Dementia Blog conversation with Richard Hamilton, part two

Part two is about part one of the sequence, which is only just.

 

https://rh4075.substack.com/p/part-2-interview-with-author-susan

Please support Richard's substack, if you go there. It's well worth the visit. 

 

Essay about Albert Saijo's Backpacking book

 https://lithub.com/one-of-the-best-american-backpacking-books-was-written-by-a-japanese-buddhist-beat-poet/

I happen to love the backpacking book, its instructions on "how to walk," and the prints by Albert's brother, Gompers. Highly recommended. 

Albert's old cottage in Volcano is for sale for an incredibly high price! We have such fond memories of spending time with him there before he died in 2011. https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/19-3994-Kalani-Honua-Loop_Volcano_HI_96785_M94276-67411?from=srp_next

 

 

 

 

Unnoble truths

 

H does not like to drive the gators/carts. Today he was driving with someone who is not his usual partner. When he saw me, he headed up past an arrow pointing the other way, and stopped. "Where's your dog?" he said, sounding worried. I explained that while she gets dental treatment, I paid $5 to get into the Temple as a walk-in senior kama`aina. He looked a bit drawn, said he was being trained in a new job that involved little flags (arranged at the back of the cart). I asked him to say hello to O for me and Lilith.

 

I visited the temple as a writer doing research, and as a Buddhist, stung by the commercialization of the place where Lilith and I walk most mornings. It was early; I only saw large tour buses on my way out, four of them parked backwards in the recently-expanded parking lot, nestled bumper to bumper behind the orange cones.

I posted photographs. The implacability of consumerism (as Rachel Blau DuPlessis might put it) confronted my every attempt to find a quiet moment, an unsullied image. Even at the meditation gazebo, which was open and--briefly--empty, signs screamed at me not to feed the animals or run or jump or make a lot of noise. I was not wear beach attire. The word "respect" came up more than once. Other signs screamed the availability of niches and plots at "the Eternal Resort." I took my shoes off and went inside to visit the Amitaba statue. Buddha appeared calm, seated on his still lotus. I lit a stick of incense, put it in sand in a bowl beside him.

 

Outside again, ads for having your photograph taken. You can be "iconic"! You can partake in a "cultural" moment! You can buy something "more than just a photo"! Inside the gift shop, I caught sight of yet another camera, like the ones on polls throughout the cemetery. Cyclops with an eye on you and you and you. Another sign indicated that bad karma comes to those who steal. Who was not stealing?

First impressions

 

Her name rhymes with Michaela. She moved to Washington State a year ago to be with her daughter and grandchild, after years of working at Christian school here. But she's back, circling the "heart" (or cul-de-sac) at the top of the cemetery. We'd agreed once that our first impressions of one another were poor, I in my "Make Racism Wrong Again" hat, which from a distance could be confused for what it parodied, and she in her Christian themed shirts. "What's going on around here?" she asked me in her high, but not soft, voice. "The vibe is bad! And where's Scott?" I told her about the trees, the bushes, the missing cats, the missing men, the untended scars on the landscape. She yelled. "But S's wife is here," she said, meaning his late wife's grave. "He comes very early to visit her," I said, so I don't see him. She saw rhinoceros beetles the other day, dead but; Makoa says they've attacked the palms. (Without the lines of palms this place would really have a bad vibe.) There's some guy who comes and injects one of the trees, I noted, but only one it seems.

 

She misses this place. The image is in her mind at all times. She can't imagine being a grandmother, but she is. When she's here, she walks many times up and down the last hill. After Ola and Makoa come up the hill, she reaches out to give Ola a hug. She'd given him a present when his baby was coming, but she gave it to the wrong guy. 

 

We peel off, but she comes down hill after us, apologizing for saying "you've got to get rid of that cap!" No harm. She walks with us again as far as her late ex-husband's grave on the hill where an American flag flutters. There's a long story there, but clearly her visit isn't one of anger but of a more loving remembrance. Lilith and I walk toward the exit, just past where four cats lie under a gator to avoid the ever hotter sun.

The American dream

 

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I took a nice photo of Lilith with him the other day; she jumped up onto his cart to get his attention (and mine). At the back of his cart is an upside down broom and a row of flags of different colors. He's the worker who sets down flags before the graves are dug. A young man with a long tattoo down one arm, an earring in one ear. I see him either leaning over to put them down or zooming around not-quite-recklessly on his gator. Yesterday, we met at the back of the cemetery, where the large water feature makes the sounds of running water and revving machines. He asked where I live, and I pointed north toward the townhouses on the other side of `Ahuimanu School. "May I ask how much it costs to rent one?" he asked. "A lot," I said, only later telling him that a three bedroom went for over $3,000 a month. I told him that my kids have to pay nearly everything they make in rent in Seattle and Virginia. Then he asked about mortgages, how much the townhouses cost to buy. I told him that we paid off our mortgage after my mother died. We'd paid under $200K in 2001, but they're now going for well over $700K. He said his dream is to own a place. 

 

The other day I took a photograph of a man wearing a shirt that read, in modified cursive, PRIVILEGE. As if growing through the top of his cap, a pole wore a Hawai`i state flag.

Conversation with Richard Hamilton about my second dementia volume

 Recently, Richard Hamilton and I had a long discussion of my book, "She's Welcome to Her Disease": Dementia Blog, Volume 2 from Singing Horse Press. Richard has put the conversation on his substack, which is worth visiting in any case. 

 The second volume of DB kind of disappeared into the ether, so it's good to see that it's getting notice now. It's the most formally inventive of my books, using bureaucratic forms, photographs, inventories, children's stories and other materials to tell the story of my mother's last years. It's also a portrait of an Alzheimer's community, one in which people have long conversations, fall in love, fall down, and experience emotions. I miss them.

https://rh4075.substack.com/p/revisiting-shes-welcome-to-her-disease

The covers for both volumes were thoughtfully designed by Gaye Chan. 

 

On a day too hot to walk much

"If I ever met Barack Obama," the retired airplane mechanic said, "I'd tell him how much I admire his oratory, but how much more I admire Michelle's." I told my story about Obama and the skinhead, and then about the time I saw Michelle leaning over to look at me through outstretched hands as she shook mine at Ke`ehi Lagoon. (I felt her husband's hand on mine, but he didn't peak.) Alison, with whom we were walking, counted the six degrees of separation she had from Obama, including a cousin who went to Punahou with him when he was Barry. 

 

Up the hill from those stories, she and I ran into the woman who lives on the corner, her house always dolled up with flags and signs. A loud house. We talked about the heat, how she suddenly wished for the rain she'd wanted to have stop just the other day. She said she ran a lot of things in Honolulu, including the zoo, the Shell, the Blaisdell. She was really happy that they might make the zoo into a sanctuary for old elephants. Her expressiveness manifested itself several times in exclamations of "Oh shut up!!" as when Alison said she'd been at the circus when Tyke killed her trainer and ran out into the streets of Kakaako, only to be shot dead by police (1994). The police are still traumatized, she told us. Not her daughter, who was only two at the time. Her husband had told her to close her eyes when the trainer was killed, and she did. I said Tyke has a memorial stone in the pet cemetery nearby, though her body was disposed of in the Waimanalo landfill, which is somehow in Waianae. "Oh shut up!!" said the woman, who said she'd go look for it soon. She was pleased that the new zoo director used to run the zoo in DC; he also used to work for Obama, who made him ambassador to Australia. A good man, she said of the former president, whose 2008 campaign shirt I was wearing.