Peace is
a thought
a word
a song.
Peace is
mine
yours
ours.
Peace is
within us
around us
everywhere.
Peace is
a tradition
a religion
a revelation.
Peace is
looking
seeing
believing.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
WA-3
Peace is
a thought
a word
a song.
Peace is
mine
yours
ours.
Peace is
within us
around us
everywhere.
Peace is
a way of life
a tradition
a religion.
Peace is
more than just not fighting.
a thought
a word
a song.
Peace is
mine
yours
ours.
Peace is
within us
around us
everywhere.
Peace is
a way of life
a tradition
a religion.
Peace is
more than just not fighting.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
WA-2 Draft 3
So long. So long since I was built here, so long I have stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy womb. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs with Her frail legs, using only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her age-softened fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters. Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit effortlessly, flying with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime then was not so different than it is now. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet be -or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped footprint on a hill left.
She climbs my frail stairs with Her frail legs, using only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her age-softened fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters. Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit effortlessly, flying with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime then was not so different than it is now. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet be -or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped footprint on a hill left.
Monday, October 20, 2008
WA-2 Draft 2
So long. So long since I was built here, so long I have stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy womb. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
WA-2
So long. So long have I stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy wombs. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soother me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to need the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my being, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already has been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come for me; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone then, just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soother me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to need the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my being, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already has been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come for me; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone then, just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
WA-1 Draft 3
I didn't hate moving. Coming back to the places I hadn't seen in a year, seeing the people I had missed, those were the good bits. The leaving was the hard part, the friends that I left behind, not being able to go back to buildings that I walked by every day. It wasn't the the really big things that bothered me; it was the small ones, the stores I went to, the shoes I wore, the people I saw but never really noticed. The little ones that you don't even think of until after you leave; the ones that hit you when you're on a plane above the Atlantic: flying home, though I wasn't even sure if it was home anymore.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When I look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to call it but an edge, the snowy land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them, am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jet lag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; I see people who look vaguely familiar but just can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be here, it's just not quite home yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here. I'm looking forward to my life, three more years of high school American style; going to college, all sorts of things I haven't done yet, but will do. I could do them in England, but somehow it seems more real here, like my actual life had been put on pause while I was gone.
But, hey, I'm home, and that's all I have to say about that. I know the things I can change, and the things I can't, and I wouldn't change any of this, even if I could, I've moved on, and I'm ready for my life here, in America.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When I look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to call it but an edge, the snowy land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them, am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jet lag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; I see people who look vaguely familiar but just can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be here, it's just not quite home yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here. I'm looking forward to my life, three more years of high school American style; going to college, all sorts of things I haven't done yet, but will do. I could do them in England, but somehow it seems more real here, like my actual life had been put on pause while I was gone.
But, hey, I'm home, and that's all I have to say about that. I know the things I can change, and the things I can't, and I wouldn't change any of this, even if I could, I've moved on, and I'm ready for my life here, in America.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
WA-1 Draft 2
I didn't hate moving. Coming back to the places I hadn't seen in a year, seeing the people I had missed, those were the good bits. The leaving was the hard part, the friends that I have left behind, not being able to go back to buildings that I walked by every day. It wasn't the the really big things that bothered me; it was the small ones, the stores I went to, the shoes I wore, the people I saw but never really noticed. The little ones that you don't even think of before you leave; the ones that hit you when you're halfway there, on a plane above the Atlantic: flying home, though I wasn't even sure if it was home anymore.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When I look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to call it but an edge, the land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them and am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jet lag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; people who look vaguely familiar but I can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be back, not quite here yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here. I'm looking forward to my life, three more years of high school, American style; going to college, all sorts of things I haven't done yet, but I will. I could do them in England, but somehow it seems more real here, like my actual life had been put on pause while I was gone.
But, hey, I'm home, and that's all I have to say about that. I know the things I can change, and the things I can't, and I wouldn't change any of this, even if I could, I've moved on, and I'm ready to take charge of my life here, in America.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When I look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to call it but an edge, the land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them and am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jet lag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; people who look vaguely familiar but I can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be back, not quite here yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here. I'm looking forward to my life, three more years of high school, American style; going to college, all sorts of things I haven't done yet, but I will. I could do them in England, but somehow it seems more real here, like my actual life had been put on pause while I was gone.
But, hey, I'm home, and that's all I have to say about that. I know the things I can change, and the things I can't, and I wouldn't change any of this, even if I could, I've moved on, and I'm ready to take charge of my life here, in America.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
WA-1
I didn't hate moving. Coming back to the places I hadn't seen in a year, seeing the people I had missed, those were the good bits. The leaving was the hard part, the friends that I left behind, not being able to go back to buildings that I saw every day. It wasn't the the really big things that bothered me; it was the small ones, the little ones that you don't even think of before you leave; the ones that hit you when you're halfway there, on a plane above the Atlantic: flying home, though I wasn't even sure if it was home anymore.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When i look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to callit but an edge, the land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them and am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jetlag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; people who look vaguely familiar but I can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be back, not quite here yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here, and I'm okay.
Flying back, we saw Greenland from the window. I've never seen anything else like it, these giant glaciers steadily flowing into the ocean. I can't help wondering if anyone has ever walked on that land, climbed these mountains: it seems so perfect, so undisturbed by the horrors of out modern world. When i look behind us, to the edge of the ocean- there is nothing to callit but an edge, the land just stops- I can see the icebergs. From here they look just like little white dots: specks of white on the icy blue of the ocean, like a robin's egg. They are so beautiful in themselves that I don't have actual words to describe them.
I had missed it here, the sunny days and the warm weather, so unlike England's constant rain and clouds. But I still can't believe I'm not in Oxford anymore. I can't accept that I can't just go to Lush, or to one of the plays I had meant to see, but never got around to, like the version of Animal Farm Creation was doing. There was so much history there; as I was walking around on my last day, I finally saw it for what it really was: the buildings that I had walked by every day all year seemed different, more powerful. They had been there for over five hundred years; I hadn't even made the slightest impression during my brief stay. The ruins of Godstow Abbey, Carfax tower, they had all been just another landmark, a place to meet friends.
After the plane landed, we drove back to my aunt's house, to rest. So many people are here now, there's a party, dozens of people asking questions, buzzing in my head like flies. I'm so tired, so very very tired. Not of my family, it's not their fault, and I still love them and am very glad to see them; just not now, not with my fuzzy brain telling me to sleep and forget everyone around me. I want to forget about school in two short days, about all the errands I need to run before then, about the people that I will need to see when I get back to make sure I have a school to go to. I finally went downstairs to a bed, and try and sleep the damned jetlag off.
I'm back home, to where I've spent most of my life. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here, but getting used to being back was still hard. Not as hard as I thought it would be, but still confusing. I can't remember where places are, I can't yet find my way to any of my classes without help; people who look vaguely familiar but I can't think of their name, but thankfully my friends are there, and so far, I've been managing. I haven't been to the actual town yet, just to a few stores and school. I want to go out, but I haven't had the time.
When I open my eyes in the morning I can't always remember where I am. A few seconds later I realize, but still, I'm missing the other place, where I could have woken up.I am glad to be home, very happy to be back, not quite here yet in my mind; but I have time to get used to it here, and I'm okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)