The coming of all things love.

Winter Intermission. 


The coming of all things love. It is the feeling of the first heat of a new year with the sun pounding on your skin. It is the sound of the first waves like a a heartbeat thumping and pounding-- All in unison. Celebrating that spring is coming; reminding that summer has not abandoned us. 


Today is but a glimpse of all things love.  











Today, was great. I can't believe I wasted my morning but that didn't stop me from basking in the remaining beautiful weather. I drove to the beach and parked in less than 5 minutes. I think that is considered a pretty successful day in itself. Can you believe it, the beach in January. 


Well done 2012. 

Home is where your heart is: I don't remember writing this

Tuesday: 26 April 2011 


Trolley pushing. Terminal searching. Where the fuck is terminal 5. Terminal 1, 2, 3 and 4 all seem to be clearly marked by the heathrow express.

“Excuse me, how do I get to terminal 5,” I ask.

“You’re in terminal 5,” the heathrow attendant remarks.

“mmmm well then terminal 3,” I stutter. Shit, I got the directions confused.

In another trolley parade I go. Back and forth, back and forth.  Today is going on a downward spiral quickly. Next train to terminal 3 in 15 minutes. Perfect, at least I found it. The topheavy Green rucksack maneuvered on my back. Blue French connection bag on my shoulder and heavy camera bag that weighs just as much as my rucksuck in my hand. All balanced perfectly, any sudden movement shakes my thoughts. As I imaginarily topple over into the mind the gap section. Brutal.  I lean on a wall to stop my thoughts.

Ah crap, I’ve only been here for 30 minutes. What to do, what to do.

Unfinished

Always unfinished

No endings

Only moments

Rarely ever a beginning.

An untraceable story

for something that’s dying to be heard

more than words

more than pictures

hear movement

see movement

watch it ebb and  flow

there’s a story that’s dying to be heard

revolution.

As I’m sitting in the London airport, on this layover that is anything but pleasant mainly because I cannot check my bags and explore like I intended on. So I’m stuck in one section without much companion except for a measly computer. I have no desire to drown out my thoughts with movies, nor can I formulate a thought at the moment, and I’m running from my bible. As I have been for the last 2 weeks or so.  I can’t say I feel nothing like normally. In fact, I feel a lot.

Scotland is a fabulous city. London would be a fabulous city if I could explore, but cannot.  I’ve never really been a tourist. In America, sure but that’s always with the knowing that I’m returning somewhere within days and maybe once or twice in mexico, but once again—that’s still America. But as I tour Scotland, I think I could live here but can’t really picture it. My heart isn’t really for Scotland. Although, it’s a lovely place to visit friends. As I’m on my flight to London from Glasgow—I picture myself in the bush. On field—doing something. African travel seems like a breeze compared to UK/European travel. In Africa travel if something doesn’t work out it’s automatically assumed TIA (This is Africa)—Let’s make a plan. But in UK/European when something doesn’t work out a rise of blood begins and the only words crossing through your mind are cross. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. 

Excuse my language, but I’m just needing to be brutally honest right now.

But take me back to African life. And not just to South Africa which I have began to view as my second home. Not so much in the metaphorical sense but in an actual physical sense. As in I miss my bright pink bed and my family bound through Christ—and other minor factors.

But take me back and put me where I’m called to be. Among something greater. A calling that requires all of me.             

           

Melt my heart

My dearest lady, I am now at a very pleasant cottage window, looking onto a beautifully hilly country, with a view of the sea. The morning is very fine. I did not know how lasted my spirit may be, what pleasure I may have of living here if the remembrance of you did not weight so upon me. Ask yourself my love if you are not very cruel to have so entrammeled me, so destroyed my freedom. For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form. I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. 

I almost wish we were butterflies, and live but three summer days, three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. 

When you confess this in a letter, must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it. Make it rich as a draught of poppers to intoxicate me with it. Write the softest words, and kiss them…that I may at least touch my lips to where yours have been.

 

                               - John Keats to Fanny Brawne

Photo Project: A day in the life

A Day in the Life

of being young and old

of adventure and watching the adventure pass by

I watch, that's what I do.

That's all I can do, you know.

You see through my transparent panes

and do the same.

you watch.

the growth

the brittle bones

they continue on

as do you

while I remain

watching.

the life of a solitary

Ella Duerme Sola

translation

She sleeps alone.

she wakes up

goes to the kitchen and turns on the kettle

french press coffee

the purple skillet placed on the stove

eggs

basil

tomato

and of course

apricot yoghurt

there is always apricot yoghurt

every so often, something different

but

it never tastes just right

she places it all in front of her

holds her coffee cup in both hands

takes a sip

the first drink

and sets the coffee cup on the table

or floor, wherever she decides to place herself

because she can

she picks up her fork to eat

now the day can begin

She plays solitaire

shops alone

travels alone

comfortable with the company of herself

"times are a- changing"

she smiles and

looks to the sun 

"thank you" 

Vagabond Existence

Gypsy girl, Vagabond, homeless-- call it what you will just as long as the God of peace is with me. 

In lieu of some strange events happening and still feeling numb. And so desperately trying to hear God and not feel like I'm wandering in the desert; I decided I had to find some inspiration.  

I used to write poetry a lot and write a lot more-- maybe it was from my "emo" days. Actually that's not entirely true, I've written some in the last couple years, just not recently. When it comes to writing for myself it's a daunting task. I've noticed when I'm creating art for something else, I can will myself to do it. So, I dated back to a backup of my old computer that I just discovered on the computer I use now. Which also explains why my computer has no space, it's storing 2 computers worth of information. Go figure.

As I'm reading this book, which I've been trying to finish for the last two years. I decided that I need to restart it. Dallas Willard, I'd really love to finish your book The Spirit of the Disciplines. I'm sure my brain would be bigger and I'm sure I would find some interesting perspectives if I could just manage to get to the end. 

But I did manage to find this quote that I have been stuck on for the last week.

"We prefer no social unrest or revolution - as long as our style of life is preserved." 

Let that sink in. 

It's so true isn't it?  Go ahead, admit it-- admitting it is okay. But with fair warning, once you admit this as true, it is not okay to continue to live blindly in this thought.

I was working on a painting for a friend a couple years ago (for someone else, common theme). I'm not this great painter or anything but this painting had a story and it was personal. I wrote this to go with the painting. 

Sitting back on it, it was relevant to them-- but I also think that some of me was poured into the words and I'm finding this to be ever present for me. 

Vagabond existence

What train is taking me home?

For today at least

North or south

As far as the east meets west

As long as the coordinates reach to locations

To drive me to better foresight 

What wars will I stumble on

Inside of me.

What wars will I watch

In this world

Where

Freedom

Is suppressed 

by chains.

 

Tobacco Farm

Rusape, Zimbabwe

at the top of my head

I hate boxes.
I should take my vitamins.
Walk to the kitchen.
I see an open box.
I see books.
Walk away from the kitchen.
Pick up books.
Put books in the box.
Walk to my room.
I see another box.
Put some stuff in it.
I should take my vitamins.
Walk to the kitchen, again.
I see a full box.
Walk to it.
Pick it up and set it aside.
Walk to my room.
I should take my vitamins.
Walk to the kitchen, yet again.
As I stand at the counter, "I need to turn in my grad school application.
I look down at my vitamins.
I need to go to target and buy more.
I should make a list.camera store. target. paper source. meet jessi to go to michael's.
"darn it, I still need to book my flight."
Take my vitamins.
finally.

I look at the open boxes,
I hate boxes.

Oh, the places you sleep

Sleeping can be quite an adventure

Early on I discovered that I am worthless tired.

But when I am exhausted, I find that falling asleep is easy especially when I don't mean to find myself in a deep slumber. For instance:

1. In my office last year, I would stay up late writing my Media Crit paper. I would spread out all my stuff (research), typically a coffee to my right and a waterbottle to my left and write in the fishbowl (SGA bridge) until the wee hours of the morning. Until, I fell asleep and woke up to people looking at me through the window. Then realizing, I had class in ten minutes,  I had to do the walk of shame at my university and wear the same clothes 2 days in a row. Classy, I know.

2. In my bed. Doesn't sound too out of the norm? I was washing my sheets and my comforter was bunched up on my bed. I had just got home from the hottub, had my swimsuit on, went upstairs for a minute while all my friends were downstairs. I went to sit on my bed for a brief minute and passed out in my swimsuit and no sheets on my bed. All the lights on.

3. In my bed, again. My computer open next to me, and a hard cider in my hand. Yes, I fell asleep with an open drink in my hand next to my computer. I was watching Eclipse with Rose and Jessi and I don't remember the next thing. Except waking up in the morning with my computer put away and my cider out of my hand. Rose put me to sleep. ha ha

I think me falling asleep with a beer in hand was probably one of the better ones.

These are just a few of my highlighted moments.

Oh, the places to sleep

in a bed

in a chair

on a floor

I do not like to sleep

in a bed without a fred

I do not like to sleep

in a chair without a bear

I do not like to sleep

on a floor without a thor

I've been reading too much dr. seuss as of late.

bed in forest, originally uploaded by Owhynie.

This is the next place I would like to fall asleep. 

What about you? 

This is Revival

Surrounding village near Dondo, Mozambique, there was revival.  Travis, an American with his heart attached to far away lands, lead the revivals that summer for Iris Ministries. Lead by the Spirit, he was wrapped with courage and wrapped with words.


Palavras de Deus

Friday afternoon we packed the open truck trailer  much like a suitcase. The kind where you stuff and stuff and have to sit on it to make it close, this was the truck that people would cram into let everyone settle for a quick second and cram more people in. Revival nights were interesting,  dressed in Sunday best is a must. A few of us girls decided to try our Capulanas (Sarong) that Jack, a boy from the orphanage, took us to buy from the local market place. To be real honest, this revival thing had no interest to me. I was spent and knew I would leave these people that night. Why waste energy?

We make it to the village, barely, the police have a thing for trying to stop the Spirit. As we begin to unload, there is no electricity. There are no roads. Only dirt and huts surround. I see brown-eyed children make an invisible line between them and the Muzungo, white people. Honestly, these people look terrified. "How is a revival supposed to happen when they won't even look at me?" The tables surely have turned for me. It's a strange feeling being the minority.

Set up happens, the music starts. The invisible line becomes hazy. I stand in the back and observe. Then somewhere through the worship, walls break. There is no minority and majority. We become one. The dancing begins. Oh it begins.

Before I know it, I'm surrounded by ten little girls. Gosh, they were so beautiful. They would take my hand and shake their little hips with more oomph than huge hips could shake. I smile at the little girls, they take my hand and imply that it is my turn to dance in the circle. What else can you do?

Just dance.

They follow. Then the next girl goes. I follow. Around and around we go in circles, shaking our hips and jumping to the beat. Joy flushes through the night.

"Are you ready to give a quick testimony?"  Travis said.
"What am I supposed to say?" I said.
"Anything, something you've experienced and something they can understand too,"  he said.
"I don't know."
"I'll call you when it's time."

Oh goodness, I'm not the evangelizing type of missionary. What do I have to say? 
"God is my strong tower, he builds our house upon a rock and not on sand when when rely on Him. He is a comforter in all times, Good and bad"
Okay, I have a skeleton. 

Reveal. 


Let us dance more. 

Hours pass. The energy exhilarating. Constantly. Increasing.

The night came and went, when all the light that was left were the stars.

Let us revive more. Let us pray into one another and be just as we are, just as God intended.  One with the night, one with the light. We move our feet and dance to win the fight.

The practice of Poetry

Sylvia Plath, E.E. Cummings, Elizabeth Browning or your local artist.

My dear friend, Desirae and I stumbled upon a fun idea based on a dumb scenario last year. After a random bout of text messages and the phrase "No where my sweet lips go"; we decided on the poetry challenge. We both would take this phrase and create a poem and see what we both came up with. It was difficult but exciting.

After a year or more of being hidden, here it is.

This is dedicated to you Desirae Marks, Portland Native at heart, wonderful entrepreneur of the Treehouse, and the truest of the trues when it comes to friendship.

The Peak

In the garden
My fingers grasp a bouquet
Delicate daisies intertwined with lovely lilacs
A perfect fit
For tiny hands

In the garden
My toes graze a pasture
Leaving nothing
Untouched
Leaving nothing
Undiscovered

A delve Columbus would have admired

In the garden
my head rests up on your trunk
your limbs as a guard
your leaves as shade
the air that caresses through your branches
sooth and speak
chimes that move

Every remain of body
Has been complemented
Every remain partnered
Except
My mouth
Until
The flawless appears
No where my lips go

bury me deep in the arms of the Father

You swallow me whole in the deepest of deeps


I can already tell that this year is going to be full of trials. In positives and negatives. I think this summer prepared me a lot for understanding God and finding him again. But I have this feeling that this year is going to keep pressing me to find him more and more. I think my core is going to be wrenched and wrangled and I am going to be left with little to offer.

For the past three years, devotions and I have been considered foreign land. In Africa, I realized how much I need daily interaction with the father to just sit and be with him. So when I got back, I bought My Utmost for His Highest. Small daily devotions, small baby steps. I was actually reading them every day, until about 2 weeks ago. I am about 2 weeks behind. I've been struggling so much with why I am here and with going back to South Africa and where I will be in a few months. To the point where it's become something I can't get through. I was catching up on some of the daily devotions tonight and I realized that if I had been keeping up, a lot of my struggles would have been addressed in devotion.

Not saying, I wouldn't have struggled but I could have been more prepared for what I was going to be dealing with this week.

In the secret place
I am safe
you keep me
silent screaming
loud silence
it is what it is

there is a dwelling place
where only you can
find the broken
the deepest
darkest
kind of
broken

hear this and know
the secret place
is where he wants
you to listen

through melodies and rhythms
through wind and waves
through every crevice of dwelling

listen to his grace

it's going to be a beautiful day

third all-nighter of the week. Feeling  pretty good. This one last final I have, I cannot focus worth anything in my life. I've been studying for this test for hours and i still know nothing. I also have to work in 4 hours but I don't want to sleep because I don't want to fall asleep at work by being groggy. This is quite a conundrum . After work I have a final and then have to film something. Then due a lot of stuff before class. ICKY. Then, I am going to a good show. i am going to be potentially awake for about forty hours, potentially more.

I am procrastinating. 

ps. it is my dream to pull an amazing senior prank. 

Gypsy love

the wagon moves from here on

stop

location: 

Cherokee living, some choctaw too. 

Yes, they live in tepees 

on the trail again  

stop

location:

living in lights, the hills are not what they seem 

did you you know everyone is faux 

Again, wheels move 

still moving 

stop

Location: 

white-toothed children, smiling, screaming.

There is another world outside these four walls. 

Moving to another place another town 

stop 

Location: 

the artists sold out to obvious

I drove the mountain just to see where you live

I wanted to understand who you were

when you were there

carefree and innocent

but I couldn't find anything of the sort 

I keep coming back to spots 

that have already been pulled apart 

I've found nothing new 

I called you the music man 

the one who couldn't write melodies for my harmonies 

I called you the picture man

who couldn't create 

beauty in me 

I called you the movie man 

who refused to write me in a story 

worth being in 

you sold the story short

for amazing 

that's transparent. 

rightfully so

instead of 

search high and low 

for esoteric 

but it's okay

because that's not all the character's cracked up to be 

she manipulates the story 

to find perspective 

into 

a new story

The character created the story of the man who once lived up the mountain. 

- Today I bought a flannel shirt and joshua radin.  My life feels complete. If only that were true.

I think I'm going to write a book.  I just want to drive somewhere amazing and share God with someone.  In both meanings of reading that sentence. He's always been so personal to me.  I think I need to experience him in new ways. I've not let him be limitless like he is. I've made limits to Him and who I've allowed him to let me be.  But if that means letting him give me wings, then so be it. Let the discovery begin.