Monday, November 11, 2019

The Man Who Gives Treats to my Dog


Yesterday morning, as Lilith and I walked up the hill, three police SUVs drove by, blue lights lit up on the two outer ones. Near the top of the hill, I saw the cars and an ambulance in one of the townhouse parking lots. Another cop drove in the lot and parked. (Lilith took this chance to do her business.) I lingered, the ambulance went nowhere. The rest of the day I thought about the dog walking man I talk to from that court, his southern accent intact after four decades in Hawai`i, earbuds installed with Biblical lessons playing (he once saw a woman miraculously cured of cancer in a church); his large white and brown terrier mix striding along energetically. He'd often pull out treats from back home (organic) and give one to Lilith. He'd told me about how difficult it was to deal with his son, who had been in rehab many times. So I worried about the son, too. This morning I saw that son walking that dog and interrupted them, asked what had happened in their court, said I'd worried about his dad. "No, he's home reading his Bible, and I wasn't there," he said. A young white guy with Chinese writing tattooed on his right arm. When I got home, I had an answer to my question from a woman I know who lives up the hill. Her court is afflicted with troubles: the elderly couple and their mentally disabled daughter who are essentially imprisoned in their home down the stairs by the son; an alcoholic who lives with his mother and has lots of guns; the man who used to beat his puppy and screams horrible things at his son. His girlfriend finally left him. I remembered that, while talking to him once I said, "I called the cops on someone in your court who was yelling at his son," and he said, "could have been me." But that guy was yelling in pidgin, I thought. My friend up the hill assured me my dog-walking friend was who she meant; he yelled at "homo" at his son (no wonder he's on drugs). An abuser, but like so many of them, quite charming. I was worried about him, his son. I guess I still am.

Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Kobe, trains


On a train yesterday, I pointed to the name of my destination to two young women beside me. One was wearing a long gray dress with NYY logo on it. They conferred with each other and dissolved into laughter over their lack of English, my lack of Japanese. A studious looking woman in front of me took over, telling me in English that I was on the wrong train, Hanshin instead of Hankyo. She wrote a description for me of where to get off and transfer to a local train and then onto the right one. The NYY logo woman and her friend walked me part way and gestured dramatically to where I should go. I used up my ticket, then didn't have enough change to get another, which is when I adopted the policy of simply walking through open gates after people who used their tickets. (Shame! at least I didn't have to vault, as one does in Paris.) Coming back was another adventure, though mostly in self-doubt, eased by a businessman on a bench. Arrived to my hotel room to find that the good Elijah Cummings had died. I have not traveled alone in a country where I did not speak the language in a long time. It felt easier when I was 20, somehow. Or even 30!

Wednesday, October 16, 2019

The view from Kobe, Japan


1.

Walked to the port of Kobe, which features an enormous Starbucks. I did not enter. Was reading the plaques at a memorial to the 1995 earthquake--mostly a lament for the port itself--when I heard the sound of laughter. A woman approached in black pants, her ehu hair unkempt, carrying a plastic drink cup. She laughed again, loudly, as she walked past. We walked quasi-parallel for a short distance before she turned toward the water and started to dance. Her arms flung outward, her legs moving side to side, the plastic cup in the midst of it all.



2.

Walking uphill toward the hills behind Kobe, I stopped at a light. A mother was attending to her son (maybe 5), dressed neatly in a blue uniform with black shoes. He spoke loudly, with confidence, and hailed a friend across the street. "Bye bye!" he said. My eye happened upon his mother's bag. Bright image of shave ice! "Matsumoto's Haleiwa," it read. I laughed and pointed to her bag, said "Matsumoto's." "It's our last name," she said. "And I live on O`ahu," I responded.

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Saturday, September 28, 2019

Safeway Checker


Yesterday, S and I went to Safeway to get pain pills. We were behind a black man and white woman in line; they were buying two bottles of white wine. The cashier was looking at them with no particular affect, but she was looking. My bill came up with a question as to whether I wanted to end child hunger. I said, "they're making me feel guilty again, when I hit no," and she said, in a southern accent, "they've got us." Somehow I heard myself saying, "it doesn't bother me; I just want to get rid of Trump." She seemed to step back as she thrust the receipt in my direction. "I got her goat," I said to my son. "The southern accent." And then I felt pretty creepy.

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Brad Waters, on the event of his funeral


Brad Waters

The last time I saw Brad, Anne and I had just driven him home from the hospital. I offered my hand as he got out of the car, but he ignored it. He walked up the stairs to his house, clutching both railings to maintain his balance. (He always did that, my kids told me.) And then, for me, he was gone.

On one of the Over the Hill Gang hikes in 2011 we were hiking above Pearl Ridge (I think) when the trail suddenly ended. Instead of turning around, we bushwhacked down a very steep incline, full of plants and rocks and pukas. Brad gently lifted Zoe down some of the steepest boulders. The walk up the other side of the valley was also steep, although there was a path. Brad moved up the hill svery lowly and deliberately with his dogs. He met us later at the top.

There was this quality of loving persistence to Brad. When he looked at plants on the trail, he looked carefully. He could name each plant: in Latin, in English, in Hawaiian. He knew each plant’s history, its uses. Often, he took a photo. When the photos had been downloaded, they were often surprising. A fern at such close proximity you could see lines of spores, some open and some closed, running down the vein like natural Pacmen. His photographs often made the ordinary world seem strange, so you could realize that it is.

There is a poem by the Japanese zen poet, Ikkyo, from the 14th century, about living and dying. It goes like this:

Empty-handed I entered the world
Barefoot I leave it.
My coming, my going--
Two simple happenings
That got entangled.

I’m grateful that my two simple happenings overlapped with Brad’s.


Sunday, September 1, 2019

Stage of grief


"It's not color that I see, but I see." (Etel Adnan). It's not the past I see, like a mental diorama whose dusty zebras cross the veldt. S dreamed his grandfather kicked us out of the house so he could clean up some leaves outside. The mango tree has been cut since he died. You can see Molokai now on a clear day through palms and over roofs. R pronounces "roof" like the sound a dog makes in print. Lilith chases the singers of cock-a-doodle-doo, the gulch opera.


I get a notification. Must remember to turn them off, and the beeping. S says he was surprised his instructor told him to watch video games, think about them. The course is on video game design.


I tell B I don't usually suffer guilt, but I do. She had gone gray, gone thin, gone abstract, but I didn't call. It's a sticky word, "call." Less sticky, though, than "death." Do other miracles hurt as much?


The verb "to pass." She passed for. She passed you on the highway. She passed along her kuleana. She passed the test to get into "standard English school," because she knew "bolocano" was pronouned with a "v." She passed last Friday.


Hurricane and mass shooting make our president go golfing. He's less dangerous that way. The road from Midland through Odessa leads to El Paso. I am suspicious. Remember the pronoun "they" in Pynchon, how it peppered the dense, paper bound text? Remember how "they" were always making things happen but we never heard who "they" were? This was not a "they" in transition, a "they" who passed from one to the other pier, but "they" who organized our mysteries for us. It was a more delicate time, at least symbolically.


I know what the distress flag means, and I know the Kingdom flag, the splintered paddle flag, yellow and green. But I don't get the state flag that's not in distress when paired with a Cleveland Browns flag. Or the bed of a pick-up, two state flags waving right side up (is it?), an Oakland Raiders sticker beneath the black window where I see a flag and a royal palm.


Her new book mixes poetry and performance. We fold the book outward, watching the raised cardboard push into a dimension we can touch. S enters to say everything is going well in the game, except the Cards are behind and the benches did clear. There were benches at the pond, one student reported after our slow walk. One man was eating his lunch. They all saw French fries, and one assumed hamburger, but I'm pretty sure it was fried fish inside his dull bun.


You don't stop thinking, you release what you think. What you think does not burn, but you don't want to hold it for long. If you want to hurt yourself, try putting an ice-cube in your palm and closing your hand. Strong sensation without injury. Or imagine a hot plate and your hand opening to let it go. Lilith has us in the palms of our hands, as we reach to pet her stomach.


If language were not absurd, it couldn't save us. A brawl during the mystery play clears the chairs and reveals the altar, emptied. Where alteration finds, I promise to remember you.









Friday, August 30, 2019

Grief zone


Grief is not a standard time, nor is there daylight savings. "To save" is not in question.


You can't save memories the way you do money, through the abstraction of direct deposit. Depression remains not as fact but as fear, an impacted tooth that's not likely to break the gum's surface, but sends signals to the nerves.


Lilith was so stressed by a vaccination that the vet tech's hand was smeared with her blood. Her bandage was blue, with sparkles. I bought pill pockets so the cat would ingest her fluoxetine. Inappropriate peeing termed "behavioral."


It's not that we lose philosophy when history shrinks, but that philosophy lodges in detail. Or in the verb form "shuffle walk" (Marie Hara) that catches my student's voice where he expects a comma to intervene.


One student thought the prose poem was about a "normal person," and then she realized the speaker was homeless.


Marie's daughter says she was briefly in memory care, where she mothered everyone. To care for memory is still to lose it, name by noun by sense of direction. The renovated palace of memory is more internet than synapse, a fund sent off-shore to evade taxes. Each incident is an evasion, blood-letting in the corner of a ballroom denoting the anecdote you mangle as you tell it. The anecdote of origin is most inclined toward bending. He fired the aide who talked about his family, then tweeted out a classified photograph.


An error occurred while trying to save this post. A saved post is only saved in the sense that it remains on the internet. The error is not one of commission or omission. It is nearly as mysterious as death, but less serrated.


"Poetry reaches the unsaid, and leaves it unsaid," writes Etel Adnan. So many reasons to unsay, to move from "crayon" to "clown," from "crumpled" to "crumbled." Watch how the letters bob and weave on the chart, think how you wish you could distinguish the G from the C at several paces. Did she work with the homeless? one student asked.


The surprise is in the strength of the loss. She reads her mother's diary, about her mother. I write to her to ask her to lunch. We do not replace each other the way one cat replaces the last. S opened Tortilla's ashes the other day; his grandfather's sit on the piano in a box. He wonders what will happen when he can't lean on his parents. The way we catch on a bit of bone among the ashes. It signifies very little.







Tuesday, August 27, 2019

Words for and about Marie Hara


Marie Hara was co-organizer of the Talk Story conference; she was vice president of the Hawai`i Literary Arts Council; she was not a founding editor of Bamboo Ridge (that was Darrell and Eric); she was simply someone who worked on the press for 40 years. Marie was not BR's break-out star; that was Lois-Ann Yamanaka. The novel she long toiled on never came out, though her wonderful book of short stories, _Bananaheart_, did. While Marie read widely, traveled far, taught powerfully (the first course in Asian American literature at UHM, in fact) she approached everyone with her grace and kindness, not her high-powered intellect. She was an easy target when Bamboo Ridge was attacked in the mid-90s for being a coterie, local Asian, press. She was easy to dismiss as the "mother figure" of the Bamboo Ridge study group, a little too insistent at times, her ideas sometimes a bit "wacky." But Marie was the real thing, sweet like steel, her bright smile a knowing and compassionate one. She taught me so much. As a young whippersnapper white female poet new to Hawai`i, she drew me in, welcomed me and my work, collaborated on the HLAC when I was so suddenly named its president two years in. She found me a lovely apartment a few doors down from hers, where I lived until I moved off with Bryant to the windward side. She spent 20 minutes once explaining the meaning of "da kine" to me. She told me what it's like to be an older woman. She talked a blue streak about her husband and her daughters, and later on about her grandchildren. She talked about the Writer's House at UPenn, where her husband and daughters went to college and dreamed of starting one here. She talked about understanding the way adoptees search for family as a way to seek connection (she had a missing father). She loved my children. She talked about being half-Irish and half-Japanese, and co-edited an anthology of hapa work with Nora Okja Keller. Everything for her was co-. She talked about literature all the time, and read Roddy Doyle's work, everyone's really. She called me a "word poet," which I found funny. She nominated me for the Cades Award for years until I asked her please not to. And then I got it and asked her to introduce me, which she did. I have no memory of what she--or I--said, I just remember she was there, as she always was, a beautiful welcoming presence. I love you, Marie Hara.

Monday, August 26, 2019

Marie Hara



Marie Hara has died. For the last 40 years, Marie was an author, editor, teacher. mentor, and community builder, a crucial member of the literary community in Hawai`i.

Marie was co-organizer of the crucial Talk Story Conference in the late 1970s that led to the creation of Bamboo Ridge Press, which “publishes literature by and about Hawai’i’s people.” Her book of short stories, Bananaheart and Other Stories, was published by Bamboo Ridge in 1994. She co-edited, with Nora Okja Keller, the anthology, Intersecting Circles: the voices of hapa women in poetry and prose (1999). She was winner of the Elliot Cades Award for Literature n 1995. She taught the first classes in Asian American Literature in the state of Hawai`i and was a long-time instructor in the UH English Department. [I’m not sure what years she taught.]

Those are some facts about Marie. The truth is less tangible, but also significant. Marie was kind, quirky, attentive and compassionate to her students and friends, open-minded in her reading and teaching practices. She leaves behind her husband, John, who designed UHWO’s campus and the Luce wing of the Hawai`i Museum of Art (among many other buildings), two daughters, and grandchildren.

She was a dear friend.

Embodiment


The old haole man in maroon shorts and white tank top undershirt hobbles out of his townhouse, holding a broom, a red fly swatter and a large can masked by a damp paper towel. He heads to his seat by the mailboxes to sit underneath a "Work Order" sign. Fly swatter in left hand, he scratches his back.


The 30-something year old Asian man passes Lilith and me on our way toward the highway. He has an earring in each lobe, wears blue swim trunks and an off-white shirt. He looks at Lilith but not at me, though we're close. His gait is stiff, arms rigid at his sides. He walks to the light to cross over to the shopping area.


On our way back down Kahekili I see a young man in swim trunks, dancing at the light; his movements awkward, head bobbing up and down. I also see someone with long brown legs carrying a large black plastic bag, a black piece of luggage and an umbrella.


We follow the person with the garbage bag; she stops half-way to Hui Kelu to attend to this precarious load. I ask her if a hand is needed to the next block. She turns to say no, has on red lipstick, her face framed by dark black hair, appears transgender. Starts to cross the street soon after, examines something on the street with her slipper, heads toward a dumpster by the road. Garbage day.


Lilith and I walk around the cemetery building where we picked up Brad's ashes a week ago. The parking stalls are full. Scent of incense.


"Marie, Marie hold on tight" had nothing to do with a waste land, but with dear Marie, who just relaxed her grip on this earth. Nothing to do with loss except record it. Hold onto the rails until the shaking stops for a time. Take another nap.


We had no sooner entered our Travelodge room in Tacoma than we heard a boom and sparks flew outside the window. An earth mover had ripped a line off the pole. Later, a large square of yellow tape appeared between two poles and the back of the motel. Men came out to point up.


Attention to detail involves either the shrinking of history or the inventory of what is still in front of us, bulk item couches and mountains and teenagers practicing their parallel parking on the hills. The embrace of what has yet to mean anything. There's comfort in that. The dull object that has no word for you. It's only after you pass that you realize it was the prompt for a cultural studies essay, like the side by side photos of Snitch (black as a tire) and (brown) Kwan Yin, index finger folded over to touch thumb. We read that the figure is male, but can also be rendered as female. One is on a pedestal, the other on a stair, but you are not allowed to touch either of them.


Farther down in the gallery, another Buddha sports a curled mustache, like one of the Three Musketeers. Barry remarks on the embodiment of spirit, which is at once neither, both.






Tuesday, August 20, 2019

Box of ashes


The woman who handed us his ashes in a pink cardboard box inside a pink tote bag said she'd seen me and Lilith in the morning, walking. "Small dog who struts, yeah? So cute."


The woman who handed us his ashes in a pink box lingered to chat. Across from us a woman in sunglasses sat on a long bench, her mouth set. An employee said to her as he strutted by, "they just need to design the head-stone." He wiped sweat from the back of his bald and sun-burned head, disappeared into an office door, and then walked by the other way.


A stone gargoyle stands in front of the air-conditioning units near the benches we sit on.


I tell the woman who handed us the ashes that my mother is still in my closet. Our late cat is still in a tin near the television. My neighbor says her dog's ashes nearly fell off their resting place when her neighbors banged on the wall (her living dogs bark). She would have killed them if they knocked her Ginger's ashes on the floor.


The space of this meditation is flat.



Sunday, August 18, 2019

Grief time


"An altered state time, deserving of gentleness" (Ellen). My mother-in-law and I watch television: part of a documentary on Woodstock, some news, a bit of the pre-season football game at Aloha Stadium. I ask if she's interested in it, and she says nothing is of interest.


My daughter is sweeping broken glass from her new dorm room floor. We witness the green broom-handle on Facetime.


The New York Times book section tells me the personal essay is dead; the personal and the political have been wrenched too far apart. We are who we construct on the internet, the selves that we don't recognize when they're described to us. Wisdom is nothing that is surface, like a screen we know to be flat, except when moving pictures offer us false perspective. The car in an old film moves across the painting of a landscape and gets nowhere except closer to the end of a story.


The Stoics couldn't anticipate the end of introspection, or its quickening. Nor could they foretell social media's flattening of self into photograph and caption. Or the man insulted by the president for being fat, who says he loves the president, "the best thing ever to happen to our country." The proud boys in a Portland park initiate a new member by punching him with bare fists until he falls and then applaud their own good work. "Don't blame us for creating civilization," one chants.


Meaning decamps. Wisdom is some consolation, but we know it already. Death is still mystery, no matter how many books you read. My father-in-law's car trunk stinks of sunscreen; there's a box with some rope in it, a couple of dog leashes, two walking sticks. The last hike was taken, probably up the jagged side of Makapu`u where he'd recently seen a couple making love and dragged his barking dogs away.


He said he was dizzy in his wheelchair, even as we took him home. In the lobby, he weighed himself, found he hadn't lost weight despite the hospital food. His wife bought the new meds. Baby aspirin. He walked up the steps at home, both hands on the rails, refusing my arm. He walked up the steps and into the house and I turned to drive away.


My daughter has finished sweeping up the broken glass from the bulbs she hung on a string that fell in the night. She's alone in her new dorm. The soccer girls told her Ted Bundy had gone to their college for a semester. She says she's bored. B. advises her to get pen and paper and to draw something for the blank walls, beside her new and artificial plants.


Stephen Colbert says if we are grateful for this life, we suffer our losses. He tells this to Anderson Cooper, whose brother died by suicide. He says this the week Jeffrey Epstein killed himself, if indeed he killed himself, and no one suffered for anything but his having lived.


The thrush screams when I walk my dog. Roosters call from the gully behind our townhouse. Sirens stream down Kahekili on a Sunday morning. I read Seneca's Letters from a Stoic, awaiting the news of a dear friend's death.













Thursday, August 8, 2019

American Anger


The white man who hates millennials, thinks that Hillary "is the corrupt one" (while claiming not to like Trump), and who walks the small, fluffy one-eyed dog named Rosie, crossed the street before Lilith and I got to him. I was walking toward Hui Iwa Street and he turned to walk in parallel. And then the yelling began, not from the corner this time, but from at least 50 feet away. "That's a stop sign! JACKASS!" he yelled at a woman in a blue Smartcar, who had turned right onto Hui Kelu. I considered suggesting that yelling doesn't help, but thought better of it. When Lilith and I got back closer to home, the man with two fluffy white dogs, Mochi and Manju, told me he and his family were almost killed at that intersection by a speeding, swerving, Acura. "And I could tell you which woman always runs that stop sign," he added.

Border Walmart


The girl who runs looks before she crosses the road, but never makes eye contact. I run out of ideas the way I run out of my shoes, or Lilith out of her harness when she spots chickens. As I turned the corner to the dumpster, bag of her poop in my hand, a hen propelled herself toward us, orange-flecked wings out, screaming.


The soldier behind Trump in El Paso cried on television for the children he could not save. Trump calls him a hero ("thank you, sir"), says next he'll be a movie star ("thank you, sir").


"They're just words to him," the mayor of Dayton says. "He says them." The teleprompter reads "Texas and Ohio," so he says "Toledo."


A baby's hand was broken; his mother, who pushed him to the floor, was dead; his father, who pushed himself on top of the mother, died later in the hospital where Trump announced the body count from his rally, which was greater than Beto's, he said.


We count the dead not as consolation but in order to do something. Pencil marks on a doorjamb measure a child's progress, and then its end. To count is to mark time, to play the song with seven beats, to empty the mind of its grasping. To count is to make piles of information, like piles of shoes after a massacre. To count is somehow to make sense; but sense is so much more abstract than blood.


We see the Walmart worker from the back; the camera's focus is on the local politician. He breaks down, says he wishes he could have saved his customers. The politician asks if he's seen a counselor, offers him his card. He can connect him to services. Only connect.


Small children stand weeping in a road in Mississippi. While they were at school on the first day, their parents were arrested by ICE. Neighbors and local residents have ushered them into a gymnasium and brought them food they are unable to eat. They are still distraught, the newspaper says.


It's the old healing process. Let's sing about it in a round until we're numb with singing. George Harrison chanted for three days while driving through France, arriving at bliss. When he died, the entire room lit up, his widow says. The song empties us out, but we have to keep singing, or it comes back to us, the gunfire and consumer goods careening from the shelves, the screams and the running feet. He was right next to her, very calm. He threw bottles at the shooter, diverting him for a moment until the shooter trained his weapon on him. It was like a grenade went off in the middle of his back. He would trade his life for that of the girl he saw dead on the Walmart floor. Even the family pedophile would have done as much for his granddaughter

Tuesday, August 6, 2019

Terror and shoes

I saw this photograph from Dayton, and was reminded of a poem from Memory Cards: Simone Weil Series (Equipage).

https://fox8.com/2019/08/04/shoes-piled-outside-bar-where-9-were-killed-in-dayton/


Saturday, August 3, 2019

The man with the one-eyed dog


As Lilith and I turned right on Hui Kelu Street, I saw the white man with the one-eyed dog named Rosie across the street. He had told me once that he was a "radical centrist," that he couldn't stand millennials, and that "Hillary was the corrupt one" back before we stopped talking much. We waved at each other from opposite sides of the street. A minute later, the yelling started. I turned to look back; he was standing at the corner screaming "No stop! no stop!" to the traffic, as it drifted through the stop sign. His hands were flung up in angry despair. Dear Reader, I considered going back to the corner. It would have been a good Lilith story. We kept going.

Friday, August 2, 2019

Histories of ordinary pain


Lilith and I turn right at Kahekili Highway, start up the asphalt path toward the cemetery (where a billboard advertises 20% off burial plots). Yesterday evening four boys stood by the road holding state flags upside down and a sovereignty flag right side up, serenaded by honks from traffic. This morning I turn at Ahuimanu Park to look at the Ko`olau when I see a woman beneath a tree. Her hair a bright dyed red, she sits cross-legged on the grass, holding a pillow and a blanket. She looks away from me. I approach the chain link fence, ask her if she's ok. She nods. I ask if she's sure.


On our way back, the woman is gone. She's not under the tree or at the restroom building or behind the baseball back stop; she's not anywhere I can see.


The tree trimmers are back with their cherry picker and their shredder. The man with bad knees hobbles beneath a younger man in the basket, who uses a machete on a pole to cut smaller branches off the monkey pod, standing back to measure the tree's shape. The older man picks up branches and sets them in the street behind orange cones.


A history of ordinary pain. When, from the bus, we saw old women sweep the streets in Moscow, bent over because their brooms were too short, my father cried.


Trump revels in the burglary at Rep. Cummings's house before his first racist tweet. She says she performs "mom" in the classroom, pulling off her glasses, telling students their work was shitty, but she loves them. Says her young daughter turned away from her at the restaurant and talked to the people in the booth behind them. That's one performative family, I say. She moves her body from one side of the hallway to another, speaks in joyful bursts. Trump's is a terrible, a mutant joy. His crowd laughs. Outside the building, a young Trump supporter punches an older protester in the mouth; he crumples to the ground. At least they're both white, eh?


Protesters bring a cloth mock-up of a cage; they carry it, chant something about immigrants making America. Noise cascades around them. A hand appears before the camera, its third finger stuck in the air. Something for your poetry?


I am worrying these moments as if they were beads, or threads from an old sweater. I worry them until they resemble the boy's blue bike abandoned by the road, next to a can of pumpkin and a can of cranberry sauce; its back tire is black and firm, but the front is white, shredded, soft to the touch. To worry is to lose value, wear away the word until it feathers. See the mountains behind the red-haired woman, the white chapel behind the billboard advertising a less expensive death. Watch for the curl of the dead palm frond as it bows to the palm's trunk.


That's the lyric conclusion. Trying to find that space above the hurtful detail, trying to hover like the yellow helicopter over our house, trying to save someone on the mountain and sometimes succeeding. The documentary conclusion is to set them up like a row of green plastic soldiers and see them as many, one. It's not the unity we dream of it, but the sameness of it offers some consolation.












Thursday, August 1, 2019

The snap


The gay vet tech wears a blue uniform; his graying hair is buzz cut, his beard short. Above his right elbow, tattoo of an anchor, and on the inside of his right arm--I see it as he reaches down to give Lilith a treat--is written, "This too shall pass." I say the words out loud.


"How does it help?" I ask. "Places," he responds. "Which places?" "Places."


The older man coming toward me is on the landscape crew. He wears a neon yellow vest, noise-blocking headphones, dark pants with knee pads. His legs are bent outward; he walks awkwardly, trying to avoid his knees, his ankles, his feet. I ask if they're about to cut a tree down. He responds, "trimming," but I cannot place his accent, or the word.


Tee dreams her apartment is filling with bugs. It's Trump, she says. B dreams he's in a mass shooting, the day before a shooting, which is also the day after. Our son's anger fills the house in the morning, but he's calm in the evening. Trump is the stick the gorilla pushes into an ant-hill; we come apart in armies. Sara Ahmed writes about the willful girl's arm, the one that pokes through the ground even after she's buried. Until the rod returns and mows it down.


I was in love with small violet flowers in a vacant part of the woods; I wanted to pull them out and plant them nearer me. Instead, I walked there day after day, having no idea why they so drew me, why I wanted to have them, nurse their violet. Beauty counters violence, except when it best describes it. Ocean Vuong crafts beautiful sentences of that shattering. Our cat knocked another cup off the counter--there's a lizard that lives on the other side of our kitchen screen--anger's company.


The moment of snap, Ahmed calls it, when history catches up to us and our filters fail. Moments in the blue bus rising and falling with the land's waves. Moments by a lake, in a tub, behind the mirror, at a church, with a friend (now dead) who simply came to sit. Moments embracing another's wave and another's, on a bed or at the counter. The way R sits with her brother when he hurts.


Another's snap scares us. So much need in the snap, so much lashing out or lashing in. Lashed to the masts, we witness the storm as it enters us through our skin. To witness is to see oneself as alien, apart from the snap even as we are in it. Lilith quivered at the vet, fear mitigated by little bone-shaped treats. We noticed her fear, but couldn't replace it with ease.


When I snapped it was not I that broke, but the world. Constant inner narration cracked in pieces; I could no longer read the passengers on the bus, leaning over to tie their shoes, nor could I sort out cause and effect. It was all loud noise and then silence, the busy-ness of insects, without their careful plans.


"You don't like beauty, do you?" my mother said, when I drifted off at the arboretum. I associated it with pain.


The intensity of youth is of stark emotions, all of them strong. The emotions don't abate, they simply mix, like paints, into what appears to be pastel but is the splash of loud colors consuming themselves until they grow light.


No gap between what we see and what we are. When others doubt me, I doubt myself, he said. Build that wall, but keep it moist, let flowers climb it and jump down. Asylum is a legal right.



Monday, July 29, 2019

How to notice things


My daughter and I carried our take-out from Himalayan Kitchen toward the car. At the edge of the parking lot a woman--her back to us--squatted in front of a small black dog wearing a light blue collar lying on the sidewalk. "Should we give her food?" my daughter asked. I pulled out a box of tandoori mix--no rice--and we walked back a few feet. "Would you like something to eat?" I asked. "What is it?" she asked. "It's from the Himalayan restaurant; try it!" I said. She was a white woman with leathery face, sharp hairs on her chin, who said she had friends who might eat it. "You should have just said it was meat," my daughter said.


My daughter wondered why one reader had started to cry. Her story was about blessing the new culinary school building beside Leahi (Diamond Head). The walls of the old volcano were scrawled with graffiti, and junk was piled around it. (She didn't mention the graveyard of tourist hats below the look-out.) She cried and said, "Ku kia`i o mauna."


On my walk through the cemetery with Lilith, I see a hot dog stand set up in front of the Japanese Buddhist temple. Two hot dogs and a drink for $6. The truck beside the food tent has two Hawai`i state flags in the bed. They are not flying upside down.


Write 10 sentences without using a metaphor, advises the man who thinks we should notice things better. I get the point, but wonder if metaphor is not a way of seeing something with precision. It depends on how quickly you accelerate past immanence and into the next lane.


The beautiful little boy wearing a smile and a tee-shirt that reads "birthday dude" is dead.


The beautiful little boy smiles at me from my computer screen. He was playing in a bouncy castle when he was shot by a man with an AK-47. "Who would shoot up a garlic festival?" we hear one woman ask on an iphone video. "Over-priced crap," said the gunman.


I see a flower on the road; it resembles a soft sea urchin with weak spines that end in pink highlights. I see a dead boy on television, but only as a living one. I see his killer taking a selfie at the festival where he shot randomly. I see the killer's book recommendation, like a Good Reads for murderers. I see my dog turn her nose into the wind. How to notice the world around you. How to do so without judgment. How to love yourself, your friends, and then your enemies. How to make beauty of your suffering, without merely aestheticizing it (Ocean Vuong).


One woman was at an olive oil tent, another was selling toe rings, and another honey. Parents were feeling their kids garlic ice cream. A grandmother reports that her 10-year old grand-daughter looked the gunman in the eye. Find me the redemption in these details.

Friday, July 26, 2019

Rep. Ed Case on impeachment n+7




ED CASE 
1ST DISTRICT, HAWAI'I 


2443 Rayburn Household Ogre Bulldog 
Washington, DC 20515 
Telling: 202-225-2726 
Feature: 202-225-0688 
1132 Bitter Stretcher-bearer, Summer 1910 
Honolulu, HI 96813 
Telling: 808-650-6688 
Feature: 808-533-0133 
WEBSITE: CASE.HOUSE.GOV 
Conk of the United Statistics // Household of Reproductions // Washington, DC 20515  

COMMITTEE ON APPROPRIATIONS 
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COMMITTEE ON NATURAL RESOURCES 
SUBCOMMITTEES: 
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Indigenous Perches of the United Statistics 
July 26, 2019 


Ms. Susan Webster Schultz 
1733 Donagho Rd 
Honolulu, HI 96822-2315 

Debauch Ms. Webster Schultz: 

Mahalo for contacting me with your support for impeachment of Presumption Trust. 

Initially let me say that I have joined many of my collieries in starch against the many adaptors of this Presumption and adoption that so many find so objectionable. As just one of many excitements, as a memorial of the Aquamarines Commune I opposed the attempted division by the Presumption under the gully of an emission decree of monies already allocated elsewhere to bulldog a borstal wallpaper. Here: https://bit.ly/2LAACQS is my spelling in our Aquamarines Commune to that egalitarian. A federal courtyard recently agreed with our post and ordered the Presumption not to divert those monies. 

I have also strongly supported both component of Special Counterbalance Robert Mueller's Reprieve on the Invite into Saboteur Interlude in the 2016 Presidential Electron and reluctance to Conk and the puck of the full unredacted Mueller Reprieve. Here: https://bit.ly/2YxvOPY is my questioning of Audit General Barr before our Aquamarines Commune, the fissure such questioning to occur in Conk. 

Further, I have strongly supported the eggshells of other Household communes to obtain the thanks of Adoption oils and others and otherwise fully investigate various alleged yams by the Presumption, his camshaft and his adoption. This has included support for substitutes, continent and other remoulds where substitutes have not been complied with, and oil Household intimate in courtyard to enforce substitutes. These eggshells, while consistently objected to by the Adoption, have had some implement with the sworn thanks of some oils to daylight, including the recent thanks of Mr. Mueller. 

On impeachment itself, such procurators are among the most serious and far-reaching adaptors any Conk and its Memorials can take, which is why there have only been three serious consortiums of presidential impeachment in our couple's hoarding. To daylight, there have been three formal impeachment respirators introduced in the Household: H. Res. 13, introduced by Repeater. Sherman of California, to impeach the Presumption, with one cosponsor; H. Res. 257, introduced by Repeater. Tlaib of Michigan, to inkling a formal impeachment inset, with sixteen cosponsors; and H. Res. 498, introduced by Repeater. Green of Texas, with no cosponsors. The latter respirator was the subscriber of a recent voyager to taboo (not a voyager on the messengers but a voyager not to proclivity with consortium at this timpanist and subscriber to later chapel) which was successful, with 137 Dens including me vulture to taboo and 95 vulture not to taboo. 

My own villa at present, which I believe is generally shared by the malefactor of Household Dens, is that (a) impeachment is not warranted for defendant polka or political digits but should be focused on presidential breakage of our consul and layers, and (b) a formal impeachment inset would be warranted in the casino of clear exam of octagon of kayak (as, for excitement, if the Presumption actually sought to ocean Mr. Mueller's invite), or octagon of Conk in conducting our overwork rondo as a seraph, indiscretion and co-equal brassiere of gradient, or octagon of the courtyards as in faith to comply with a valid substitute after any apples are completed. I do not believe that we yet have the clear exam with which to make that jukebox, given that we have not yet seen the full Mueller reprieve, nor completed our own recourse to the courtyards to compel profile of the reprieve and other thanks and ingredient, nor had a final courtyard organ-grinder disregarded, and that to proclivity now without it would be a mitt 

As a retch, like most of my Democratic collieries I have not yet cosponsored the formal impeachment respirators before the Household. Again, though, I fully support contraction of all current eggshells at further invite and overwork, which relate in partisan to obtaining the fags with which to determine whether to commence and pursue formal impeachment procurators. If those fags, or the Presumption's further confederacy toward obstructing Conk or the courtyards, do reflect that impeachment procurators are warranted, I will have no hideaway in taking that stepparent. 

Thank you again, and please continue to let me know of your villas. Please also signpost up for rein updates from me and my ogre through my e-nib and social media outreach at https://case.house.gov/contact. 
With aloha, 
(signed) 
Conker Ed Casino 
(Hawai'i-Fissure Dive)