when you despise the government but go to school, work, and out for drinks anyway

October 2020

layers of rules 

sometimes the signs point in different directions 

sometimes the signs aren’t signs 

sign here. Sign yourself away 

can I trust them when they speak with hands curled into shapes behind their backs?

what’s in their drawer?

never bandages

always knives. 

wasted words swirl into the recesses of our collective recession

they’re dangling green backs over our heads,

redlining our streets

streets shivering so hard its’s difficult to hang on

especially those still shackled by ghostly chains 

i’ve never trusted career politicians 

with their flip flopping that itches between my toes.

My Shadow

Written in 2014

When the sun is behind she walks ahead,

when the sun is ahead she walks behind.

With every step I take, she takes one too,

we walk the road together.

The companion I didn’t have to ask for.

As long as the sun shines high in the sky,

she has no say in her existence,

But she has no words anyway.

She keeps going, silently leading or following,

yet never directing.

In the evening she retires with the setting sun,

leaving me to walk alone.

I wait for her companionship to rise with the morning sun.

Pens

*Written in November 2016 

My inspirations for writing have always expressed themselves in weird ways. It’s always by a thought or idea that, without warning, suddenly pops into my head, and nags me until I write it down. I have a hard time sitting down and writing at will, which is why creative writing class in high school was a bit of a challenge. Though I learned a lot, I found myself having to reach far and wide for things that really didn’t hold any importance to me. Not that pens have been all that important to me… perhaps you thought the same? But have you ever dived deep into one particular object, thought about it in every possible way, and tried to express it? Pens popped into my head the other day, here’s the result:*

Click. The sound that indicates something is about to begin. I’d like to think that everyone wants something substantial, items that make us feel powerful and important. Think about the way it feels to hold and write with a pen, it has substance. The ink flows as if from your very own fingertips and pops out from the paper. The deep, inky hues shine back at you, then sink into the paper as they dry. Black, midnight blue, red, etc. You’re careful to keep your hand close by for fear of smudging. Click. What you wrote is there to stay, the permanence might feel comforting or nerve-wracking, depending on the document. 

Signatures, usually written in pen, are an authentic way of expressing your identity that cannot be erased. You can add extra loops, swirls, dots, and lines, or you can be simple. Your name takes on personality through your own stylistic flick of the wrist. Ink is more substantial than graphite, so there’s an element of  added focus when armed with a pen. Your senses are sharp as you focus on the point of connection between pen and paper. With a pencil you can be nonchalant, free to go back and erase, write, erase, write. Or even further than that, the typed document that can be augmented quickly, without leaving a trace of past mistakes. 

Our world is so fast now, we want instant gratification, instant messaging, instant everything. A keyboard takes over the job of handwriting. They say we’re more efficient as a society now, but are we really? We can fit more “productivity” into the day, but at what cost? By the time we’re done being “productive” and “efficient” there’s no energy or time left for what’s important: family, friends…being with yourself. We’re always going, going…gone? We are ill because we are never still. Hand writing takes time and patience, tricky attributes to find these days.

Handwriting can be self expression on paper. Have you ever written a love letter? The epitome of outpouring of ink and feelings. Think of the emotion that goes into a letter, the time you take to express to that special person just how much you love them, written in your  unique handwriting. What about the receiver of said letter? It’s such a wonderful feeling when you reach into the mailbox and see your name as the recipient. You don’t even need to look at who sent it because you already know. Their handwriting strikes familiarity in your heart. You are holding something that your lover once held, sealed and mailed to you. That is not something you get from a typed message. Everyone can use Times New Roman, size twelve, double spaced…no one can mimic your handwriting. Upon opening the letter you see your lover’s thoughts and feelings reflected in the writing. You see the tiny dots where the person momentarily rested the pen in the margin of the paper as they decided the best way to express their love.

Now we have heart emoji’s that attempt to express the same thing. The sender doesn’t have to do much for that. Though it’s nice to receive any form of recognition, a hand written letter could speak louder than a heart someone else designed and put into the software of your phone. 

Now think about how cursive looks on paper; the letters are joined, dancing across the paper like a well choreographed ballet. That lovely dance is replaced by disconnected letters that fragment the process. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. But this disconnect seems to be a representation of how we live. The gap between humans and the natural world appears larger every day. We think we’re better, greater, more powerful than nature, but what happens when a paved road is left abandoned? Nature seeps back in. If we are to stick around, we better join and respect the mother-of-our-nature again. We must connect with her again, like the joined letters of cursive on paper.

What would that favorite pen look like? How would you express yourself through this pen. Think about it for a moment. Colors? Textures? Where would you keep it? Would you embellish your breast pocket with it, making sure the public eye would see your expensive writing tool? Would it still be a writing tool when used like that? Or to signal your socioeconomic status? Any pen can convey your words, whether it is two or two hundred dollars. Would you treat your pen as an everyday object, hiding it behind your ear in the hopes of keeping it close as you work, only to forget you put it there and search for its whereabouts? Would you write words of love with it? Hate? What important things would you use it for, when pencils just don’t make the cut? Would it be something to fiddle with, something to chew on? A mighty delivery system of expression, or a simple tool created to save thoughts? 

I don’t have any excuse as to why this is typed and not hand written with a pen, other than I would spend a lot of money on stamps to send this out to all of my blog followers. 

Cheers 🙂

It

*November 2016

I wrote this while staying in my tent in the Redwoods*

It

I have writer’s block. 

No new inspirations have come into my head as of late. It’s frustrating really, especially going into bookstores. I walk by the spines wishing I’d had the ideas first. I feel that the reservoir where all my writing ideas drop into is completely empty, I’m thirsty for inspiration. You’d think it would be staring me in the face out here in the wooded mountains of Santa Cruz. Trees, nature, all that good stuff that seems so easy to write about in theory. But how easy is it if you’re just not interested in creating an entire storyline around said objects? But then I always have to wonder as I scan the shelves of books, boasting amazing stories and adventures, did they have the same problem? How did they get their ideas? Experiences, a stroke of luck? There’s no magic answer, though I wish there was. It seems the more I search for something to explore on paper, the harder it becomes to find it, whatever “it” may be. 

I could write about “it”. How does one explore…”it”? I could start with the simplicity of it. Two letters that come together to create a word that finds its way into sentences frequently, sometimes more than once. I’ve used “it” and its variations about ten times so far. It, its, it’s, it is versatile, but what really does “it” do? It can start a sentence, like this one, can’t it? “It” can end a sentence too. It’s an interesting word in spoken conversation; you can ask someone “how was it?” and they might know exactly what “it” is. You can shorten a sentence from “The flower with the pink petals was beautiful” to “It was beautiful”. 

It’s everywhere. 

So writer’s block; what causes this block? It’s another one of those questions that doesn’t have an obvious answer. I’ll take the easy way out and say that “it” is blocking it…

What’s blocking it? In this case, what is “it”? But I suppose looking back on what I’ve just written, “it” didn’t block anything. 

I had writer’s block.

Yoga

*I’m not exactly sure when this was written, but I think it was around 2016 or 2017. I made a few edits and had a great overall experience of revisiting my love for yoga, since I don’t teach anymore. I may not unroll my mat as much as I’d like to, but the teachings are still a part of my being, and I’m grateful for the 5 years I dedicated to Yoga and everything is has to offer. I know it will always be a part of my life*

Yoga

2016 or 2017

After yoga trainings I always find myself thinking Okay, this is when my daily, 3 hour practice including asana, pranayama, meditation, mantra and prayer will start! 

But like any extreme New Years resolution-type statement, my ambitious ideas soon falter due to, well, life. I have the privilege to travel and explore, so during the winter I grab my backpack and embark on grand adventures. My travels have brought me to some very inspiring and sacred places, but travel also means an unpredictable schedule and location. Doing yoga in my tiny tent while it’s pouring out is not very conducive to relaxation and I can’t always chant the Yoga Sutras in the middle of a hostel common room. So establishing a time to get on my mat everyday is not ideal. 

But that’s where I begin to find the true meaning of yoga. Yoga is special, because it is not just limited to a physical practice. Asana is just the tip of the iceberg, the content beneath the water is where the real magic happens.

How can I bring yoga into my daily life, when my surroundings are constantly changing? This is the question that I’ve been asking myself a lot over the last few years because travel brings its fair share of stress and exhaustion. But those stressed and exhausted moments are when I take the tools I’ve gained from my wonderful teachers and personal practice, and put them to good use.

When I’m feeling slightly uneasy about getting on a bus at night in an unknown city I remember how strong I felt in headstand. Or when I’m running to catch the train that’s about to leave I remember my pranayama (breathing) practices and use them to bring myself back to a calm state when I find my seat. Or when I’m a little nervous to go and talk to a stranger, I remember how nice it is to connect with people, yoga means union, after all.

Yoga has given me a greater sense of self awareness and self compassion, so when I’m feeling exhausted from travel I know the signs and feel it immediately. From there I allow myself a time to recoup. 

When I return home in the spring from wherever I’ve been exploring, I roll out my mat in its rightful place (where it will stay until October when it’s time to travel again). I begin to share the practice of yoga again with my students, and I feel a deeper understanding of the physical practice, due to the fact that I’ve looked past that piece of it for comfort and strength out in the world. 

Sometimes my practice is a few hours on the mat (everything included) and sometimes it’s me using pranayama to stop myself from hyperventilating because I just got on the wrong bus.

Something Beautiful

Another story I started a few years ago, but never finished. There are some thematic holes, but I wanted to keep it vague enough so the reader could fill them in on their own. I’ll probably return to this one in another few years and change it again…

“Untie that rope, Charlie, then jump in quickly. And don’t forget to bring the rope with you!”

Ray watched his grandson as he carefully undid the knot from the dock and pitched himself into the boat next to his grandfather. There was a great deal of sloshing for a moment, as the two situated themselves in the small row boat, readying themselves for another of many ocean adventures. Ray with the oars in his hands, and Charlie, on the rear bench, hoisting the lunch basket onto his lap to inspect that everything was still in its place. 

“We’ll head to the island and stop there for lunch” Grandpa said.

Charlie gave a wry smile “As long as I can row at some point before we get there…”

“Of course, but right now, your job is to keep those sandwiches safe from seagulls! They aren’t afraid of little boys.” 

As they left the shore a fog began to roll in, giving off a hazy glow. The Island and ocean in front of them began to disappear.

A teenage boy sat in a chair beside Ray’s bed, keeping an eye on him. Ray thought the boy looked familiar, but couldn’t remember where he’d seen him before. 

***

Ray was delighted to walk his daughter down the aisle, though he could tell that she was nervous.

“Don’t worry Mary” Ray said, taking both of her hands lovingly and looking into her eyes. “Remember, this is a day to celebrate love, nothing to be afraid of”. 

Mary beamed and linked her arm in his, as they stepped into the church and watched as a sea of faces turned, gasping, beaming, and wiping tears at the sight of Mary. At the end of the aisle stood Mary’s soon to be husband, whom Ray had become very fond of. To the left, on the first row of pews, sat Ray’s wife, her eyes shining with emotion. 

“Ah” He thought. “My beautiful Helen”. 

A shimmering mist enveloped the church and the guests began to fade away.

***

Helen twirled, her yellow dress winging out as she spun. Ray’s heart swelled, though he couldn’t quite understand. Helen had been gone for years, yet here she was, like a daisy, dancing before him. Any worry was quickly sidelined as he hopelessly tried to match her steps. They ended up laughing until Helen lead him off the dance floor so they could sit and catch their breath, smiling at each other long after the laughter subsided. Ray was always smiling when he was with his wife. 

Mary Shoesmith and her son Charlie stood in the doorway to the bedroom where her father, Ray, spent most of his time. Sleep was a welcome friend to Ray, offering a respite from the pain of nearing the end of his life. Sometimes Ray did not know who his family was when he was awake, but his dreams gave him a chance to bask in the glow of remembrance a few more times.

“What do you think he is dreaming about now?” Charlie asked in hushed tones, leaning his head gently on his mother’s shoulder so they could both gaze at the content expression on Ray’s sleeping face.

When Ray was awake and talking, he spoke of these dreams as though the events within them had just happened. This warmed Mary’s aching heart. Her father was fading away, but hearing him joyfully recall these dreams was making it easier to wrestle with her father’s mortality. 

Mary, looked adoringly at her father’s sleeping face, and matched the curling sides of his mouth with her own joyful expression.

 “Something beautiful”. 

Down to the Last Drop

Created in 2012 in my high school creative writing class

Revised in 2018

Aaaand again in 2020

A 1984-esque piece of writing 

The ring of sirens filled the street and pierced through the walls of the house. A spine-tingling vibration lingered in the silence when the sirens ceased.

“Neighbors exploited their water usage again.” Mom’s voice drifted from behind a stack of paperwork that nearly blocked her from sight. Her voice brought comfort back into the room.

“That’s what… twice this month?” My sister Ann replied from the other side of the dining room table, craning her neck to look out the window at the Venturi’s house.

“Mmm, something like that. They have a lot of kids.” Mom mumbled, keeping her eyes down, most likely crunching numbers as she simultaneously held the conversation.

“I’m thirsty.” Ann said, scooting her chair back and tossing an inquisitive glance at Mom.

“You’ll have to share it with your brother.” 

Ann went into the kitchen and I went to the window, looking at the Venturi’s house and the row of similarly shaped houses stretching on down the street.

Loud voices carried from the house to the window, but I couldn’t make out exact words. Three black vans with the letters H.C.U. painted in white idled outside the Venturi’s house. Human Containment Unit. Another shiver ran through my spine and I thought about shutting the shade.

Before I could make up my mind a tall man in a black suit, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, stepped out of the front door and made his way to the side of the house where a small box protruded at chest height. I observed the same scene weeks ago when the smallest Venturi boy left a faucet running. Though I continued peering out the window as the man opened the box and placed his index finger on a sensor that was lit up in red lights. The sensor turned green, revealing a numbered grid, satisfied with the owner of the fingerprint. The man shifted his weight as he pressed a few buttons, blocking my view. No need to see the rest of the process, I knew what was happening. No water for the Venturi’s today. 

Sometimes Mom would tell Ann and I about her childhood. She said it was louder. In the summertime one could hear sprinklers and hoses watering lawns and gardens. Bird baths encouraged chirping activity. We didn’t have a garden, or any birdbaths. I’d tried to sprout an acorn that I found in the woods outside of my school, but nothing happened. The pot still sits hopefully in my room, the soil chalky and parched. I watered it twice, but mom told me to stop.

 

The man looked around, his face turned in my direction. I froze, wishing I had shut the shade, the sunglasses blocked any indication of emotion. Seemingly uninterested, the man returned to one of the vans. Moments later two more men looking identical to the first emerged from the front door and the Venturi’s house was again quiet. The only audible noise was that of three black vans slinking down the road. The neighborhood seemed to be holding its breath. 

“Do they ever actually take people away? said my sister, breaking the silence, as she came back from the kitchen with a small cup in hand. She had been watching the scene from the kitchen. 

“Also, the faucet is leaking.”

The news was urgent enough to make mom tear her eyes from her work. But her answer could have addressed both.

“Best make yourself busy and fix it, my dear.” She said, meeting Ann’s gaze.

“We don’t want any trouble”.

 

 

What’s Old is New

I definitely didn’t do the best job with my blog “revamp”. But when I wrote shortly after the turn of the year, my life was also undergoing its own revamp. New job, new school, new apartment, new city- there was little time to write and reflect. Curiously, the 4th of July changed that.

I left Portland for Camden over the 4th of July weekend to see family, friends, and the place where I spent nearly every summer of my life. Even though I had been home here and there for various holidays and events, those visits never struck the same chord that this sunny, heat- wave ridden weekend managed to.

Being back in Camden was both wonderful and disheartening. Things changed, yet I tried to revisit favorite spots and revel in old memories . Simon has a new place with his friends, so neither of us spent much time at our parent’s houses, where we used to play badminton with our friends and sit around the fire pit at night. Now it’s quick hello’s and dinner on my parent’s deck or in Simon’s mom’s kitchen before dashing off again to catch up with friends we haven’t seen in years. Returning to Camden was a glaring wake up call to how I’m not a little kid anymore. As time at my parent’s house dwindles, dogs that I grew up throwing sticks for pass away, and friends continue to move across the country, I have to take deep breaths.

The place I grew up for most of my life now feels like a destination vacation, instead of the place I’d gone to school and worked in for so many years. There are new restaurants that once seated, one feels like they’re anywhere but Camden. Swanky rooftop bars clang on into the evening, while favorite swimming spots (due to their seclusion) swarm with tourists. Camden is having its own revamp, and I’m scared about that.

It was a melancholy drive back to Portland. I wanted nothing more than to drive back to my favorite swimming spot and bask in what’s left of Camden’s familiarity. The oasis is changing, and I was afraid to leave for what might be different when I return.

***

I’m finding comfort by remembering the heart of Camden: the people, the mountains, the sea, and smiling at that unchanging beauty as I arrive at my apartment in Portland and wonder how I’ll feel when it’s time to leave this place.

 

A Poem

 

I wrote this poem in December 2016, when I was living in California. When I have a “writing burst” -what I like to call a writing inspiration that bursts into my psyche and if I don’t write it down fast enough it will be gone- it usually comes out a big choppy. That definitely shows in this piece, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. 

365

if you’ve ever been a kid

you will know this feeling so

no exceptions 

it happens with anticipation

excitement for something in the near future

it’s that giddy feeling

Christmas Eve

Sunday pancakes

Grandma’s here!

you know?

you want to feel that moment

forever

you’re there

undivided attention

you love its entirety

you bask in its glow

it’s always fleeting

then it’s over

followed by

“only 365 more days!”

until we can be happy again?

what about the other 364 days?  

what if you could 

fall in love with them too?

be a child in love with life

for 364 days

or more

Revival

I never thought I’d return, but here I am. I’m reliving my days running up and down the California Coast as I read through my many adventures. For those of you who followed my path so diligently, I have landed in Portland, Maine, about to embark on my next adventure; College. Yes, you read that right, a 23 year old freshman…I think I can blend in.

For now, this blog with be random postings from the folder on my desktop labeled “writing” where I’ve thrown a ton of half written stories and fragmented thoughts. I thought if I revamped the blog I’d have an incentive to finish those pieces and share them to whoever happens to fancy this mishmash of a blog. I will keep my old travel posts for your enjoyment, and some contrast to what I will be posting now. I’m sure there will be some ramblings about school and city life too. I hope it is as fun and adventurous as living for four months with a few changes of clothes.