Some poetry

Both of these poems were written at UC Santa Cruz, where I study and live my happy life. Enjoy!

October 18, 2010

Take the time to notice the dandelion
smile to its rays of yellow
remember the sun, giver of life.

Imagine yourself as a flower
and sway and grow tall
and express the beautiful color of your soul
to the skies

no matter if the clouds pour sadness
strive, grow, share

be the dandelion
spread your rays of life
grin your living grin
and hold onto your roots as you leave the comforts of your home

courage, independence brings us to the world
say hello.

you are a dandelion
bright and independent

one of many, yet yourself.



---

November 12, 2010

He picks flowers for me
white
pink
tuck-behind-the-ear flowers
kisses for thank you's
once, twice
hands held on walks
through trees
on paths
big
small
the hands and the paths
not the trees
they're all tall and big
strong
rooted
like him
knowing himself
while I still wonder at my life
in wonder
and wonder who I am
wonderful life
oh,
I am me
with small hands
and a love of the flowers
hands, trees, life.
He picks happiness for me
big grins
gazes
happiness and contented smiles.

Book Log: Prodigal Summer

I have decided to keep a log of the books I read in 2010. I have a book log that I started three years ago or so, and have been keeping track (sporadically) of books I've read, but I often forget to write books down and I never write about my feelings on the book at the time. So, I will try to post a short review/discussion of each book I finish for the year. I just now decided to do this, so I am a little hazy on remembering which books I officially finished in 2010. I will begin with a book I am positive I started and finished this new year: Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver.It is definitely one of my favorite novels of all time, and my favorite from this author (I've also read The Bean Trees and The Poisonwood Bible). This inspiring novel focuses on three characters and their neighbors and families in southern Appalachia. The thing I liked best about it was how much I learned about myself and nature (especially moths and coyotes!). Kingsolver superbly weaves in facts about nature and human life that bring such an intriguing element to the already-beautiful and fascinating story. There is a certain sense of wonder that is found throughout the book as characters discover themselves and others and as we the readers discover things about ourselves through the biological information as well as through seeing parts of ourselves in the characters. It isn't rated G, so be warned, but at the same time, the aspects that contain more mature content are necessary to the story. It is a story about life and love in so many different ways. It truly tells the story of a prodigal summer, both in its excess of emotions and in its lesson about nature's continual push for survival in the form of new life and love. I highly, highly recommend it!

The Grove

Footsteps of barefooted agility,
the sudden leap across a murky puddle,
the dew-glistened grass, reflecting an invitation to my dry, thirsty skin,
a graceful plummet to a kneel, skirt of pink fabric billowing in contrast upon the green of bristled weeds.
The angles of my feet and toes become wet with morning,
as dark willow ropes of sorrow sway in the breeze of sunlight
that shines in from the gray and soft of the sky
causing shadows of light to play with the dew;
they dance around and praise the morning air
below the nests of birds who hark the skies with songs of solitude.
Without man, would this grove be considered lovely?
My curls of blonde and gold, so like the rays that fall upon my crown,
my eyes of blue that search on quests for answers in this world of never-ending questions,
my small hands that extend to delicate fingers clutch a book,
full of thought, full of life,
a whole world of knowledge thrust into a tree's skin,
leaflets of poetry falling from the spine,
black scrawl adorning with abuse the paper,
each space filled with symbols,
arranged.
Not wanting to waste the woods,
the leaflets are pressed upon with ink until they bleed of insight.
The refreshing smell of earth, of dirt, of worms, of fossilizing bugs
trails for miles beneath my body
and I press down upon the center of our globe with toes, and feet.
Without man’s perception, would this be so lovely?
My space in atmosphere remains filled
regardless of my contribution,
good or ill,
and will until I become once again a part of earth,
and I am Nature.
We all do make an impact,
our feet and paws and roots pressing into the center,
keeping gravity, taking up a space,
a footprint on the ground of history.
But is my perception truly honest? History—mankind’s or earth’s?
Perception…
If I weren’t to see this morning
would it still be in the story of the world as glorious, refreshing?
Or is our perception fogged with our own destruction?
Would our refreshing be merely Earth’s routine
if we knew, respected our home?
This grove, beholding the morning haze of light and crisp air,
would be glorious, for life is flourishing, alive, singing, even without me here to observe and contribute.

---

I wrote this a few years ago and stumbled upon it within my documents recently.

Happy Holidays!

I just want to wish you all a Merry Solstice and hope the season brings you much Yuletide cheer! Happy Holidays!Pinecrest, California in Winter 2008 (taken by me)

Nanowrimo

I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month for the third time. If you've never heard of Nanowrimo, or if you have and aren't sure if you should attempt it, my recommendation is that you definitely give it a try! It's a month of crazy, frantic, not very good writing, reaching for a goal of 50,000 words by November 30 at midnight. If you succeed, then congrats--you have yourself a novel (we're not making any promises about its quality, just its quantity!).

I've never made the 50,000 word mark, but I have since last year finished the novel I started in November and its at around 30,000. Even if parts of the novel end up being trashed come December, the mere fact that you've written that many words is an incredible feeling. And there's a good chance that something out of those 50,000 is put in the right order and turns out to be the gem you needed to convince you that you can write.

Just do it. Try it. Make the goal less if 50,000 scares you. I'm at 8065 this moment, but even if you're at zero, it's the weekend and that means the perfect time to start that novel you've always dreamed of writing! Don't have a clue of what to write? Begin by writing about your day and the day before that, and then see where it takes you.

Some quick tips and then I need to get back to my story:

- No editing. Whatsoever! That comes later, in December.
- Describe things in very lengthy detail. Describe a character's hair for three pages. It's the only way you'll get to 50,000 unless you don't do anything other than write.
- It will not be well-written. That goes for everyone. Even great writers will end up writing mostly trash. It's the fact that you get it down that matters. You can make it sound pretty later.
- Have somewhat of a plan if you really want to do it right. Know your ending, or the basic resolution. At least have some sense of what will happen, or else you'll burn out at 10,000 with no where to go. That happened to me my first year and it was pretty disappointing.

Well, I better go write some more.
At least check out the website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Thanks for reading! :-)

The Grueling Hike to Cooper Peak

This story was originally posted on JPGMag.com August 19, 2008.

---

On the morning of August 6, 2008, three hikers set out for the grueling hike to Cooper Peak in the Sierra Nevada mountain range of California. They parked their Bronco at the Coyote Meadow trailhead after driving over rocks and dust on an unpaved road. Water bottles, lunches, Clif bars, and cameras jostled for space in their backpacks as they set off at a brisk pace. The entrance to the trail is framed by a cut section of a felled tree and is bordered on both sides by a lush meadow teeming with yarrow, mules ear, and bumble bees.

The youngest hiker led the way, breathing harder as the trail began its ascent. The trail twisted through the shadows of pine trees and snaked its way through grassy fields. Finally, the male hiker stopped. "Anywhere along here will be good," he said. The two female hikers encouraged him to lead, so he turned from the path and began the climb, following nothing but the memory from his previous venture to the area.

I was the youngest hiker, one of the females. My mother was the other female hiker, and my uncle Tom was the male who took the lead up the hill. At that point, the real hiking began. Switch-backing the dirt mountainside and trying to breath despite the dying feeling in your lungs, that's when the fun begins. It's the kind of hiking that makes breathing through one of those thin bar straws used for stirring sound easy. My poor mom, she was sick a week ago and it didn't aid her in the lung and breathing department. She had to stop, so my uncle and I had to stop. We'd wait until air was reaching her blood cells again, and then we'd continue the trek up the mountain.

The first cliff we came to yielded a spectacular view. Quick camera and water break and then on we went, maneuvering our oxygen-deprived selves up, up, up. As we continued the climb, a faint trail became visible. This proves that my uncle isn't just leading us to our deaths at a dead-end hike! Hurray! We soon find ourselves in a batch of trees, our ankles near snapping point from traversing sideways across dirt. Then came the rock climbing. We began traveling vertically, using all fours. Poor mom. She's afraid of heights. The tumble down the steep hillside would probably not kill you, but the trees would not be the softest of blockades.

We finally made it to the level point along that near-invisible trail. Hiking along like that, your heart racing, your foot-eye coordination in charge, your breathing ragged and quick, you find yourself thinking of nothing but the climb. And the destination, one we were guaranteed would produce breath-taking views. Not even my latest obsession (and the obsession of thousands of other teenage girls) – Edward Cullen, vampires, the product of Stephenie Meyer's imagination – could interrupt my instinctual need to focus on the prize (and where my boot-encased feet trod).

I kept up fairly well with Tom. My mom, not so much. We had to wait for her when she was out of sight, behind the trees, beyond the lip of the hill. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the moments when I could pause, breathe, and realize that I was lightheaded and probably not in the best state to be hiking along a mountainside. But soon, even I found that Tom was just a speck in the distance, one that seemed so infinitely far away. How I ever managed to catch up and not just pass out on the cold, hard earth is beyond me.

My camera (a Canon SD750) soon found itself in my pocket, rather than in the confines of my orange Kelty backpack. There were just too many photo opportunities (when I wasn't struggling for breath and clear-headedness – did I mention that the climb ended at an altitude of 9,000 feet, quite enough to drain the blood circulation from your head even if you have been in the mountains for 24 hours). At one point, we were climbing a creek bed, one filled with loose rocks. I felt myself grimacing at the strain in my lungs as I followed the heels of my uncle up the mountain.

Finally we could see the last hill, a rock-strewn climb that pinched your breathing, perhaps because you knew the peak was just over that last rock. Tom, of course, reached the peak first. I took a final lunge over the top and grinned – holy mackerel, I made it. I photographed a panoramic view with multiple shots. Wow. The view was beyond worth the climb. We came upon the two geological survey markers that pointed to the official peak. They did the survey fifty-two years ago in 1956, the year my dad was born.

We couldn't escape the wind at the summit, so we settled on the rocky expanse and commenced lunch (after photographing the entire area and each other multiple times). I had a sandwich, some carrot sticks, and a whole lot of water. Tom had apple slices and nuts. Mom had crackers and salami and carrots. We were one happy bunch of altitude-crazed hikers. Soon, however, we could see clouds and rain approaching our relaxed little perch and the wind began howling at dangerous speeds. One does not want to be stuck on a mountain peak in a lightening storm, so we bolted. I stuffed a chocolate brownie Clif bar in my mouth as we scurried down the mountainside.

My uncle used to be a ski patrolman, and he taught me to ski when I was a kid. He and I shot down the mountain – he imitated skiing over moguls as he switch-backed along. I followed close behind, leaving distance and then charging, my coordination and control in full swing. My mom isn't much of a skier, and her retreat down the mountain mirrored this. "This is just like skiing – you hauling and me still crawling down the mountain," she shouted down to us. If she hadn't been sick the week before, I'm sure her hiking would have been quicker paced and the stopping-to-breathe thing would have been less frequent.

We finally made it back to Coyote Meadow trail head, Tom's backpack holding three new additions: beer cans we'd found littered along the way. These, and some scraggly barbed wire along the trail were our only reminders of the civilization that lay behind us (besides our cameras, backpacks, and cell phones, of course). So, we made it. We didn't die along the way (although my uncle had shown me the way to get back in case he died of a heart attack on the trail), and our lungs repaired seamlessly. We passed the Coyote Meadow trail head for a final time, grabbed some sodas from the ice chest, and drove back along the bumpy road, exhaustion overtaking us, and the images of our trail saved in the memory cards of both our cameras and our minds.

Excerpt from my recent novel

I participated in National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) this past November. Here is an excerpt from the work that came from that month, as well as the months following (I didn't meet the 50,000 word quota during the month or even after my continued writing). The completed writing is a 43,570 word novel that needs a lot of editing. But at least the draft is finished.

Chapter 5
Hopes, California 1850

John Sinclair had an aching back, an unshaven face, and rough, dirty hands. All three aspects of his current life were new to him, having been raised in a clean cut, sanitary city on the east coast of the United States. But he couldn’t listen to the fatigue that was eating away at his thinning body from lack of nutritious foods. He had to find something more than those other men out there. Something that would make Kate happy. Because Kate was counting on him to deliver his end of the deal, or else she’d leave him for someone who actually knew what he was doing.

Panning for gold. John was still getting used to his own rashness. He had been raised to live for the concrete guarantee of business, the kind that you could watch grow as your customers arrived and your goods were sold. But this luck and chance game he was playing was exciting. He’d heard some of the guys in the camp calling this growing anticipation he could feel coursing through his American veins “gold fever.” And it truly was. He knew his chances were slim, and yet…the chances of every man who’d struck it rich had been the same! The possibilities of how much gold were endless. You just had to find the right place…

Every morning, John awoke in his cold, arid tent next to his newfound friend Walter and the two got up and cooked beans over the fire and ate with old silverware and got ready for the long day ahead of them. John had staked a claim along the river, right down the road from the town. Hopes was quite a bustling little place. Though it was far from Sonora, the closest supplier, there were a fair number of men (and not quite enough women) to keep the town running. The prices ran high and the fights were low, although those that broke out were loud and rowdy. Alcohol was prevalent among the miners, the heaviest drinker being Mr. Henry Boom, a boisterous man in his late thirties who never seemed to be entirely sober. The shacks and tents lining the main street were dilapidated, but John couldn’t imagine that the other gold towns were any better constructed. And to think, not two years before he had been living in Pennsylvania among real architecture, real homes, and real stores that sold the things a man needed to be prosperous. He had worked for his father, and their business had been books. Oh, how he missed his books. Though he’d managed to bring some along with him, he was usually quite exhausted by the time he was finished along the river, and the covers had gotten tattered from the numerous times the books had been pored over on the voyage over here.

John enjoyed his time in Hopes. Sure it was difficult work everyday and he was sure that rheumatism would catch up with him if he didn’t find a plot of land rather than a melted-snow river. But he had made friends, Walter and Kate. Walter Thompson was a married man. He’d left his wife back home and was chancing his luck at striking it rich to bring some fortune home. John didn’t think he would have been able to stand the separation. And Kate…well, John didn’t know if he’d still be in Hopes if it weren’t for Kate. She was the reason he continued to freeze his feet in the river, panning his days away looking for a mineral that had glittered for lucky men for centuries.

Walter Thompson awoke each morning with the glittering hope that today was the day he’d strike it rich in a vein of gold and be able to rush home to his wife. She was his only hope for happiness in the future. The gold was something he needed to find for her, he had to fulfill his “manifest destiny” before he settled down and raised a family. He saw other men with their wives here in Hopes, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake in leaving his wife at home. Surely it wasn’t smart to bring a woman into the dirty life of a miner. Those few women here were treated nicely enough in person, but didn’t they realize they were the only women these men had seen in months? Of course they were the talk of the taverns and in the dreams of all the miners. He was glad he hadn’t put dear Abigail in that situation. He’d hate for her to see men in this primitive state. He was glad for his friend John, although he wondered if Kate was really a trustworthy woman. Couldn’t she be setting him up for no good? Walter hoped he was wrong.

--

The novel is, as you can see, about the California gold rush of the 1850s. But it's also about a group of modern-day teenagers who go camping in the woods of the Sierra Nevadas. The teens encounter some strange people and realize that the legend of a lost gold rush town is true and that the ghosts that haunt it seek revenge for something that happened many years ago...