neighborhoods of the Berkeley Hills. The night of January 20th when there was such a party at our house. The way I came to love humanity in those seven weeks like I never had before.

That amazing evening on Valencia Street before the dance show, when I found one of my favorite places in the world.

And then it was back here, back to Bennington. My love for Tom Waits blossomed. I was busier and more stressed out than I had ever been in my life. I was working 10 hours a week in the dining hall until I dropped a shift because I was breaking down. I lived with Rachel in a clean white room on the bottom floor of Sawtell–room three. I had the side with the drafty window. Slowly but surely, we decorated the walls with little colorful scraps of our lives. I hung the Tibetan peace flags from Mudita on my closet door. I had some cheap vanilla scent that got old really fast. I had hand sanitizer on my desk and writing quotes on the wall above. My favorite breakfast was yogurt with cracklin’ oat brain, raisin bran, sometimes muesli, peach slices, and strawberries, and often a couple slices of melon. I had coffee every morning. For the first half of the semester I was so busy that I skipped dinner and ran from place to place and felt awful. On Mondays I had Edith Wharton/Henry james from 8 to 10, ate lunch from 11.30 – 12, worked salad duty from 12 – 1, had History of Science (usually with a snack) from 2 – 4, dinner from 5 – 5.30, and salad duty from 5.30 – 6.30. I would usually do homework for the rest of the night.

I got addicted to checking my email this term. I also discovered Will Stratton’s music (thanks to Rachel) and came to love it. I began keeping a little notebook of miscellaneous eyes. I chewed a lot of gum, didn’t go to the gym as often as I would have liked, and felt very clean pretty much all the time. Began making graham-cracker-peanut-butter-raisin-chocolate-chip sandwiches again midterm and got re-hooked. Missed talking to Thalia. Felt ridiculously cut off and isolated.

Tuesday was ceramics 8:20 – 12, lunch 12 – 1, meeting with advisor 1 – 1:30, homework until 4, when I would go to my American Music class in Jennings. Usually walked back with Corinne, a wonderful new friend this term. Had dinner, and then homework.

Wednesday I had no classes. I got up early anyway, sometimes I wrote, usually I just did homework, sometimes went to the gym. Thursday was the same as Monday except I also had music from 4 – 6, and then SSJ in the evening. I usually ate dinner with some combination of Corinne, Emily Harris, Olivia Gannon, Melanie, Rachel, Alex, and Megan Costello. I usually left the dining hall with an apple, or an orange, or a peppermint or spearmint. I discovered Villnöß online in late May–northeastern Italy, most beautiful place EVER. I had shea butter hand moisturizer on my desk, wearing a little green t-shirt that said “Cuddle with someone from Green Mountain College.” It came on a little stuffed owl that Danielle gave me for my birthday. My bed was all white with the colorful patchwork pillow on it. I had my Revolver poster on the wall, a picture of my favorite house in Historic Deerfield, a penguin card from my family, my Wall-E birthday card and 3-D stickers from Rachel, mini-Tibetan prayer flags, an alien I made out of construction paper, and the rhino card. My favorite salad was spinach or mixed greens, cucumber, mushroom, tomato, and feta cheese.
Friday I had no classes, so it was much the same as Wednesday, except from 10 – 12 I had work (helping the cook). Later in the semester I would picnic on Fridays with Rachel, Betsy, Melanie, Corinne, Olivia, and Emily. Saturdays I had salad duty 5:30 – 6:30 and then table-washing until 8. One hot sticky evening I got through it by pretending I was a poor writer in Venice who washed tables at a big hotel to pay the bills. On Sunday I had salad duty in the evening again. Alex and Rachel and I joked a lot, and the most common themes were hippies, your mom, and how everything was fine and great and wonderful. I grew Rachel’s little plants in the window and she usually slept at Alex’s.

save

save

complete unknown

Small Talk, Big Names: 40 Years of Rock Quotes ($9.00)
The Complete Clash ($12.00)
The Future of Revolutions (John Foran) ($12.00)
Revolution (George Barna) ($16.00)
The Uncertainties of Knowledge (Immanuel Wallerstein) ($17.00)
Art into Pop (Simon Frith and Howard Horne) ($40.00)
Days in the Life: Voices from the English Underground ($50.00)

so cruel

Don’t boss me around right now, know I’m tense I’m ready now, with everything piling up non-stop on these shoulders, with every eye waiting to pop on each heart drop and pulses pound, demands abound, don’t give me one more responsibility, not sure if anyone knows what I mean–you can put on my shoes and wave them in my face and you don’t know the half of this goddam race, there’s nothing cute or funny or known about this mysterious unburied rage walking alive and hungry tonight–sick to death of all your scared passive lack of communication and sudden outbursts of annoyance because you’re a woman and society won’t let you (or maybe you won’t let yourself) tell me exactly what it is you want–sick to death of all these demands on my freedom eating away at me and insisting that they’re making me a better person and being right–give me a break, I don’t even have 45 minutes to waste, not in this life, when just 6 months ago I was looking ahead to half a year more of 18, and suddenly 19 is next thing, coming up next, 12 days from now and an infinity of termites gnaw the wood of this life unstoppingly until one day it’s all gnawed through and the kingdom falls and you hear it crashing into the dust, but you can watch it from above because you’re free now, you’re free. Nothing convinces and nothing pleases and I don’t think I really believe anything I say. The pants don’t fit, the mind wanders, I cannot do what I was made to do, the schedule imposed on me does not allow for spontaneity, and yet I know my mind has created all of this, and it does no good, it just does no good.

refugee

I take refuge in the sound of Tom Waits’s piano.

I take refuge in a feeling of lightness.

I take refuge in the strength of my own mind.

I take refuge in freedom.

I take refuge in renunciation.

I take refuge in branches reflected in water.

I take refuge in courage.

I take refuge in listening to my body–my body, not my fearful feelings.

I take refuge in a waiting castle in the trees where crows are calling.

I take refuge in the past.

I take refuge in moving.

I take refuge in distant hills.

I take refuge in the pages of an old children’s book.

I take refuge in caring.

I take refuge in the geese in flight.

I take refuge in curiosity.

I take refuge in the sky.

I take refuge in surprising myself.

I take refuge in photographs.

I take refuge in rebellion.

I take refuge in the air.

I take refuge in dreams of flying.

I take refuge in change.

I take refuge in destiny.

I take refuge in art.

I take refuge in devotion.

I take refuge in trees.

I take refuge in paths & where they lead.

12 days of spring

Red paint is drying on the sign in my closet, and the rusty bus sits with engines cooling somewhere out back where my uncle used to whistle as he tinkered with engines. Now my sweaty body breathes hard; now my eyes are smaller, paler, older; now there is a layer of gold below my skin. Sometimes I lie awake at night, afraid, but still remembering the feeling of hot dry spiky grass on my paws, and the gasp of a cold damp smooth bottle of milk rolling across my head in a darkened suburban house somewhere in America. If you wait, if you listen, crickets are singing in Sodom, South Georgia. Hills are rolling in Tennessee, and there’s a cicada singing inside of me, though I’m waiting in a dry skin for the days of metamorphosis. Once I was a fish, swimming in in your stream; then I slouched downriver to be born–dragged myself from the red warm waters, dripping with algae and pondweed, gasping, slimy; too heavy, too wet, too dark, and too light, too. Like any good parent to which a beast is born, you kept the smile on your face, you left the other mask hanging in the closet: you saved it for later.

too much

I always have too much to say, but of course there isn’t time. I never know where to begin, but you have to start somewhere, clap your hands in the silence and hope the echoes come back to you tonight, warm and soft on the cabin windowsill. I’m just banking the fire when they come in, blanketing the glow of coals with the softest touch in the world: the embrace of ashes. It’s so quiet I can almost hear the stars coming out. In a room somewhere Tomorrow is sleeping, and I move softly so I won’t wake it–and so do the echoes, slipping in over the windowsill. On these cool spring nights, I leave that window a little open. Yes, they’re quiet as cat-o-nine-tails, just humming softly to themselves. They pause at the edge of the worn Navajo rug–watch me blowing out candles and drawing curtains. I go toward the bedroom and my socks don’t make a sound on the smoothness of this ancient boards. The petrified door swallows his creak and closes behind me like a loyal hand on my back, between the shoulder blades, touching so light with so much solemn strength somewhere deep within the hand. And the echoes come under the door, and wrap themselves up the bedposts like glowing Christmas lights, and hum to me all through my dreams, tonight and always.