I look not away from my captor.
Though in a shadow of men he lay.
I live my life in semi-light.
Seeing through the pith of grey
Shadows fall across my face
No battle do I do.
A constant thought, just one idea
shifts light from One to Two.

The breath is drawn for nighttime
The curtain closed for morn
The eye first left and then right
As the costume guise is shorn

Like a flame, Thought licks the fibers of Idea
Burning and changing Knowledge and Understanding
into their new forms.
Sputtering and spitting
pop pop POP
the essential gasses and toxins leach into other areas of Consciousness
as the warm, musky smell of smoke clings to a winter coat.
Thought changes at once not only its current vision,
but that of those surrounding it as well.

Hey everyone! Quick update--I started a new blog--simplificationinitiative.blogspot.com. The new one is just going to be the random thoughts that I have in my head, whenever they happen to pop in. The less "refined and eloquent" (or so I'd like to think some things are) thoughts...just me thinking as me. I hope you all check it out and follow it! New postings soon to come!!!

Wiped clear of intention, the pedigree sat to fill a space that character lacked. Imagery could not be used to properly describe the players whose names were formed by the letters on the paper, neither could numbers lend meaning to their age. They simply were and had been forever just as the wind is or dreams are.
It is as such that I found them--that I left them--that I wished I could be one of them. But some beings only touch you for an instant, before they are gone, covered in the life-preserving amber of Memory's embrace.

This is what I live for:
Waking up to crisp morning air, speckled with the smell of rain.
The feeling of a warm sweater straight from the dryer.
A shower and a fresh bar of soap.
the moon and her halo of stars.
The color green.
Belly laughter.
A text from a friend.
Driving fast.
Homemade bread.
Waking up smiling.
Walking on the coast.
My little sister as she runs up to me, hugs me tight and refuses to let go.
Playing card games late at night during the holidays.

Stop. Don't speak. Words cheapen the meaning of this moment. The air's gentle breeze that pushes life from one reality to the next lays softly on my skin. Don't rob me of this moment of comfort, of solitude, of warmth by asking for a deeper meaning.
Nothing is me, but me.
Reality is found in perception's grasp.
It is as it is. It is in who I am.
Stop. Don't ask "why".

How oft do I look at another and say, "Oh, that I were you!"? I see the life, I see their fancy and I want it for my own. Their sparkles and glitz, their loved ones around.
"I would trade you. Yours for mine." I say.
But what is theirs to mine? Yes, the woman walking past is beautiful. But she kind? Yes. The family walking past seems happy...but what happens behind those closed doors? Yes. I...maybe they would trade me, too? Maybe in the changing and the rearranging of our identities we would discover our own discomfort of others, and our own love of self.
Would I change me? Do I wish that I were someone else?

Flighty mind be harnessed.
By the power of my will.
Obey my orders grandly.
My every wish fulfill.
Let down thy guard
for a moment.
Play this game with me.
for then, if in that moment only
all mine, you'll finally be.

The silence feeds me.
It teaches me.
It listens to me.
The soft echos that you
can hear on the wind
speak of the emotion,
the excitement,
in the world.
And when they are gone
and only silence remains
it leaves the residue of
a different emotion
deeper--clearer.
the emotion I feel
for once
is my own.

Sometimes I feel as though I am on the edge of a break through. Some great discovery about life. The wind pushes my hair from my face and birds cry in the distance. Somewhere a ways off the water laps against the rocks of the river and the peace starts to swell...and then it is gone. It was only an instant. And that peace leaves me more confused and aware of my blindness.
But am I the one pulling away from the peace? Does it scare me to know because then, maybe, I'd have to rely on it? Would I rather follow blindly than walk with my eyes open? Or am I really just not ready yet for what that peace--those answers--would mean?

Rocks and Sand

Do the rocks feel themselves being worn slowly by the waves? Do they understand that wearing down? Can they feel it? As each grain of sand is lost, do they resist the change? Or are they happy? Content to know their change is good. Content to know that while the waves whip wildly about them that what they are becoming will no longer be independent and breakable--but part of a greater whole? Can I understand the significance of that change?

Little rock, did you used to be a mountain?
Did you cause man kind to shutter and shake?
Little rock did you used to be a wonder?
Snow capped peaks or an icy lake?
Little rock, can I hold you forever?
And this be for me to move more?
Little rock, you can be my mountain.
Because I know what you were before.

My greatest desire is simplicity...but simplicity can only be afforded by the Great.

In my mind.

My heart dreams bigger dreams than myself.
It sees the trees and says, "I am Tree."
It sees the mountains and says, "I am Mountain."
It sees the sky and says, "I am Sky."

"No," I tell my dreams. "You are mist."
"No," I tell my dreams. "You are air."
"No," I tell my dreams. "You are a thought."

"Then I surround the trees." My dreams persist.
"Then the oceans are my mother, the skies my friend and I fly higher than the mountains."

"No," I tell my dreams. "You are just imagination."

"Then I am Ideal. Then I am Desire. Then I am Hope

"No," I tell my dreams. "You're not."

"Yes. I am."

Prayer for my sister

What happens when you look into the eyes of a child?
My heart breaks for the sweet innocence that I see before me, which all too soon shall flower and bloom...and then die. My heart rejoices for the joy of living. the freedom of movement, the excitement of life's true pleasures.
But then my heart feels bitter again against the sins of my past. The time that has been wasted pursuing that which is now lost.
What wouldn't I do to spare a child of that? What wouldn't I do to keep her form still in the peace and serenity that it has found in sleeping.
An image of myself I see reflected. The same blood we share. The same heart. the same mind. The same will. The same passion. What will those eyes grow to see? What smells will encrust her hair and become her stamp?
God bless her please to live a good life. To learn. To grow. And to know how truly lovely she is. God bless her to keep her innocence and her joy.

I dream of the life that I
thought I once had.
The life that I lost.
That I gave away.
And yet it was not my life
at all--only a dream.
Therefore I have
lost nothing.
Given away nothing.
These hopes and wishes
in my head of the life
that I could have had
That I should have had
That I have lost
are only of the before stated
dream.
And yet their presence is as
real to me as the blankets I
sleep with. The sky that I see.
The arms of friendship that
surrounded me.
That held me.
That I left behind.
That I gave up.
Does hope turn forward
During these times of duress?
As I lay in my bed unsure
Of what tomorrow will bring?
Boredom and dependency?
Or the beginning of my new life?
Yes.
Hope looks forward.
Yes.
Hope sees into tomorrow.
And dreams will come again
of a different tenor.
A different color.
And even if I, again,
long for the things of
before,
Then I know hope will
survive through the night.
And, again--tomorrow--
I will dream.

What happens when life crowds out the dreams of tomorrow and heaven's tears weep for the forgotten yesterday? What hope do I hold on to? To what sunshine does my face raise? What fragment of thought do I hold most dearly to as my tender fingers massage my aching mind. Sleep, dear soul--for tomorrow's promise shall rise again.

Steep Cliffs and Red and Blue Lights

The coast was cold. Much colder than we expected it to be. A heavy fog rolled in from the sea, consuming waves and trees and sun. The little nook that my family occupied was behind a smart cropping of rocks, against a cliff that rose some 50 feet into the air--the last 15 being a straight drop to the sand. Between the two fixtures of rock we were well protected from the wind, and able to insulate what heat we had.
A cry startled us, as we saw three young kids sliding recklessly down the cliff. At first, they screamed in sheer delight. Quickly, however, that delight turned to fear as a boy, aged about 10 years old, toppled head over heels down, down, down. He caught hisself at the edge of the sheer drop. His sister and cousin, approx. ages 7 and 8 followed sliding on their backs and bottoms, now also screaming in fear.
Rocks began to tumble. Sand poured from the fissures they were creating with their falls. The first boy dangled on the cliff, trying to get down...and then he jumped, landing in the sand below with a soft thud, but twisting his ankle.
The other two clung desperately to the rocks, screaming, scared.
We run up. They won't listen to our instructions. Just then the girl's father, the boy's uncle, runs up. He climbs the rocks and we all create a chain to hand the frightened children down. They are safe.
We continue on with our merriment. The fog rolls away. The sun comes out. We splash and play in the cold ocean, the water chilling our bones, the sand encrusting our legs as we build a sand helicopter. A beautiful day--the dread and the scare from the morning's ordeal gone.

It's a few nights later. We're at home, in bed. The sound of running on pebbles reaches my parents bedroom. My dad bolts up, pulls his clothes on, and runs out the door. There are cops everywhere. Someone has run into our back yard. Run away from the cops he fears.
My dad tells the police of the sighting. They acknowledge it, and tell him to go back in. They bring in the dogs to find the perpetrator.
We sit stiff in the house. My mom tells me about it, warns me to stay quiet--they're trying to listen to find out what is going on. They stand by the open windows and doors. My blood runs cold as I see the object in my dad's hands--a gun. He means to protect us no matter what the cost.
I'm frightened--not of the assailant, but of what might happen if my father thinks it is necessary to use the object in his hand. Few things are so certain, so scary, so devoid of forgiveness and shooting a gun and hitting a mark. What if it were to go off accidentally--hit one of us? What if it causes bullets to fly unnecessarily from our unknown visitor? What if he's forced to use it, and we have to live without him? I would melt it if I could. Melt it, destroy it, and forbid it's like from ever entering the house or touching his hand.
He puts it away. He knows I am mad that he got it out to begin with. I didn't keep it a secret.
We sit, silent. I'm in mine and my sister's room. She's laying on the floor in her makeshift bed of feather mattresses and comforters, snoring softly. Moonlight illuminates her pale face and body from the open window. So serene. So calm. So unassuming of the dangers that this world offers.
The lights turn off suddenly. The dogs bay one more time, and then there is silence. One by one we hear cars pulling away.
"Did you get him?" My dad asks through the front door to the police officer in our front yard, just getting into her car.
"He's in custody." Is the reply. And then they are gone.
We sleep in what peace we can salvage from the night.

And though the listening shadow cries
Sing sing sing
What does your heart say?
If you do not wish to
Sing, then dance.
If you do not wish to
Dance, then play.
If you do not wish to
Play, then sit in Silence
So that you may then
Better understand
What it is to live.

The Grey Puddle

We drove up to the house after 10 long, hot hours in the car. Finally, the trip was over and we could rest.
The house looked much the same and as I entered, it smelled the same. There were papers and toys and cups on the coffee table in the front room. The piano was cluttered with papers and trinkets from music to be played in Primary the next week and sea shells from the beach. The same green couches lined the walls with the same lighthouse pictures on the wall in sequential order as a wave crashed around it. Finally, after the long, hot drive that transformed me from one stage of life to the next, I was home.
I write this memoir not as I remember it--but as it happens. I write so that I may better understand my life. So that I may confide it not only to those who are not here but mostly to myself. I need to write the things that are happening to me. I need to feel them as they happen. Otherwise I risk not realizing them as they do. I risk missing my life as it happens to me.
I sit on the floor in what was not long ago the dining area; the table having been given away so as to make room for my arrival. This is the coolest room in the house. The water is unseasonably warm for Oregon, and the humidity hangs like an oppressive feeling in the air. My hair curls despite my best attempts with the straightener.
I shower at night to wash the grime of the day away, to relax and to cool down. Another transition. Yesterday, I washed my body, my hair, my feet three times. Still, the water pooled in grey around the tub's drain.
Today I colored my hair. Dark. In the shower tonight it did the same. The grey pool. The grime from my yesterday, gone.
Do I want to wash myself of it? Do I want to be done and move on? Tomorrow, will there still be grey? Some perverse part of me wants there to be. Wants that subtle reminder that I still carry with myself a little piece of that yesterday. It clings to me--as part of me--and as part of who I am. What will I do when the water runs clear and I no more look for that puddle?

Why is it that I find these amazing, beautiful things to say...and then I actually get to the computer and whoosh! They're gone out of my head? I just want to remember the beauty of the language!!

Is mimicry art or deception?

Belief

What is it that makes two people, with thoughts equal and departing down the same road, deviate so far from each other? There are two possibilities: Either they hold hands tight, and though they pull their bodies away, there will always be the at connection of communication and consistency between them?
Or there is the other possibility: That of no connection--nothing to hold on to. Their paths vary ever so slightly and, when they look back, they see that they never really were on the same path at all.
So why the difference? Why is it that these thoughts of unsurity in my mind force me to reevaluate who I am and what I believe--and I think in the end bring me closer to a truth that I have known for a very long time.
Is my truth someone else's also? Or are there multitudes of truth? Does truth matter?
All the time we hear people speaking of what they know and of what they believe. But what is it to know? How can you know? What if, really, there is only faith? And truth is the elusive element? What is the difference of faith for a believer than a non believer? Are faith and doubt really that far apart? Or do they have that constant hand hold--and each has just been assigned a different name to match their direction?
And what is right? How can I say that what is right for me is right for everyone--even when I know with a firm conviction that it is?
I doubt...but I also have faith. It is the doubting that makes us stronger, and while no one can at all say that if you are unsure that you should hide that and truth will come (rather, you should seek out the root of your doubt, educate yourself and follow where the evidence points) are the two really different? What is truth but truth's own propaganda?
Faith. Believing in something which is not seen which is TRUE. Truth. What is truth? And how can you prove it? Maybe the truth is that you can't.

To My Readers, though you be few:
It is often said in literature that love conquers all--love is the eternal purpose of life--love is what makes a person's soul sing. But some decisions must put aside love, must scorn it and detach from it--disentangle completely. Some decisions are wholly for the good of the individual, for self, for future.
A quote in church the other week read, "Sometimes in order to have hope for a happier future, we have to give up hope of having a happier past." And so that is what I am doing.
The hardest thing for me in life is to leave the things I love behind. The feeling of abandoning love goes against everything that I believe in every corner of my heart.
But I KNOW that it is right.
How can something that is right hurt so much?
I want that happy future. I want to put aside everything that I think I'm entitled to, everything that has hurt me, everything that I have dreamed of--and start fresh. I want to go into my life with no expectations but happiness...and I want to achieve that happiness...I will achieve that happiness. But it takes time.
Dear Reader, I'll miss you. This is a turning point. I'm turning my back on that past and looking to the new with no expectations. No preconceived notion of how I want things to turn out.
This is the new. This will be the new format of my life. One day at a time.
All my love and hope for the future,
H.

Questions

• What is it about the lives we live that make us who we are?
• What is perception?
• How do I see things? --Life? --Beauty? --anything?
• Do I see things?
  
• We care. Why is that?
• If you don't care, then what is the point?
• What is my distinction?
• Do we deny things in the world because we are afraid of what we will discover about ourselves?
• Do we keep information from ourselves to uphold an idea or to protect an ideal?
• What conclusion does my evidence allow me to draw?
• Why is it that I believe what I do?
• Where is the common ground?
• What makes us the same?
• Why do we argue for thigns that we don't know?
• How can I claim to know the situation, when I will never be in it?
• How can I pretend to know the world when I have only seen a little corner of it?
• To what dreams will I give up my life?
• What sacrifices will I make for the good?
• What dreams do I have that are only of the moment?
• Where is the inertia taking me?
• Where next will I go?
• How much of what we do can we blame on those in charge, and how much is our personal incentive?
• Why do we seek to continually blame everybody else for our problems when we are the only logical solution for them?
• What can I do?
• Where does "their" part end and mine begin?
• Is there a line or just grey?
• Logic and emotion: Which am I more of today?
• Who can stop another from dreaming when their hearts truly desire it?
• Why?

How can I better
Express myself than
Through my words and my voice?

How can I ever hope
To have a voice in
This world if I am
Unwilling to open my
Mouth and Speak?

And so I open my
Mouth to speak the words
Of my heart, my mind, my being.
I speak the words of truth and reality
To the world

Saving that hope for another day.

Oh, to go back to that dream before the much awaited reality awakens. Oh to live life completely in those moments when clarity blinds itself and you are nothing but blissfully happy and unaware. Such moments happen far too rarely and pass all too quickly, if even they have existed at all.
So little left to hold on to, and yet so much to lose. Do I let it slip out of my fingers, content that the end is come? Or do I hold on--just for one second more...and one second more--in expectation of Hope's salvation? Where is the dream from my past life?
Losing that hope, 'til another day.
Which, Mr. Frost, is the road less traveled? The road that I should take? Which one will lead me home?

Thoughts from a past life...again!

When I lived in Oregon, I worked in the Sporting Goods/Fitness section of Sears...looking back, that was probably the best job I ever had. It was little bit boring...I had a ton of time to just sit and think and write.
Today, I was going through my trunk, looking for something (okay, okay, it was wart remover...) and I came across this piece of paper, written on the back of a Lawn and Garden rebate form. In case anyone was wondering, I wrote this while standing on a Proform A something something treadmill...it cost about $799 and was my favorite spot to stand in the whole department. I could lean against the hand rails and watch everyone in the L&G and Tools departments....good times...even if I didn't know it then.

It is the image that becomes the biggest chore. Overcoming the enigma of life and breaking through to the core of the situation. It's getting to the intuition; the feeling; the heart. I often think that it isn't the situation that matters so much--the who, the what, the when, the where, the why--but the voice that follows it. The name will be reused. The spot recycled--the words twisted and turned in memory's eye. But the feeling will be unique. The feeling that come in the dream was so real--so comforting--so much its own feeling...and yet, it was only a dream. Dreams come and go--intangible--an image which becomes a chore to overcome. Because a dream is not simply a whisper. It's the reality of unique feeling breaking through to life's most deviating, most changing surface--the conscience.

__________

But what of the brave?
What of the lowly of heart?
Dust to dust and
Ashes to ashes--
Their hearts remain.
Enduring through the
Centuries they are more
than just words in stories--
they are the encompassment
of life.

_________

We all have a past--eventually it catches up with us in this game of cat and mouse. In those moments we become our worst enemies are the moments when it is displayed before the world.

Midnight's fingers massage my mind, stroke my ego and enlarge my heart while sunlight's arm protects my conscience, quickens my feet and gives my soul relief.

In a world where grey is bright
And birds sound their metallic cries
Against the harsh, mechanical elements
I lay my troubled head
And wait for stillness to roll its waves of
Silk donned silence and comfort.
Where voices that need no ears to hear
and songs that melody robs
Ensnare my life's flame
As their ever-lasting captive
And coon the luxury of sleep and peace.
Until once again silence is cheated its contentment
And frustrated with the strange reality that is life.
Here I find my comfort.
Here I find my rest.

The blue eyes
that burn
with the tears that
won't come.
That can't come.
The tears that
will come
exactly when
they shouldn't.

The heart that
breaks with
pressure's despair
That squeezes
and groans
when it doesn't know
the song that
it should sing

The sodden mind
that wanders
between worlds
flitting from reality
to reality
Never quite knowing
where to settle.

The arms that
reach to a love
that they don't hold.
That they
can't hold.
That they won't
hold until it's
too late.

The indecisive,
unknowingly weak
spirit that lets it
all happen.

Is it a lie to say I know myself? Decite to say I'm sure? Who is the child behind these sad, dull eyes? I used to know her well--when spring was more than a fantasy and life a cause to smile. What is it about her now that causes such self destruction? Why the facade to hide the monster? Why the monster to hide the chill? Why the chill to soothe the bleeding heart? When it thaws, will I die?--Be found bleeding for all to see? Vulnerable? Or will I once again be able to say that I know myself for sure? Is that what it takes to make the lie a truth?
Perhaps the child behind the eyes is only a memory, and what has replaced her is Now's reality. Perhaps Now sees her only as a tool to keep me motivated.
Can you trick the present? Can you get to the past? What if I find her again? Will she be mine? Will she be me? How will I know?

Doors.

Doors are an interesting thought.
They open. They close.
They mark the beginning and the end--they are a transition.
They are a barrier against a storm or a portal to the day.
They hide our most private selves and open up our deepest imaginations.
By closing a door you section off an existance. By opening, you share that state with the world.

Clarity

I wonder why we don't always see the world with clarity. I try. I'll look around, study an object, feel a surface, strain against its fibers and tissues and being--but sometimes the beauty and the poetry of it really just isn't there. Does a heart which is afraid to created a connection cause this? Is it an illusion? Or is the poetry really just lost sometimes?
Perhaps the blurr is a defense mechanism? But what am I defending myself from? Is defense needed from colors and textures? Will the sharp edges of vision's majesty cut through my soul? Or will it break through the bondage that I am in? Will it finally release me from this space in which I find myself trapped? What if clarity is a view into a completely new and separate world? How can I open that door?
My moment of most clarity came to me today as I was cutting potatoes. The knife in my right hand, the potato in the left. Maybe that's it? Perhaps clarity comes at a point of change--a point when one object--a whole potato--becomes something else--dinner. :)

Don't be a lazy egg...or a crazy egg either. In fact, stay away from the eggs and be a duck!

Occasionally, in life, there are a few moments of extreme mental clarity. The wood becomes more than a swirl of knots and a brush of texture and the carpet under your feet screams the story that thousands of feet have trod into each fiber. Colors scream in your minds eye with vavacity and are surreal instead of their typical opaque insubstance.