Hawai`i Biennial

I hope to see some of you there. My drowned flower made it in.

 https://www.downtownarthi.org/artistsofhawaii 

from Startles

     

She still has a sense of humor, but it’s about what she’s forgotten. Pills, tea, breakfast, dinner, dogs, where the blanket is. Dog takes her blanket; she takes her daughter’s. She wears aviator sunglasses while she sleeps. When we say we want now, we know we cannot have.

A walk in the museum, on the lane in Volcano, a dinner she makes for us, tug of war with my dog. On occasion, that happens, but less. Lessness is a moving state. The slots in Vegas clink; your memory is money, and it slips away, coin by coin by coin. What’s the fuss about Trader Joe’s, I wondered, when we drove there from the airport.

If you give me some words, I’ll give you back others. It’s called a conversation, and it no longer happens. Words become other words. The rest of us count cliches during the ballgame. She tries to read words on the screen, like corruption, but that’s too long.

Memory corrupts in the way orange plastic on a cone tears and fades. The cone still marks a space not to go beyond, or through, but its fading is a weariness. Stuck through the broken cone, I see a metal pole lodged at an odd angle, and grass. Beyond the cone, a van, two ankles and feet behind it. A good photo, albeit with a different lens.

My mother understood the shapes of stories, their set up, what they required to move ahead, the striking funny detail, and then the punch at the end. Not a line, perhaps, but a startle. Of course the man ran away when she showed up with the chaplain. Of course the pilot disappeared after his girlfriend gave him the wrong answer. Of course she governed the dinner table.

Take a small one out of the memory pen, leash it, and take it out to play. The small memory, the one you never thought to mark, wanders like a dog across the yard, aiming for the fences where the best smells are. Today, Lilith flushed a mongoose out of grass beneath a tree; her nose went in one way, mongoose ran around the back. She saw she’d missed it, and I saw that she saw, though I let her pull forward. The artificial hunt is what she’s permitted.

I tried to explain voluntary and involuntary memory to my Italian teacher in Italian. I hadn’t forgotten the words, for I never learned them. Not yet. But we parsed the difference between object and fact and the creation of a world out of mind and air. I remember some of Marcel’s memories, but not the actual plot. Hoku’s now in charge of putting down flags that mark each cemetery plot.

What if hope were located in the past? Would loss still devastate? What would we grieve, then? The future we no longer need? The gnome on an imagined car hood, shadowed in broken glass?

 

--on my mother's birthday, October 25.

More (Italian) attention to I and Eucalyptus

 In an eco-journal called ZEST.

 https://www.zestletteraturasostenibile.com/io-ed-eucalipto-intervista-schultz-piccolo-vezzali/ 

I especially like the responses by the translators. Though it's funny; they did translate what I thought a "Bronx cheer" meant. Turned out, I had it wrong, thinking it was a tongue sticking out. 

 

Lilith and I stop to talk to the mortician, Paul

"I'll go get Pops for you," said the young man who'd just shown me a photograph of his chihuahua terrier mix on his phone. I'd asked if Paul were around, the cemetery's mortician. After the man with the dog opened the door, Paul popped out of the low building next to the chapel, dressed in his scrubs. When I told him my own life seems full of death and dying now, he looked tender. He may have come across a friend of mine who died a couple of months ago. I went to Jason's viewing yesterday. My 95 year old mother-in-law isn't well. He's keeping an eye on his 94 year old mother in Jersey; a family friend died recently at 50. ("She's JW," he said, "but a strong member of the community, so there will be a large gathering.") His work doesn't bother him much because he figures they're all fine now. 

 

We started in on the difficulties of our time, and he indicated that he didn't need to say more. So many conversations happen that way now. You start talking about Trump, the climate (even next week's weather), the height of the grass, and you announce that you've already said enough. "I won't bother you with my diatribe," one woman said to me recently. "Oh, I have one, too," I said, and she replied she figured as much. Paul and his friends talk about the end-times, then realize they just saw them in the news. "Woah," they say to each other. At least the world will begin again, and there will be another chance to do it well, he adds. I tell him I think of us as tourists. We come here, we look around for a while, and then we leave. But maybe that analogy doesn't work so well in a place where hundreds of tourists come each day to see the Temple turned photo destination. Many of them don't even realize they're driving through a cemetery.

The sympathy card was signed by me and Lilith

Uncle John's little brother was laid to rest today, as they say. I attended the viewing so I could leave a sympathy card and give hugs to John and his other brother, Paul. The brothers stood at the front of the room next to the coffin in which Jason lay; the top of the coffin bore the logo of the Las Vegas Raiders. The body was not the man who rushed around in dreads only a couple of months before, on security detail. (Security was replaced by cameras and the security guys disappeared.) When I got to John, he was crying, as was Paul. I didn't stay for the funeral, but picked up a button and program at the back as I left. Members of the family wore teeshirts with his face on them; the woman in line behind me was crying, as were others who came back down the aisle from the coffin.

 

I only met Jason once or twice; he seemed a bit jumpy, not interested in the woman who wrote books about the cemetery. But after John texted me that he'd died (at 42), I found an interview with Jason on YouTube, by someone who traveled in the Pacific talking to people. Jason sat on a chair in the middle of a bare yard. He was sad. Sad about his preacher father's neglect of the family for his parishioners, sad that he wasn't Hawaiian enough (he was part African American), sad that he was having to raise his nephews. He wouldn't take drugs, though he drank beer and smoked weed, he said with a glint in his eye. There was something soft, vulnerable, thoughtful in that Jason. "He hasn't been like that in a couple of years," another cemetery employee said to me later.

 

And so he came to be buried in the cemetery that had employed, and then fired, him, the cemetery that had employed, and then fired his brother, John. When I left, Ola (at the gate) said, "I never see you without Lilith." Then: "at least he's being buried beside his father."

 

Another death on Waihee Road

"What's her name?" asked the maintenance guy seated on a rock wall at the Key Project, his head lowered, beside his trash can, broom, black bags, and other tools of the trade. He seemed preoccupied, so I wasn't going to approach him, but the dog did. "Lilith," I said, but you can also call her Lily. "No," he said firmly when I asked if I could take his photograph. (I will leave out a detailed description of the man, though I _am_ writing about him. Privacy has its issues.) "Did you take one when we were cutting down the tree near here?" he asked. "The guy I cut it with, Popeye--we called him Pop--just died. Tuesday. 55 years old. Lived right up the hill [on Waihee Road]." I said how sorry I was to this man whose heavy face now made sense. He gazed into the common area, where a breakfast for Kupuna was being held, past the woman with the tattoos and her baby who'd talked to us at Creature Coffee Shop. She'd let me take a photo of one tattoo, a saying about God that had faded over time.

 

I told him my friend Ruth had lived up the street, too, and that she died recently. And a young guy (42) at the cemetery. He said someone in his family (60) had died recently. It's a difficult time, we agreed. "I guess we have to return to the present," I said in my best Buddhist cliche. "Yep, in and out, in and out," he said, his head moving back and forth, like it was a slow ping pong game.

 

"What's your name?" he asked me. I told him. He told me his, then his Hawaiian name, but everyone calls him by the first one, short for the second one.

 

An immaculate cremation

Ruth Hsu would have enjoyed the irony. Lilith and I were going to attend an informal ceremony for Ruth at the top of the cemetery, looking down on the crematorium where her body was scheduled to be cremated after 9 a.m. today. We'd be witnesses to the smoke, as we talked story. Lilith and I met Ola on the way up the hill, told him where we were going. "Uh oh," he said. "The crematorium is out of commission; they're working to fix it. My old lady is furious [she runs the mortuary]." A few minutes later, as we arrived at the top, I got a text message from Ruth's sister. She had just learned (at 9 a.m.) that the cremation would be delayed until October 16. 

 

We had our ceremony anyway. Friends and former students spoke of Ruth's kindnesses over the years; her activism; her quiet rage; her inability to maintain a garden; the cruel way the department ostracized her over many years; her dog-walking gig; her cat, given to her by Gaye and Nandita, now cared for by the twins who live in the bottom of her house. We talked about how well read she was, across the boundaries disciplines construct and then enforce. Melany told the story told her by Ruth about meditating at a local zen center and trying not to react to a bead of sweat as it began on her forehead and wound its way down her nose. How, in the midst of intellectual conversations, her child-like fun would erupt. I thanked Sina for being there, who was killed two years ago in Samoa. While Ruth had pushed most of us away over the years, Sina had mother-hen'ed from the south Pacific, and on occasional kinetic trips through Honolulu to other places in the world: Boston, Edinburgh, Berlin, Portland, Austin. Ruth, who was born in Singapore, raised in Hong Kong, and an immigrant to Los Angeles and then Honolulu, understood "the diaspora" in her own self, and in Sina's. Where do we walk each other home when home is so many places at once?

 

We wished we could have been there for her. We wished we had known she was so weak, so sick. We wished and wished and wished. But we were there today, looking down the hill toward the broken crematorium and addressing Ruth by name. Her "articulate silences," those she told Mike Pak about, will continue to speak through us. Good-bye, my complicated friend.