Watching the world as time flies
From beginning to end
Standing strong in tough times
From cold winters to hot summers
Watching us grow old.
Swaying in the wind
Providing cover in the rain
And shade in the sun
Providing a place to rest
A place to ease the pain
We don’t appreciate it
How lucky we are
They gave life to us all
The sweetness we cut down with greed
One by one they fall
As will we
This trip turned all that thought inward at times
It forced me to really think about what i was feeling,
and to sit inside my heart
so that my hard wired head could stop
and i became content to be in my own space
content to sit within myself as I moved.
content to just watch as the world changed around me
merely maneuvering my truck from idea to idea
it forced me to process things by writing them
but it also gave me the space to think things through in conversations on the phone
but that depended entirely on cell service
the oaks
wrinkles
white walls
metallic beige
flying roaring
cutting
white walls
warm animals
in half motion
motioning
in motion
you latch on to these moments, these images, as they race in your head, as they take tight turns, as a force like gravity pulls and pulls you away. you find yourself empty save the quiet conversations and the warm silence. the moments that make you you. but how ‘bout I move them?
how ‘bout i reorganize the pantry
pull the back towards the front
pour it all out
how ‘bout when you feel those candlewarm memories
in your stainless vaccum
you feel them.
you feel the road, the car
the pull
you feel the moment, the memory
fading
into the fog
______
Then on friday
as the sun set I tore down highway 1
past cambria
by hearst castle
frantically searching for a place to get in the water
and even as the sun dipped under the saddles I sped through
I could feel I could find it
and I did
I changed quickly and jogged past multiple signs which thoughtfully informed that this area was the elephant seal’s area not the humans area, I wasn’t wearing my glasses and it was not very bright so I only saw them as I was leaving
but I saw surfers in the water and the break looked nice enough so I ran through the grass towards the beach 100 yards off
where the grass stopped the seals started
some small but others enormous
big black bodies
pink mouths
and the screaming
but nothing could pierce the orange and purple sky
I darted through a maze of them
(entirely honestly I don’t know where the courage to do this came from)
but
I sprinted the last 20 feet to the water, threw my board down and paddled hard past the break to arrive at the silent surfers
I was a mess of limbs and heavy breathing but their boards just made small sounds when they breached the swaying surface and i settled into the salt and the sea
it was a pitchy little close out but occasionally the ocean would toss in this fast pulling right that could pick you up at the rocky point and deposit you on the other side of the cove in just seconds, forcing you to take a deep breath while you paddle back past the seals and the sand
I told this guy that I had been looking to get in the water before sunset and I thanked him for sharing his spot with me
“I’ve come here every day for a couple weeks hoping this spot would be breaking”
“oh yeah?” I said, moving closer by kicking underneath my board
“It opens up only a couple times a year, it needs just the right swell direction, if the waves are too big it washes out, and if it’s too small it doesn’t break, oh and the wind blows it out almost every day on top of that.”
A wave came and he tore off down the line
I watched the sun set from the water
splashed the cold water on my face.
And When i got back to the car I wrote
I wrote for him,
To her.
To her we are all just bodies
Blubbery and black
She pulls and pulls
The heat from our soles
But occasionally she opens up
And gives back
as he got in his truck I ripped out the page in my journal and handed it to him
It is strange the way that we associate music with memories.
It is like a strong perfume that is impossible to disassociate with an era.
There are songs I cannot listen to because I was sad during the month it was in my playlist, or even because I feel that I have moved on from that time period. I now listen to a song knowing that one day, likely very soon, I will have grown out of this small era and will associate the song with the general mood of the month.
Small things in life change rapidly, including the clothes you choose, the breakfast you eat, your daily routine, the people you talk to, and the music you hear. Listening to music from a different era of mine often makes me feel uncomfortable, even if it was a good era, simply because I am not there anymore. It reminds me that times have changed, even if it is month to month.
Sometimes I regret listening to the same four songs day after day on my drive to school because I know what I am building. It will be a memory for my future self to listen to and reflect.
The automatic association of music and memories is hard to shake. They are not implicit memories, it is the general tone of the era that went unrecognized until you hear the songs and realize the moment has passed.
Each year, spring seems to be the most overwhelming season. School begins to speed up as we are faced with tasks each day.
Now that the pandemic is slowly returning to normalcy as more students come onto campus, we are catching up on what we missed. This, however, results in the cramming of a years’ worth of experience into a single month. It is enjoyable in its little moments, though when I look at my planner, the words begin to blend into each other as the pages are smeared with hastily placed pencil marks. I return to my planner hourly, adding both academic assignments and extracurricular events. It is covered with reminders, such as bring my costume for the musical, or drop off a scholarship application.
I enjoy each day thoroughly, though looking ahead can be overwhelming. The tasks for one day are manageable, though skimming the multiple notes and plans for the week can feel as though it all must be done that day.
Perspective is vital to managing a planner. I always note that I am living in only one of the days on the page, and it is not yet time to manage the others. This spring may be busy, though it is my last opportunity to experience high school. I plan to enjoy every day, as they are my final moments on this campus.
the oaks
wrinkles,
white walls
metallic beige
flying roaring
,cutting,
white walls;
warm animals
in half motion
motioning
in motion.
you latch on
to these moments, these images,
as they race in your head,
as they take tight turns,
as a force like gravity pulls and pulls you away.
you find yourself empty save the quiet conversations and the warm silence. the moments that make you you. but how ‘bout I move them?
how ‘bout i reorganize the pantry,
pull the back towards the front,
pour it all out?
how ‘bout when you feel those candlewarm memories
in your stainless vaccum
you feel them.
you feel the road, the car
the pull,
you feel the moment, the memory
fading
into the fog.
Cold winter days often seem to fall short of the media’s predictions. We scheduled an early departure from school in anticipation of dangerous storms, though we’re met with trickles of water creating small puddles in dry dirt.
I tend to dress dramatically for the cold. I wear two pears of socks, two jackets, and keep a spare pair of gloves in my backpack. I prefer to overheat than freeze from the brisk winds. My wardrobe has many jackets, though only one of them I have deemed warm enough for January weather.
Although the cold is difficult, I do hope for adventure’s sake that we experience more rain. I keep my prized umbrella tucked away in my backpack, waiting for the day when I can use it again. I enjoy the trek from classroom to classroom as I use my umbrella as a shield from the harsh sky. February is likely to bring more rain, and I won’t put my umbrella away until the sun is revealed.
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For Christmas my grandma gave me a turtle. Her name is Koa, and she came with a little bead bracelet and a card to track her movements in the wide ocean. I scanned her code, and my phone displayed a map of where she was released.
Her journey began on the coast of Florida as her rescuers released her into the wild. I could see she had already swam miles up the coast of the United States. She had passed Georgia territory and was nearing North Carolina.
Her little fins took her across half of the country, and halfway back. When I had previously thought about sea creatures, I had always imagined they’d stay in one area that they called home. My experience with Koa, however, has showed me that she is a true explorer of the ocean with no limits or boundaries.
I am grateful to have a connection to a living part of the ocean that I can check in on each day.
I
The leaves rustle gently at first,
barely moving in the otherwise stagnant air.
But the wind comes, and will come again.
Every year.
II
It’s eerily warm when
the hearty Santa Ana winds,
the december gusts, come
to breathe full of life
limbs of dry straw.
Shrubbery sings with that transient weight;
shrubbery that won’t be here tomorrow.
III
Before the door could be closed
a delicate leaf let itself in.
Frail, yellow, brittle.
Winter boots shatter it;
the shards driven into
the green carpet.
IV
Autumn came when no one was looking, quiet and still,
but Winter knocked on the door.
Warm winds; loose leaves;
oak and sycamore;
helpless faces;
unpacked clothes strewn, full of life,
on the floor.
V
Fires often blow through on winds like these,
—the threat, toothsome and tangible—
but even as the wind whips
and the sparse clouds hurry across the sky,
cruel circumstance sits suspended in hot heavy air.
VI
Heavy walls went like cardboard
big weight bearing beams became matchsticks
that snap between fat flaming fingers
recollection ripped out of picture frames
folders full of ash
crumpled filing cabinets
and melted metal memories
a world engulfed
in wind
in the night
in warm welling eyes
in the sweltering night.
VII
Gnawing on the bones
baying at the hunt
howling in the wind
a hound of three heads sicced
uncontrollable
delighting in the chaos
in pandemonium’s wild embrace.
VIII
silence settled,
the land rested.
no fireman’s boots,
no tennis shoes,
no cars,
no buildings,
no birds.
Just cold black earth,
warm embers,
warm breeze.
IX
Green growth sparsely populates the scorched earth.
Grasses, gaining ground.
But deep in the center the blackness still sits.
Telling you things are not as they once were,
Succession is a process, aching and raw;
but nothing could be so delicate and pure
as the inkling of new life
among black expanse.
X
These winds will whip
hearts to attention
for years to come.
This year I learned that there are two types of Christmas trees: a noble and a douglas.
I was standing in the parking lot of Lowe’s, searching the fenced in barn for this year’s tree. To my left, there were the douglasses. I knew that any one of them would look great in my living room. They had the classic Christmas tree feel, and I felt satisfied with the quality.
Then, I looked to my right. Propped along the wooden fences were the plush, green noble trees. And they were, indeed, noble. The trees looked as though they came straight out of a holiday hallmark movie. The branches looked as though they grew to meet cold winter snow, and I could not picture any kind of tree that represented the holiday better.
I again turned to my left. The douglass trees then looked drab. Dying, even. The only thing that made them more appealing than the tall nobles was the pricetag. I sorted through each of them, however, and found one that would suit my living room. I admired it and it’s imperfections seemed to disappear. But I again turned towards the nobles.
The contrast in beauty was striking. The tree I had found did not seem as beautiful anymore.
We went home with a noble.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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