Instinct- On the Run.

I'm still working on this, who knows, maybe it'll become something.  

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Elisesofia Petlykov stopped to splash cool water on her face, flush from running, streaked with mud, scratched from brambles.  She was three days of running, hiking and hiding, into the forest.  She paused to listen for a minute, hearing only the calls and scuffling of the critters in the forest.  Stepping into the cool water she waded into a small pool, about waist deep on her small frame.  Her dark hair hung in a tight braid over her shoulder, and she slowly untwisted it, laying back to rinse it in the calm, clear water.   This was the first time she had truly stopped in three days. 

The message had been simple and clear.  “Travel West.  Find Kitra.  She will help you.”  It was thrust into her hand as she was pushed onto a horse, pointed west and told, by one angry, serious Everest, “Run, child, RUN!”  Scribbled on a scrap of paper that was likely older than she was, torn from some ancient map, with the edge of a vast forest shown only in a hint of green along one of the torn edges. 

She had been in the forest for three days now, setting out each morning, away from the sun, and ending each day by following it.  At night she climbed high into the canopy, listening for those who hunted her and waiting for the first glimpse of light. 

Kitra.  She knew Kitra as Everest’s mother, who had helped her, and her parents long ago.  But Everest was an old, old man now, surely Kitra was no longer alive? Perhaps the name was passed down?  Or was this a glimpse of the magic she knew the forest held?  

Stumbling.

The moment arises,
as moments sometimes tend to do,
from a place full of beauty,
rich like chocolate truffles,
fragile as a dragonfly's wing...


into a place of general shabbiness,
comfortable enough for our needs,
a perfectly ordinary place,

late, late into the night.


and takes me by surprise, of all things.


"I love you, you know."

and,  almost startled by the revelation I struggle to find words, when I do they spill quietly, jumbled and incoherent --as if stuck together with peanut butter and honey-- from my lips

I tried to say it.

Of course, you already knew, know, my opinion on the subject.  The words were screaming in my mind-- I love you too, I always have, I always will -- and all I could manage was a feeble, mumbled, near to silent whisper,

oh.

As if this was something I had known for ages, accepted as fact and even, somehow, expected.

Of course, my eyes spoke volumes that night, although I'm not certain the message was properly transmitted.  My eyes sang of adoration, trust, and at moments awe in the beauty you could create, the passion you carried.



Nothing every came of it.  Words uttered in late night establishments are rarely, if ever, remembered.



But these, these words.   I had waited so long to hear them.  Part of me was furious that you chose to do so at this place.  Most of me was delighted.  They were not uttered as some drunken afterthought, not a ploy to lure me back to your bed, not a game.  It was simple truth.  You did not elaborate.  I didn't push the subject.  Instead I committed the moment to memory, where I could play it over and over in my head.  You took a drink.  Turned you head.  Looked at me.  Smiled for a few seconds.  I love you, you know.  And without waiting for a reaction of any sort, turned your head away and went back to your drink.

Of course, I sat there for what seemed like eternity, perhaps only one minute, if that.  Stumbling.

Oh.

And that was ok.

Still.  I haven't heard it again.  I don't expect to.  I no longer wonder, but I dream.

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Not sure what I like more, so I'll keep both.



The moment arises by surprise, of all things.
"I love you, you know."

startled, I struggle and my words, they. . .. 

they spill quietly, 

jumbled and incoherent from my lips

I tried.  

Of course, you already knew.  

And, just a feeble, mumbled, near to silent whisper,

oh.

As if this was long known, accepted, fact--somehow, expected.

My eyes spoke volumes, but the message did not translate.  

They sang of adoration, trust, awe.

The beauty you could create, the passion you carried.

Nothing every came of it.  

But these, these words.   

After such aching.  Furious, yet delighted.  

No sloppy utterance, no ploy, no game.  

Truth without elaboration.  

I sat.  Stumbling.

Oh.

And that was ok.

Still.  I dream.

finding elegance: micro

an entire world
         moves
             and grows
                   and fights without conciousness,
 each moment,
         each motion a response to instinct,
                                                     programming alone

eat. grow. divide.
eat. grow. divide.

where competition abounds, with enemies swarming all around
                                            and change a constant, chaotic force.


survive. survive. survive. 
survive. survive. survive. 


where in mere days,
                      sometimes hours,
one species becomes two, and so on. 


eat. grow. divide.
eat. grow. divide.



where chemistry reigns supreme,
          and physics underlies all forms,
                            in motion, structure,
                                                 sometime random and spasmotic,
                                                 often smooth and elegant.



all contained in a drop of pond water.




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Sometimes my days are full of studying, figures, memorization and I forget to look for the beauty in everything.  Sometimes the beauty comes screaming from the pages of my textbook and I sit up and gaze around in wonder at this world.

Simplicity (Just an Idea I'm working on)

is lovely.
is easy.
is elegant.
is free.

Delighting in the little pleasures and surprises.
Going without.
Choosing to fill life with experience instead of things.
Sharing with those in need.

Simplicity.

Even the most complex secrets of the universe can be explained by many simple steps.
Love.
War.
Dance.
Life.

Cold.

Light, bright and glaring, prompts tears as I step out into a world of harsh cold, biting winds, and striking beauty.

Bright white light, reflected from every angle, illuminates a landscape defined by shifting shadows.  

Screaming winds sweep up ice crystals that tear the skin and block the sun and all falls dark

                     ---only cold and the harsh wind, with hope to guide the way. 

Winter, fiercely delicate, a force that simultaneously makes one want to weep for the beauty, run for the terror.  

1.22.04 Journal Entry

"Try not to become a person of success but rather a person of value." -Einstein

First, I really like Einstein because he was not afraid to be different.  Second, I love this quote! It is basically saying this: you can be successful but that doesn't mean that you are valuable.  If you are not valuable than tell me, what is the point of success?  Value is so much more important!

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Oh lil Klaire.  Trying so hard to understand when you barely knew yourself.

Ideally society would define the successful as those who have made contributions to mankind.  Far too often they define success (and value) in terms of dollars.  One of the topics I touch on with my environmental science students now is the idea of instrumental and intrinsic value.  How different cultures and societies value things shapes the environment surrounding those communities.

Those who believe that THINGS are more important than people will surround them selves -- with the latest technology, the hottest new fashion, the shiniest car, the newest awesome thing that they must absolutely have before everyone else! And they build up all this junk around them until it collapses on top of them-- society fills landfills with discarded THINGS that were used once and thrown away.

How can a person learn to value themselves, understand that success is not based solely on dollar signs, in a society where everything is disposable?  For shame.

I only hope we learn before we bury ourselves in our own disposable lives.

From the Past (November 2005)

ice crystals form overnight
making windowglass sparkle
in morning light
waking warm, smell of cobbler
is such a sight a simple pleasure
a child's delight

(11/06/2005)

From the Past (March 2005)

The night is alive with
sound as I drift to sleep
Its constant serenade
better than counting sheep
I hear the sirens blare,
the planes fly overhead,
the shouts of drunken men
and I smile in my bed
snuggled deep under the covers
I hear a pair of fighting lovers
and know that all is right
in this place so full of life.

From the Past

Dusty broken eye piece

forgotten on my desk

I see the world through broken eyes

which tear in loud protest

Dusty broken eye piece

waiting for repair

when eyes determined not to see

will see again quite clear

(1.10.2005)

05.12.04 Journal Entry

I recently found a stash of old poetry and reflections from high school.  I have an entire collection of journal entries of a quote and my interpretation or response to it.  I'll share some of these-- it's funny how looking back gives a such a clear picture.  

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05.12.04 Journal Entry

"What a grand thing to be loved! What a grander thing, still, to love!" -Victor Hugo

Grand?  No.  Love is not always easy, nor is it always beautiful.  Love can be these thing at times, but usually it is not.  When we love someone we expect them to love us back -- which is simply unfair.  It is unfair to expect a person to "give back."  Such a thing happens -when it is sincere- quite spontaneously.  To be loved and to love -these things are difficult.  To love and receive love in return -true, pure love- is a miracle.  

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Well.  I had the concept right.  Looking back at this quote I think I'll agree with it.  Love is grand.  I've loved a few in the few years since high school.   Love is complicated.  You can love someone with your entire being-- where all you want in life is to make that person happy, keep them safe, and spend as much time with them as possible.  

Funny, how life can change things so quickly.