Love

Everyone needs to be wanted; everyone wants to be taken care of. Some people show it more than others, but consciously or unconsciously, people seek out attention. For example, tears are a natural response to need. The six human emotions (fear, anger, joy, sadness, disgust, surprise) are easily recognizable among humans because they need to be communicated instantly. But sadness, especially, is a need which cannot be ignored, because it springs from a need of other people.

But back to the need to be wanted: this is one of the few vital needs that people don't regularly address, but which is consistently a problem. Why don’t people show, tangibly, that they care about one another? There are so many small ways to demonstrate caring- hugs, shoulder rubs, just saying hi as you pass. There is so much love in this world, but so much of it is hidden until the break point- at which point, though still useful, it is late.

On a side note, perhaps that’s why people seek out relationships- it’s the only context in which people don’t need a reason to show they care about each other. It needn’t be, but in practical terms, it usually is. I can’t tell if that’s sad, because it’s restricted, or wonderful, because there is one area of life where people do it right.

In any case, kindness is free- so give it out freely. Anyone who’s crying could use a hug, but you don’t have to wait for tears to show you care.

Yggdrasil

It lay between, the only living thing

Fell leaves to all sides browning over stones-

Skin scarred with knifepoint mem’ries of young flings

And yet, with subtle strength, it stood alone.

The branch hung low and wide, the jutting bole

A well-ridged step of crevices for toes;

A hand-round branch, and up! Above the knoll:

More peaceful than those grass-worn shrouds below.

Somnolent may that rounded edge me keep

Safe from any ground’s claim to mortal shove;

Wind-child as I am, I could never sleep

Below the surface of the earth I love.

As I am living, earth’s enough for me

But in death, let my ash dust o’er a tree.

Leaf-raking

I raked leaves yesterday. It was Halloween, but I worked all morning. It felt very New Englandy- I don't think I've ever raked leaves before, not like that.

It was a warm, windy, perfect October day, and we built the leaves into heaping piles, more piles than I would have thought possible, given the amount of land we cleared. It was one of those futile tasks. We would have these beautiful piles, and then the wind would blow, and all the leaves would settle back on the ground, as near as they could. When that happened, John would curse into the wind, but I laughed. With or without the wind, our efforts were without real result; the yard looked the same once we had done, though we had removed pounds upon pounds of desiccated refuse to the woods. But I didn't mind the work, and I loved the weather, and (in this as in all things) we are paid by the hour.

Cedar Tree

My cedar tree is dying.

If there is anything I hold as an object of religion, it is the cedar tree, and as I lay on the floor to write, I am forced to acknowledge that it may be too late for this one. The needles curl under, brittle, and the top hints at shades of brown. The coffee can in which it sits is host to tiny flies, which nibble at the tops of the soil.

The worst is never knowing- did I water it too much, or too little?

Was the coffee can too small?

Did it ever have chance, here in the East, this Western red cedar?

Perhaps the flight alone was too much overwhelming, or perhaps

Cedar trees don't live in dorms, and can't be kept inside.

At any rate, I will know only

(not whether I can be blamed, or why)

that the tree is dead.

Tire

I only remember

the feel of the tire arched against my

back as I smiled for you,

My hands intertwined with the steel cords

I wished was your hair

And lying open, hoping

and hoping still as you walked on

That one touch of your arm around

my shoulder- a brief flutter of

your imagination, or mine?

And I think that sitting, joking on the couch

we might have kissed if they weren't there

and if it wouldn't have seemed trite.

When we stood today, watching

(incidentally) close close close

I could tell that your shoulder, your arm at least

remembered

the unresolved almost of the night.

Resolution

All I really want is a community of interesting people to talk to and the freedom to do so at any time, in any way.

College has given me both of these freedoms, but it will be all I can do not to break the fragile beauty of the current arrangement.

The most present threat to this dream of freedom is my own neurotic drive to do everything, under a variety of false impressions, not the least of which is that more classes=more learning. More classes DO NOT mean more learning; I illustrated the beautifully this morning by reading deep, interesting, and philosophical essays before class, then spending class time zoning out and making dead baby jokes. Partially, this is because I connected better with the essays than with the class, and partly I just couldn't hear my professor, but the example remains true; I can learn better, perhaps, outside of class.

This changes the objective of college a great deal. My new objective, then, should be stated:

Stay here, in college (for the community and the freedoms) while taking as few classes as possible (because this gives me more time to really learn).

Soul-finding

Sometimes I forget my soul.

I get caught up in the stuff of life ("real life") and I love it! It's so much fun and games until

Suddenly I remember the world.

I step out and think,

"THIS is life."

What was I doing in there?

I know there's more here I am

Everything else is superfluous.

It's sometimes all I can do not to run right back in and write it all down so that it's committed to "real" life.

I am a girl of wild schemes

-Laughter streams in midnight winds-

As we stand atop the precipiece

Soaking night in through our skins

And when the crow lifts from the ground

I call out in his frank speech

The message falls from open lips

A silent mind to breach.

Even in the wilderness,

The truth is seldom told:

The bars that are but heavy mists

Still stop us being bold;

The writing's on the wall and yellow

Lines are only painted on the road.

let the night in

let the night in

(softly cried)

as she lay beneath the window

in a blanket of safe fears

and the moon made her weary with the wanting of it

the night, the night

(moaned, whispered)

belief was all around with

wondering

hope

The Night!

She cracked the window.

it was not the moon after all

(the rain laughed softly, freed)

Enough of the world.

World peace can be achieved only through a thorough and systematic destruction of the human race. Too many voices strive for power, deign to be heard. The only assurance of silence is elimination; and this is moral, because a world with only one has no ethics, so one and none, likewise.

Where to begin? We can start with the Russians, perhaps, then move on to certain sects of Sudan. Arabs or Israelis will fight with each other to the death, and the rest of the world will shun and embargo until the great day of the mushroom cloud.

Fight on then, all ye warriors. Never give in to the tyrannies of silence, but strive to further ideas. We only fight for concepts at any rate, these days. One way or another, each fighter gives to silence, to peace.