There is one person and she stands alone
She flies, ignorant of the fingers grabbing at her heels.
She sees not who she was-
She sees only who she will be.
A bridge of freedom fords the chasm of fear
which she crosses confidently,
Upright in strength,
She is drenched in the future.
A light pierces the blackness and the soul-
wanders, reframed
She marches to a waltz
and the wind blows her voice away.
Alive in the scalding air
the breath of humans whispering
that she cannot be,-
for she is- free.
Reflection in the glass. Different, almost... pretty. Am i real? Sometimes i check behind me to see footprints in the snow. Just to make sure. My shadow never tells me- it comes and goes as it pleases. It belongs to me as one shadow does any inanimate object. Briefly a finger, a star, points to my birth. And all-of-a-sudden, i am there. i exist. The face in the mirror looks dark; confident. It is who i want to be. Sometimes i cannot find the footprints behind me in the snow- i wonder where my shadow is now?
To know me is to know a plethora of small details hooked together that make up a single life. That's me. i was created under the inspiration of two parents, who originally mixed the basic ingredients together. My birthhome is Washington State, and since the eventful experience of gasping non-liquidified air, i have been... well, everywhere. i have lived in the following places: Tacoma, Washington; Augusta, Georgia; Eatonville, Washington; Ft. Lee, Virginia; Izmir, Turkey; Ft. Monmouth, New Jersey; Frankfurt, Germany; Woodbridge, Virginia; Ft. Belvior, Virginia (aka Washington, D.C.); Eatonville, Washington; Provo, Utah; Mt.Rainier, Washinton; Vienna, Graz, Salzburg and Innsbruck, Austria; and i will soon be relocating to Kwekwe, Zimbabwe for five months.
i am an addict to traveling.
This past summer i went backpacking for two months, with a comerade named BOB (Beatrice Organa Byron). But for detail on that, you must visit the traveler's guild.
My father was in the military, so i have (thankfully) already put my 20 years in. i am an army brat, although currently retired, mind you.
My family has decided to settle on a farm in Eatonville, Washington. The town is small. i have recently read that anything smaller than 2,000 population is to be regarded as
a village. So welcome to the village of Eatonville.
i have graduated from BYU with a B.A. in Social Work, minoring in Anthropology. A worthy pursuit of education.
i have a pet chicken back home. Her story is inspirational, and worthy of note. Her name is... Wilma.
About eight years ago, when Wilman was but a spring chick, Prince, dog of my Grandad, came to our small farm to pay a visit, and to satiate his appetite. Unfortunate for Wilma, as he was craving... chicken. He attacked, i came to the rescue almost in the nick of time. Wilman now had a hole in her gut, with gizzard dragging on the ground. i am, perhaps, no chicken expert, but that did not seem right, so (tenderhearted as i am) i put her in the box and called the vet. The heartless man informed me that it was useless to attempt to save the life of a chicken- she will die if simply stared at hard enough... i gather that is why the term 'chicken livered' is such a common one. i selfishly had not the heart to put the bird out of her misery, so she stood in that box all night long... gizzard scraping earth and all. The next
morning dawned bright and warm. A friend of my mother's was over, and she had a way with animals. She and my mom set about to fixing that chicken up- plucked a wire from the violin bow string, dug up a needle from somewhere, shoved gizzard into roughly the correct place, and sewed all the innards back in. Wilma survived... and consequently increased her production from
one egg a day to two. What a bird.
Perhaps it would be appropriate to mention here that i am a vegetarian.
i am very single... recently i have loved and lost, and it has done wonders for my depression and for my poetry. i have learned much about change and about sacrifice... so i suppose that the bitter experience has been for my good, although it has left me a bit rough about the edges. my personal sentiments on the event:
A white rose, beauty faded and gone
has been stained red.
White- purity, innocence.
Red- fire, passion.
Blood had to be spilt to redden the rose.
Sacrifice.
Loss of love and happiness
Gain of knowledge, and misery.
The white rose lies in the gutter.
Once clean.
Once beautiful.
Purity gave it value;
Passion made it misunderstood.
Red White Rose.
Stepped upon discarded, disregarded,
Petals crushed, clining desperately to the soul
that holds it together.
It could have still been beautiful,
Maybe someone, somewhere, would have wanted it?
But-
not now.
not ever.
Poor White flower-
You're now red.
As all human beings, i love myself, while at the same time, i dislike myself. Caught in the typical paradigm of life. i see myself, sometimes, as someone else...
She looks at me- curiously, blankly. Silly pugnose in a silly little face. She's obnoxious and she annoys me. He snobbiness makes me cringe. i scowl. i wish i could push my fingers through the glass reflection and squish them into the girl's face on the other sides...
"In the depths of winter, i finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." -Albert Camus
You have read my heritage in your history books and you think you know me and my life. You have read about great great grandfather Thomas Jefferson, and about the Swedish king and you seem impressed because that's where my blood lines come from. But you did not know my grandmother who taught me her love of nature. And you've never known my father who refused to let me cry. Yet you sit there with you books and tell me who i am, yet i know you have no clue. My mother's name is not in those books and neither is my sister's. So- how can you possible think you have figured out from where i got my name? or my 'courage'? Or my smile? You will never truly trace my lineage; you may find the names, but you will never find the people who live within me now.
The graphics on this page belong to Elizabeth Mitchell, copyright April 1999, and were created especially for The Keep of The Dreaming. Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate: In other words, do not borrow (re: STEAL) without permission. That's what we call illegal, boys and girls.