It's Today

I just set up my posting options so I can post via email. Which is
about the only way I can do it for a month...or two...or maybe three.

We're leaving today at 9:10, but right now it's only almost six
o'clock, so I have two hours to pack up my carry-on, go to a couple
places on the campus once again, and eat breakfast. Our ride leaves at
seven fifty...

"Farewell, my friends, I'm bound for Canaan.
I'm traveling through the wilderness.
Your company has been delightful,
You who doth leave my mind distressed.
I go away behind to leave you--perhaps never to meet again!--
But, if we never have the pleasure,
I hope we'll meet on Canaan's land."

One of those shape note hymns that says it all--I thought it meant one
thing one day, and then another day I know what it means. And yet
another day...it's like any song, really. It means everything and yet
so little at the same time.

I Love You

No, sorry. I wasn't going to post about my non-existent boyfriend (though I maintain that his name has to be Willie, because I love folk music so much). Instead, I am posting a post that is written to my home. The place I will leave sometime after nine in the morning tomorrow, June 30th. The home that has gone from strange, to ugly, to mine. You, of course, are invited on the ride.

I love you. I first came here and I thought you were strange. Sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way. People were interested in me. That was mostly good. But my home was so empty, and the hills...well, the hills are another story.

I loved the hills, even when I fell in that soupy mud, even when I became footsore and weary. Hikes in my backyard--I was amazed! I had people who wanted to talk to me out of curiosity, and I had fun "climbing the mountain".

Oh, there was a time when I hated all of that. I wanted to be me again, not the strange person that I had become. I wanted to go home where it was green, not brown. I wanted to go home where everything was. What was worse, my new friend, a girl so much like me, was exulting in your brown ugliness.

And then I left. For a two-month visit "home". I loved every minute of it and wanted to stay. I turned my back on you, hated land. But I dutifully stepped on the plane bound towards you, turned on the Disney Movies, and waited for another year of hate.

I stepped off the plane to meet my friends, girls younger than I. Suddenly, I saw familiar hills, familiar places, and I knew that I was home again.

Chattering in the back of the truck, I saw a future opening up in front of me. Art lessons with my friend! Playtimes in the shadow of the mountain! Maybe I'd even see Sharon, the girl I had made friends with the last year.

My future was as glorious as expected for three months. Art lessons in the cozy schoolroom with Anna and a nice teacher. I found myself playing with her often when our sisters had karate. Sharon was there and a dearer friend than ever. The hills beamed.

Christmas came again, the happiest Christmas of my life. A friend of ours received a wondrous gift that year, and the happiness in my heart easily multiplied as the day grew happier and happier. I knew where home was then. I never wanted to leave you.

But, after Christmas, things went bad again. Anna moved away. Sharon disappeared. My other friend and I sort of lost touch. But you were there, a fluid, always changing, yet always the same place. I love you. I never wanted to leave.

Now, tomorrow, I will leave you, perhaps forever. The tears spring to my eyes as I say this. You're crying, too. I felt the rain on my face as I walked home today. I wish I could stay forever. Yet, as I say that I am loath to leave, my actions belie my words. Perhaps my tears are enough. I cannot cry on command.

Fare you well. I love you. I will come back if I can. Promise.

"'Farewell!' was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added, 'Farewell, for ever!'"--Jane Eyre, Vol. III. My favorite book. And it says it all.

I'm Glad

that being fourteen isn't being too old to start jumping and dancing, at least not in private.

My best friend here has been sick for quite some time and is only now recovering. She dropped out of school and it took us forever to find her. Now, however, we're getting together! She's been hiking with us once and over to visit twice. While it makes the pain of leaving even harder, I'm so happy for the here and now.

Anyway, today the phone rang, and I quickly stopped the music I was listening to and answered it. "Hello?" I waited for several seconds. No response. I hung up the phone and went back to what I was doing. One minute later: rrring!

I answered the phone with mild annoyance. "Hello?" No answer. I sighed. There wasn't even any background noise. I hung up, sat down, and...rrring!

"Hello?" I practically yelled, then realized, guiltily, too late, that there was sound. "Hello, can I speak to Lou?" (Lou is my mother's half-pseudonym on this blog)

"No, she's not here right now," I answered. I figured it was her student who was supposed to drop by sometime. I was about to say, "can I take a message?" when the voice grew more familiar. "Will you climb the mountain tomorrow?"

"Oh, yes," I said, suddenly realizing who it was. Sharon. I was so hoping. Now the rest of the phone problems made sense. Sharon's phone is sort of on the blink.

Of course, I may be wrong. After all, many of my mother's students, I'm ashamed to say, sound alike to me. But Sharon isn't my mother's student (although she sounds like one), and we have been good enough friends that I can distinguish her voice better. So I'm almost sure...

...ah, well. If all goes well (and for it to go well, there must be several circumstances just right, the first being that Sharon comes tomorrow), I'll see her twice before I leave...

No-man's Land

No-man's land.

Some might think I'm a tad crazy, or at least overreacting, but I have to say it.

We took down all our wallhangings and pictures yesterday. Two years ago, when we moved into the furnished apartment, there was absolutely nothing on the walls. I got permission from my parents and instantly began dashing paint on paper and hanging up the results when they were still damp. The walls quickly lost their whiteness, not from dirt, but from drawings. The drawings were everything from the amazing hills here to the hills and views of the home I had left. They were imagined pictures from stories I wove in my head, the only bit of the stories I would share with others, then or now (maybe another time, but...).

We moved in August, and at the year's end, I cut out all the pictures from the calendars and put them up, too. The walls sprouted more and more color as the years progressed, and I was happy.

Suddenly, it was time to take down all the pictures, which I dutifully did, deciding which to keep and which to toss, which was difficult. D'you know, we've got to stuff everything we want to take with us into eight suitcases? We can't take a moving van, and my mother doesn't like shipping stuff, so we're going to have to fly. Thank God that our new-old place (it's actually the same place we lived in before) has furniture! Anyway, I took down the pictures, feeling satisfaction in ripping things off the walls, trying to rip out my sorrow, I think.

After that, I sat down at the computer and did my usual stuff, and was glued to it for awhile, which, unfortunately, is my way, whether I like it or not. There's no library here.

I glanced up when my sister came in proudly advertising her new backpack. Had I been standing, I would have staggered backwards. What had happened to my home? The walls were as bare as our first sight of them. But because I had lived here for so long, it was still home, yet--like when we moved last time--it had become a hollow shell, that I am as loath to leave as to stay in.

I couldn't sleep last night, not for the longest time. The wall beside my bed was empty of vacations, family and friends staring me in the face and murmuring lullabies; I'd taken down all my photographs. The wall perpendicular from the bed was empty of the brochures I'd carefully arranged there. The light from the living room was empty because I couldn't glimpse pictures blocking it. It was empty--something weird from a horror movie or something.

I finally got to sleep, but I woke up at six thirty in the morning (my mother, as a teacher, is giving final exams and had to start awfully early!). A cup of tea rejuvenated me, but I'm still tired, kind of edgy, and--yes, still--in horror at what has happened to the walls.

Happy Birthday to Paul...

It being Paul McCartney's birthday and all, I should write something. After all, the Beatles are one of the only rock groups I can stand (and many people my age find them awfully dated, I suppose...), and though I've never really checked out McCartney's solo work, I sure like the Liverpool Oratorio.

Actually, though, there's really nothing to say, because I'm not a big Beatle expert. I do, however, find it fascinating to read about the whole "Paul is Dead" thing. Looked it up on Wikipedia once and found this great site: Officially Pronounced Dead?. So that's the story. I am of the opinion that Paul never died and that it was a very strange rumour. Publicity stunt? Crazy fans? Ah, well, we may never know.

But Paul is alive, and his birthday is today, and he and his cronies gave us some very cool music. That's a reason to be happy!

Universal Language

The Universal Language is supposed to be Esperanto. Actually, that's what they were trying to pull off. It hasn't worked yet. I have gone overseas and have seen English signs for posterity or for the usage ease of foreign visitors. Being an American, I have not learned a language, though my mother made me study one dialect of Chinese, and I chose to study another. With the first, I made no headway; with the second, I was able to play Uno completely in that language! Of course, I couldn't say much to the guy who completely screwed me up but "Thank you", very sarcastically. When it comes time to study my high school requirement, I'm going to learn Spanish, the language I can best use in my circumstances.

But I digress, this actually was not about words. When all the languages were scrambled, it was one of the worst punishments on earth, but there was a small compensation that helped ease the blow. The true Universal Language was left to us.

I one time performed a tin whistle solo at a talent show and was accosted the next day by a group of folks who couldn't speak English. I happened to be playing the piano at the time. They nodded at me excitedly and made motions to show that they'd seen me playing the music the night before, and stuck their thumbs up, grinning joyously at me the whole time. I then was supposed to play them something on the piano. It didn't come off as good, as my fingers had suddenly turned to bricks. Ah, for a professional's poise! I wish...

Music. That universal language. If you want people across centuries, continents, generations, to hear your exultation, your pain, your gift to the world, pull out your instrument of choice and record it. Chances are that somehow it will come out.

Of course, it's not as precise as words, but sometimes precision detracts. Obviously, one can't pull out a whistle (or a fiddle, or a guitar, or a trumpet), start playing in the Hong Kong International Airport, and expect the plethora of people from all over to understand that you mean, "Where is the #@#$ restroom? My flight to Timbuctu is in 5 minutes!", and the guy from Israel can't pull out a banjo and respond, "Wait 'til you get on the plane!" But you can take out your whistle and play it (where you're allowed to) and throw your heart into it, and somehow someone will understand.

Of course, they won't know exactly what goes on inside your heart, and they won't know exactly what you mean. But there will be that invisible link between your music and your heart and that persons ears and heart, and often, if you have no practical needs (or even if you can do but can cast aside the cares of the practical world for a moment), it's enough to create unity. I have sung a song in English while others around me have sung it in their language. It makes for a delicious cacophony, and an understanding.

I, of course, love music and chose it as one of my primary avocations (vocation? You may think so, but you have not heard me play or sing!), but it astounds me how much universality there is in that genre.

By this time, you may be thinking, "I just don't get those shrieky Celtic flute-thingys," or else, "What about that Hawaiian steel guitar that I can't stand?" Well, unfortunately, lack of understanding was there long before screwy speech, and is present in everything. Almost as important as other freedoms and tolerances is the freedom and tolerance of music. Which I need to remind myself of when I hear those steel guitars (but I do like Celtic flute-thingys; tin whistles!). And the rest comes naturally.

I'll close with a story. I had a very dear friend and dance teacher who liked us all to bring music to class. I, of course, brought Atwater-Donnelly's (I have a one-track mind sometimes!) The Blackest Crow and let her pick a song. She chose the only song on the album that I didn't care for, "Sweet Fern." I danced to it dutifully, and when we were done, she went into raptures about it. "Oh, what a lovely song! How sweet! I just love that song! Caitriona, thanks for bringing the music!"

I sat there, thinking, "Really? I can't stand that one!" But then I thought again. I liked and respected my teacher, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So of course I wouldn't say it aloud. I found myself automatically rescanning the whole song because my teacher loved it so. And then I found something in there, the exquisite longing and the sadness that accompanied it. Maybe it wasn't what my teacher found, but now I love the song because I found what it means to me.

So, now, excuse me while I go find a decent sample of Hawaiian music and discover what it has to say...

The Green Paintbrush

Which is, I think, what God used when He made this place in summer. The rains have come, but it was a patchwork day today, and I happened to go out just as the sun came out and kissed his lover, Mt. Flag. I stopped dead in my tracks and stared openmouthed at that green. I've never seen green liked that before. It's just...mindboggling, I think. I am not this good painter or anything, but I did mix a tint to match up with our bathroom counter a couple years ago, and was quite pleased with the result. However, neither I nor anyone else (and most people are better than I) could match that tint! Not even a camera, complete with a darkroom--digital or otherwise--could come even close. And Mum says that Emerald Ridge on Mt. Rainier is the same way!

Time ditched with the snail she had been keeping company with, and is dragging me along at a fantastic pace! Sometimes I want the snail. Sometimes I want all the stress and grief and sorrow to zip by at a faster pace. However, I'm not wearing track shoes, and my companion has a mind of her own, unfortunately. If I were in charge, we'd zip along and slow down only at important parts. But Time gets her orders from a higher source, and I'm lucky of that.

I'm sitting here alone while my mother and father judge a contest. My sister came with them, and I'm enjoying having the five-room apartment all to myself. I'm reading comics (not Unshelved, but another one) and typing alternately and also listening to Atwater-Donnelly. Sometimes a folk tune just perfectly describes what I'm thinking. Other times, it must be pulled way out of context but holds a special meaning (sometime, I must tell you about "Donkey Riding" and Palm Sunday) for me because of it. "The Road to Drumleman" is one of them. Drumleman has become my personal word for heaven-on-earth, so to speak. No place is perfectly Drumleman. I found Drumleman many times here. Will I find it when I go back "home" to Seattle? I miss the comforts of the city, but a sort of a rural-y town is relaxing.

Oh, gracious. Here I am, rambling with no purpose, really, and not singing along because I'm concentrating. I can sing along with practically every song Atwater-Donnelly does if I'm listening to a.) the selfsame recording or b.) them actually singing it, but I still have many songs to go before I can sing them alone. Life is good.

Paddy's Lamentation

Lyrics to one of the saddest songs I've ever heard.

"There is nothing here but war
Where the murderin' cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin."

This Civil War era song is just tragic. It's the story of an Irishman who heads off to "Americay" because he wants to start a better life, but (somehow) he ends up with a rifle in his hand. "Paddy, you've come to fight for Lincoln." So off goes the hapless fellow to fight the South, and he ends up with a wooden leg warning fellows: "To Americay I'll not have you goin'!"

This, by the way, fits the definition of tragic songs with haunting tunes and lyrics that I absolutely love. You can sing them when you're happy and bring a little happiness to it, you can sing them when you're sad and feel like you're either not alone or else you've got it so good compared to these folks, and sometimes they take on new shades of meaning. So, I'm putting "Paddy's Lamentation" up there with "Kilkelly" "West Virginia Mine Disaster" "There Were Roses", etc.

Funny, I just looked back and realized that all three of those are original songs (i.e. by someone, not traditional). "Paddy's Lamentation" is traditional, so it's a start. Anyway, I suppose this shows my regard for Peter Jones, Jean Ritchie, and Tommy Sands...

Bonnie Susie Cleland

I'm listening to KBCS online. KBCS is a community radio station, and it's got everything from very Democrat programs (blam about the status quo and the president, basically) to wonderful programs like Folksounds, done by Eric Hardee and Jean Brendecke. Anyway, one of those Democrat programs is going on right now, CounterSpin, and I'm waiting for Folksounds. I think that someone on the show this edition is surnamed "Cleland" or something like that, which immediately made me think about "Bonnie Susie Cleland to be buried in Dundee."

I like tragic ballads, stupid or no, because they're interesting. Most of the time, the folks in the ballads are worse off than the singer, and yet any sorrow the singer has and any empathy or sympathy can be thrown in and be mixed in. And, besides, many of these tunes have the best tunes. So, that's why I like them, though I'm very soft-hearted and can't even bear to watch The Empire Strikes Back without closing my eyes about four times.

But "Bonnie Susie Cleland" is just horrorific. I've heard that the events described here might have really happened, and that horrifies me. It's worse than "Omie Wise", though that one is based on a true story.

The premise is that Susie Cleland, a pretty Scottish girl, has fallen in love with an English soldier. Her father and brothers are horrified and demand that she renounce her love and abandon him. She tells them that she won't, and so the father and brothers decide to take action--but not against the soldier, which would make some sense, nor by locking up Susie herself, which makes sense, as well.

No. Susie's family should be in Seattle--their motto is "There's got to be a harder, more complex way to deal with this." But I'm not about to go on and on about how Seattle takes forever to get around to doing stuff (even though it's true) because there aren't any Seattleites in the song. The point is, Susie's brothers get a big pile of wood, and...well, I don't even want to finish this, but they get a big pile of wood and Susie's father gets a stake, and then they tie her to the stake, and...have you read about the Spanish Inquisition? Something like that.

Now, that in and of itself is a bit extreme. There are plenty of other ways to deal with an English lover, I'd think, but burning one's daughter or sister at the stake seems rather...well...

What are you trying to do, Mr. Cleland? Are you trying to punish your daughter? Are you trying to protect her? Or are you trying to teach her lover a lesson? There are better ways to do it!!!

I suppose I better get off my soapbox now. Why start yelling at someone in a song? It won't change anything. I better just go find the happy ending version...

Horror and Relief

More about the earthquake. It was 200 km away from us and didn't affect anything. But there are 3 dead, more injured, and even more homeless from it. Something about it just haunts me. I slept, woke, and slept again. In that waking moment I had peace after the shaking stopped, but 200 km away someone was weeping, someone was dying, someone was hurt, someone was dead. No one I knew, but still, it's bad.

Aftershock at 10:49 in the morning. I already blogged about that, but I hear it had a magnitude of 5 or something. As if six wasn't enough!

Anyway, that's the earthquake. Everyone was talking about it. People up in the top floors of our apartment complex were terrified. It's an awful thing. I called up someone on the phone last night and it was all we could talk about. There wasn't much else to say.

It's been so hot lately, but I was outside anyway with some of my parent's friends. We were sitting outside a restaurant when I started feeling drops. It started pouring! We went inside, but there were breaths of cool air, and the oppresive sunshine had finally stopped. It was back up again within half an hour, of course, but the air was cool, the ground was wet, and rivulets of water were running down the earth, being drunk up by the thirsty ground.

It's still hot, but it was a breath of relief all the same. Yesterday was a day of mixed feelings, just like last Christmas, when I saw someone lying in the middle of the road--apparently having been hit by a car--and yet something happened which made it the happiest Christmas of my life.

By the way, I've installed Haloscan commenting and trackback on this site (but not my poetry site, because I don't want to delete Sorah's comment) because I prefer it to Blogger commenting. Just thought I'd mention it.

Earthquake at Dawn

I was dreaming. I was riding home on a bus from the province's capitol and reading what I was doing on the computer. I was living EV Nova and getting ready to fight off Commander Krane, the supreme bad guy in the game, all in this bus. My sort-of-uncle Joel (a real-life person) was talking to my sort-of-aunt and I don't know why they were coming with us. Thatched roofs that looked decidedly Irish were along the road, and there were some cows.

Irritated, I pushed off the blanket. Blanket? I didn't have a blanket on the bus! I was so hot, except I was shaking...wait a moment.

The whole bed was shaking. I felt a moment of supreme annoyance. My sister was rolling around again on the top bunk. It always jiggles the bed. When we first moved here, it scared me half to death. Now, however...this was extreme.

I put my hand on the floor, wondering if I should get out of bed until she stopped rolling around. Then, I became more fully awake. What was going on?

A sudden flashback. I am standing in the old house and standing by the stereo system. Turkey soup smells floating through the house from the kitchen. Worrying about Mom, in the hospital for an operation on her broken leg. Wondering how to keep my bangs from getting ashy that night without having to wear a headband. It is Ash Wednesday. Suddenly, the whole house begins to shake. A couple CDs fall down from the top shelf, but only the case breaks. The CDs are fine. My sister Rivka looks at me in surprise. Grandma stomps out of the kitchen, spoon in hand, demanding, "What's going on here?" All I can do is whisper "Earthquake!" and stand in one of the most dangerous places in the house.

But I'm not in that old house, now. I'm lying in a bunk bed far away from that place. I'm hot and tired, but it's the same. An earthquake. I am frozen. My hand goes back from the floor. I glance at the doorway. Should I go brace myself? But what about Rivka? Should I wake her up?

So I lay on the bed, frozen, unable to do what I thought of doing. I just lay there, petrified, worried about what would happen next. When would it be over, I wondered. The bed sways so, I had no way of knowing. Eventually, it seemed all the tremors were over, so I rolled over and closed my eyes.

I was back on the bus, riding home, almost home, and Commander Krane was safely stowed on top of the bus with the rest of the luggage. I hope she gets windburn, I thought, and so slept on for the rest of the night.

When I woke up, I was wondering if it was all part of a dream. I asked my mother, and she said that there was one. A few minutes ago, I was sitting at the computer doing things, when the apartment building began shaking again. I gasped and turned to Rivka, sitting peacefully on the couch. "Is it my imagination, or...?"

"No, it's really shaking."

"Earthquake. Did you feel the one last night?"

"No." Rivka was still buried in The Witch of Blackbird Pond, so she mumbled, and I had to ask her to repeat the word twice. But eventually she got her meaning across, and we lapsed into silence.

I looked up the earthquake on Google, but all I found was the one last month and one back in 2004 that killed many. But apparently this one hasn't been noted yet, or it wasn't very serious. Ah, well. This is the third (or second, if it was simply an aftershock) one in two months. In the two years I've lived here, it's only the fourth (or third) one...