siren_echoes

Here amongst these golden cliffs
Glowing otherworldly in the light of a feral moon,
Winding through ancient trees,
A wisp of mist, a ghost
A lost one
Breathes deeply of a life almost forgotten
A life swallowed by time
Drowned by tears long lost to a river
To the billowing ocean
Salt to salt
She remembers, but memory is but a dream
She asks the dancing wind, What is left?
Am I alone? she whispers, surrounded
By silent rock and gently swaying bough.
She wraps herself in a cloak of humanity,
Searching for purpose in a world changed
She dives into seas of art, flying wildly through
Currents of word and color and dream,
Seeking beauty
Seeking truth
Seeking life
Finding broken reflections

I pass through a golden valley, and time bleeds into time, past melding with present. The rolling hills, the jagged mountains, all crumple into a seabed, crushed by uncountable weight of salted water. All manner of primevil creatures live here, long lost, long forgotten. I dart and flit with them, spiralling and dancing in underwater flight, echoes of what is now ancient and gone undulating within the currents.

I wonder at how this could be as I gaze through cool glass at passing fields, massive oaks and grazing cattle. It is like another world, veiled, just hidden behind this one, but just as real. What is time? Is the past truth? Is it memory? Is it hiding in the ancient light of the stars that gift us with long dead light and life?

What is Now? What can it be? Is the mind its creator?

I am a creature of the wild, flying free and untamed, seeking something un-nameable, but in a world diminishing, slowly dying. Perhaps that which I seek is like these stars-- only a memory, wake of a dream. Is the Sun shedding light to some distant world which sees her light only long after it is extinguished? Is a lone soul gazing at her light and wondering what manner of souls have passed through her solar system, what life once walked on her planets?

A cacophony of music, of color and movement and word flames high from my soul, a funeral pyre, an effigy in your honour.

It is dark and drizzly outside today. I'm glad I got my hike in yesterday. I headed towards Birch Lake, but because the path there is so short and I wanted to actually walk a little, I took the branch to the right. Wandered around awhile, found myself at the campground for Mather, sat at a picnic table and wrote for awhile. Then, I started to return home. Now, this trail I had followed has numerous branchoffs in every direction, and I found myself quickly confused, eventually so turned around that I had no idea where the road was. I knew I wasn't *that* far out, but I didn't want to get myself really lost. I came on the national forest boundary a few times, which was a pretty telling sign that I was going the wrong direction. Finally, getting tired of walking in circles, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and *felt* the right direction. I started walking that way and soon found myself back at the lake, which is a pretty straight shoot back home. Don't ask me how I managed this. I have a terrible sense of direction, but evidently some subconscious part of me knows how to navigate the forest, or perhaps was more aware of my location than my conscious mind. All the same, I'm going to be far more careful next time to take note of unique landmarks, the number of trail branches, and direction.

I am working in the morning. I'm about to throttle Alex. I get good and accustomed to the night shift, and he insists on switching us around for no apparent reason, even though all three of us in laundry have discussed and agreed on the best shifts for each of us. He insists that it wouldn't be "fair" to me to work nights and only nights, because there will be extra things to do during evening shift once we get into full swing (stocking sheds, etc). Erm... I really don't care. I have to do extra work already. Screwing up peoples' internal clocks is not the way to promote some twisted version of "fairness," especially when the staff has voiced their desires very clearly, and their reasons for them. This says to me that this isn't about fairness, but about power. I find it amusing that, upon first meeting Alex, he rather snottily said that there is a power play in the laundry room. Something told me that wasn't the whole story, so I observed those working there. The only power play I'm seeing is on the part of Alex. Oh, don't get me wrong, I fully expected a load of bullshit when I came up here. I've been here before, after all, and it's really the same crap, just different people. My philosophy is that there will be bullshit to cope with at any job, but if the benefits outweigh it, then it's worth it. I've been here three seperate times now, so something's working for me. Even with the crap abounding here, the job itself even is preferable to what I had previously.

My attempts at gathering a paranormal investigations team have yet to come to anything. The only person I've come across who might have an interest is my roommate, Stacey, but two people won't exactly make an effective team. On the research angle, I've been combing Amazon for books on the area. I'll be making a purchase as soon as I can do so. It seems that the Hetch Hetchy dam, down the road from here (which this place was incidentally built to support the construction of), was surrounded by a huge controversy during its construction. The City of San Francisco was hoping to use it as a monopoly on a fresh water source, while John Muir and fellow ecologists fought tooth and nail to preserve the valley. Muir, unfortunately, lost. The dam area has a very... odd feel to it. It may well have something to do with the violent destruction of a thriving ecosystem, but my gut tells me there may be more than that. So a little research may go a long way....

Hetch Hetchy is a definite interest from an investigator's point of view, but it's no training ground. There is far too much area to cover there, and the outdoor setting creates more variables, making it harder to run a safe and effective investigation. I'd like to start out with the Lodge building, if I can ever garner enough interest. It's a contained setting, relatively small space, easier to keep track of what's going on.

And, dinner is almost ready. So I will close for now.

The internet is throwing a hissy fit today.

It is, once again (thankfully) my Friday. I'm going to have to stir up enough energy to do some hiking or some other such activity that immerses me in the natural world, far from the lodge and people, because I desperately need it. I've been sliding into full-blown antisocial mode these last couple of days. I am, as I've said before, quite the introvert, and I need time alone to feel balanced. This is one of the downsides to living in a communal situation like this-- there really is no personal space, no privacy, no silence of which to speak. The woods are my sanctuary, as they have always been. I need time to create, time to think, time to write, time to meditate.

I am in desperate need of painting supplies. It is killing me to be out in all this breathtaking, inspiring beauty, and not be able to paint. I brought my pastels, but nothing to use them on (the size paper I use is far too big to transport without destroying), and I don't yet have an easel. And I need to buy a set of good quality oils, and the associated supplies, as well, because I deliberately left my cheap trial set with S. in Texas, as it was mostly used up, and, well, cheap-- you get what you pay for. I'd wanted to give oils a try, because I'd not used them before, but didn't want to pay an arm and a leg for them before I could determine whether they were right for me or no. I do love them. They provide all the color intensity that I love-- which is why I like the pastels-- but also allow for wonderful detail work-- which is next to impossible with the pastels, unless your working surface is the size of, say, a wall. The only downside is that oil painting takes *much* longer, because of the length of drying time.

Hm... I suppose my rambling about art supplies isn't exactly riveting. But, it's a part of my life.

It seems to be lunchtime now, so I should slide off here before the food all disappears...

It's cold again. In fact, it was snowing yesterday. Winter has just yelled a massive "Fake out!" I like it though. It's a reprieve from oppressive heat.

This lodge has a long and somewhat interesting history. The place was originally built in 1921, as a post for the building of the massive Hetch Hetchy dam down the road (Rumor also has it that the place was a moonshine brewery and brothel as well during that time). It's changed hands numerous times, but the original structure still stands-- what is now the tavern and restaurant.

The place is also quite active paranormally. Numerous accounts of a woman in a red dress sighted in the tavern have been reported, as well as a man in a top hat in one of the original cabins. I myself, the last time I was here, saw a shadowy apparition on the road late one night (accompanied by a friend who saw the same thing), and another friend (my then-supervisor Cathy) and I experienced some odd phenomena in one of the cabins as a sliding door lifted itself from its hinges and dropped back, and Cathy's necklace was lifted and lightly jerked about the same time. I came up here intending to do some research on history, folklore, and ghost stories in the area, curious how they tie together. I've not been able to do much about that yet, however, but I'm hoping soon I'll be able to get to the Groveland library and do some reading.

And now, lunchtime is nearing. We are served by employee chefs, and usually (usually) the food is quite good. So, I will draw this to a close for now.

I've been here before.

This is what I find myself continuously saying to people these days. I've come back, after five years. I've returned.

The first year I was here, I arrived with two friends. The next year, I was accompanied by one friend. This time, I came alone, the only one not to have joined the Coast Guard, gotten married, found myself suddenly as stepmother to a child, or as a homeowner in Texan suburbia. I'm still free, and California called relentlessly, shading my dreams, echoing in small patches of forest, tugging at my heart until I finally surrendered. I can't say for certain if I will stay indefinitely. I can never say that for certain-- I have too much wanderlust still rushing through my veins. But it is home for now, the towering evergreens, the granite cliffs that take on that otherworldly golden glow during the full moon, the stars that dance dizzyingly overhead at night, the unrivaled sense of peace and connectedness I feel when surrounded by that which is wild. Even the cramped dorm room, the relentless piles of sheets and towels to be washed, the laundry room echoing with music, opened to the night breeze, the tavern with its rustic wooden wall panelling and rough-hewn benches and tables are home to me. It is, in many ways, as though I never left.

I've opened this new journal as an excersize in creative replenishment, as my other, older avenues seem to have run dry for the time being. This is a fresh start, a new chapter.

There is much I wish to experience here at the Green, and much I wish to write of. Here, I will muse and ramble and write, recording thoughts and feelings and experiences. I may post art and photographs, when I have the tools to do so. I may write fiction or poetry. I may rant and rave, pour out a broken heart, fill these pages with joy or fascination or longing. Those who wish may read and comment, though the internet access up here is very unreliable, so I cannot guarantee timely replies. I do try to eventually respond to everyone who comments in a respectful fashion, however. Some of you already know me as siabha_maellyn on my other account.

sometime soon, I hope to post more.

(File under "nature of reality" interest to kick off the interests list essays :P Who says I have to do them in order?)

I've noticed a rather intriguing phenomena...

I will some nights put on music specially designed for sleep or meditation when I go to bed at night. Usually I can't sleep with music playing, but these tracks placed on repeat all night actually knock me out like a light. All that's fine and good, but when I wake up the next morning, turn off the music, and start going about my day, I can still hear the music playing. As in, I will pause as I become aware of it, tilt my head sideways, and *listen*, trying to tell myself that my subconscious has merely put the track on "repeat" and there really is no actual *sound*, that it is in my mind. Yet, my ears can't tell the difference, even when I continuously tell myself that I'm *not* actually hearing it. (rather like an optical illusion, I would think) It dies out after awhile, if I ignore it.

And, once again, proof that our "senses" are not always reliable....

But wait a minute...

Aren't our "senses" signals that are projected by our brains? Even when our senses percieve something that is supposedly "real?"

There's so much talk these days about shaping one's own reality. To change one's world, one must change the way one views things, changing perceptions. I think a lot of people get confused by that, thinking that if they change their *surface* perception... their conscious thoughts... that it will result in change. And maybe that's the first step? It's certainly a start. But it seems to me that true perception of reality starts on a subconscious level-- as does the *bending* of reality. I suppose the question is, how does one go about changing one's subconscious?

I guess the easy answer is meditation (though anyone who's done it knows that achieving a deep meditative state in which such perceptions can be effectively altered is anything but easy). And then there are the recordings such as the one I mentioned above, reputedly utilizing certain frequencies that trigger such states. If certain frequencies could be used to help modify levels of consciousness (of course, nothing works one hundred percent of the time), then I wonder if frequencies could also be used to help gently direct subconscious beliefs. This... this is quite an unsettling thought, actually. I saw a video at one point... I'll have to look for it. Scientists were watching the reactions of an amoeba, I believe it was, to certain frequencies of sound being played. It would literally change its shape, changing to fantastic and symmetrical shapes such as a star, according to the frequency played. Right. I need to try to find that one... I'll post it as soon as I do (hopefully it's still in existence). Off to do a Youtube hunt... I've already found some fascinating clips! Will post again soon.

The golden notes from a piano fill this empty room I am in, projected from plastic speakers. An echo. A remnant of life... Sometimes it seems the sweeping, soaring myriad of colors and sound and texture and words and passion are a bard, weaving tales of some long-forgotten time when life was life, not this shallow pit of maddening mundanity it has become... not this meaninglessness. This art, this music and poetry and storytelling... they seem sometimes to be like the crumbling marble of Rome, like the ancient monoliths, a decaying, moss-drapped Mayan temple-- remnants. Memories.

How does one bring these remnants to life, to full, breathing color and sound that sweeps through the world, that reminds the sleeping ones to wake, to feel, to live?

Where is Home?

I'm not certain it is a place. These thoughts filled my sleep last night... home is the wind, the stars that spin through the night sky, those ancient dancers in the heavens that are so full of flaming, screaming passion that no mortal could move near them and live, the mountains and the mist-shrouded wood, the fierce cry of the ocean, the stinging rain and hail and billowing clouds and the lightning that slashes mercilessly at the darkened air, the silver glow of the moon, the swirling nebulae and the crushing cascade of the waterfall, the light with its rainbow of colors and burning intensity and healing touch and burning, consuming alchemical fire, the darkness that dances and shifts and breathes and caresses and stalks... the heart that touches it all, the heart that becomes it all. And those that I love... those who still remain in my heart even if my mind has forgotten them, these who are family, who are fragments of my soul, eyes and voices and silvery strains of ancient song, somewhere, felt and heard and seen but not always remembered, only whispers of mist in my dreams now, but for the scant few that I've found....

New painting: The Soulless Sword of Desire.

( Not Safe For Work! )

Outside of Time we move

Past illusion

Present dream

Future echo—

We are all of ourselves

All of our lives

All of our journeys

Drawn into a single drop

Of crystal clear Being

Melded with the stars

Burning like the sun

Liquid songs of the moon

Shadows like a velvet abyss—

All and nothing,

Neverwhen

Neverwhere

Nevermore…
Always.