Living precariously

 

"Oh, Hoku, you missed your chance!" said Ola, as a young woman drove by in a white Mercedes. Hoku was off weed whacking not far away. "Oh, so you're a married man living through his single friend, are you?" I said. "Yes, I'm a taken man," Ola responded. "Me too," echoed Makoa. "I'm living precariously through him," Ola added.

 

"Oh, you mean 'vicariously'!" I said. "What's the difference?" asked Hoku. "Well, 'precarious' is when you're on a tightrope and you could fall off at any time; 'vicarious' means you're living through someone else, like parents through their kids." 

 

Feeling the surge of retired English professordom, I reported that an old college friend in Milwaukee had called Manny Machado "execrable." We paused to talk about pronunciation. "Why not just call him a shit?" asked Hoku. "Oh no," said I, "that's way too direct!" You can also say "excrementitious." I had to go to grad school to take a course on excrementitious literature, I opined. 

 

'You should teach us lots of new words," said Hoku. I said I'd be back next time with my tip jar. Next time, that is, if Lilith is in the mood for it. She's got the "excrement" part down.

Lilith walks in circles

 

Lilith has lost her linearity, or perhaps she's given up on mine. We walked at Kahalu`u Regional Park this morning, near where my colleague and friend, Ruth Hsu, lived. We did the big circle once, past the baseball diamond (a man was asleep in the "dugout"); past the "waste water absorption field" the other side of an encampment guarded by two chihuahuas; past a homeless camp in the woods, where a man walked by warning us that there were dogs farther up the path; past the field goals; past the restrooms where one person sat, another slept; past the bench where a man lay, his feet black with dirt, his beard black with a touch of white under his hood, a heap of drink containers underneath him; past the bitter smell of urine; past the trucks and their workers; past the woman who didn't want her photograph taken because she is a photographer. Then Lilith began to improvise. There were chickens, after all, other side of a rock wall. We walked partway up Waihee Road to the elementary school, behind which Sangha used to play Little League and I sat near the dads to listen to them talk da kine about keeping pigs out of their yards. She turned back downhill, wandered toward Kahalu`u District Park. I steered her to Creature Coffee, where I ordered a cortado, then waited beside a crew-cutted man, his wife, and their clearly military son. Someone had ordered a pecan pie, which suddenly seemed the right thing to do, but I did not, when I saw the price. Lilith and I sat on a wall nearby, while I sipped the coffee and she stared off into the near distance, with chickens. I tried taking her back around the big circle the other way, but we got only so far before she turned again. Back past the houseless folks, back past the workers, back past the intricately tatted woman who did not want her photo taken, and back to the white car. "Why isn't it red?" asked the Cubs fan I stopped a few minutes later to heckle about his team. "Just you wait," I said, "two years from now, the Cardinals will be in there." He pretended to take note.

Storm drains and trapped cats

I couldn't get one of my walking friends interested in the demise of the cemetery (downed trees, fired workers). But today he texted to say that the new grates installed by management on the storm drains had trapped some cats inside, and he wanted to do something about it. He went and fed them. Raised a man-hole cover, but couldn't get the cats out. He took photos and sent them to KHON2 News. The reign of terror continues. Some people come everyday to feed the cats; others remove the cats' hiding spots and take away their storm drain shelters. Allegory is a bitch. So is real life.

 

Lilith walks with Tom, a neighbor on our writer's block

 

We had a guest walker today, Lilith and I, our neighbor Tom, writer, musician, father, husband, teacher. He used to think of AI as possibly benevolent, but now sees it as an engine of the apocalypse (my word). Tom is ostensibly a novelist, but one who generates much of his writing out of the material and sound of language. He teaches sci-fi and jazz literature at a local private school, one made nationally famous by its alumnus Pres. Obama. But he says he hardly reads novels now. He's tired of literature. I tell him about some recent losses, one complicated and the other less so. Later on, in a phone call with a poet friend, she said she thought language itself doesn't work any more. She spoke of losses, the losses of aging, of dying, and of communication. The loss of a belief in those national documents we used to find compelling. My friend is older, lives more or less alone, goes back to the Buddhist texts when she can. Tom's father, he realized this summer when he spent five weeks with him, is lonely. So many losses. But he renovates his two houses, making, remaking. Perhaps for his kids, maybe because it's something he knows how to do well that also passes the time. Tom's kids are good at things. One is studying in Japan this year, another is a physics whiz who wins the pole vault, and the third is happy. Two of them are deaf, including his daughter, with whom he writes music. She might minor in music, he says. We wonder about ambition, drive, where it gets you in the end. He reminds me I've had a good career. He asks about Tibetan Buddhism, having left a very strict zen center a while back. He still sits with friends. Lilith walked happily today; she likes guest walkers. For them she has pep in her step, even if she stops to sniff along the way. That is her career, as walker, diplomat, investigator, and companion. I desperately fear my loss of her.

Nolo stalls

On an ominous, gray morning, Lilith and I ran into the woman who sometimes walks backwards up hills; this time, she was walking forwards. She is not the subject of this walk, only its first sentence. We also ran into Auli`i, whose person is the retired aircraft mechanic obsessed with Ukraine. "I hear Lithuania is really worried that Putin might invade." I wondered out loud how Putin, who can't defeat Ukraine, could invade Europe, as well. "He probably wants to do it while Trump is still in power," he said. Like everyone these days, we got to talking about hurricane Nolo, sitting off the coast of Hawai`i island. "If a category 3 hit this island (O`ahu)," he said, "it would take years to fix things. We're out here in the middle of the Pacific, by ourselves; help can only arrive by air and by water. They can cut those off," he added, darkly. Later in the day, Nolo is finally turning to the much advertised left (closer to the American than to the the European model). But at 2 pm in Kane`ohe, we have a heavy evening sky, brief gusts of wind, humidity to cut like butter.

Lilith stalls

 

Lilith and I have walked hundreds of miles together, settling mostly into a three mile walk to the top of Valley of the Temples Cemetery and back, always under the gentle reach of the Ko`olau. I'll stop to take photos, she to sniff and pee and stare at chickens, cats, and mongooses. She'd rather hunt them, but a red leash prevents that. A few weeks ago, Lilith started to go on strike. The leash would suddenly tense. I'd look to see Lilith leaning back, her eyes directed at me, as if to say NO. At first I tried dragging her, but that wasn't good for her or for me. A few times, I let her go home, thinking she wasn't feeling well. Arthritis? Too many kitty poop snacks? Late middle age? Boredom? (That's it.)

 

I remembered that when we took walks with my creative writing students, I let her choose where we went. Strange perambulations we took around the UH campus, off sidewalks, nearly down storm drains, around old buildings. Why not do a variation on that again? So I began to let Lilith choose our way, at least some of the time. Today, we got to the cemetery, and then veered off on the grass, wandering to a tree at the top of the hill, then down and off to the dirt edge where the cemetery ends. No, she didn't want to get back on the usual course (whose treat at the end is the guys who spoil her silly), so we turned back, walking along the edge beside `Ahuimanu School (hearing the sounds of delighted children), stopping at my favorite paper bark tree, then crossing Kahekili to walk through the strip mall near the new instagram sensation, known for its sublime views. McDonald's, that is. We passed a group of water workers, air hammering holes in asphalt. One guy was wearing a Cardinals cap. "Are you?!" I asked. "No, but I like KC," he said. I was wearing my KC hat. It's a Negro Leagues Baseball Museum cap, I said. "The Monarchs?" That's it.

Death of a hired man

 

Lilith’s and my old friend from the cemetery, Uncle John, texted to say that his little brother died earlier this month. Jason had worked there, too, once telling me he’d looked at the photos in Lilith Walks. In this interview, which I found on-line, he talks about growing up a preacher’s kid in Kahuku on the North Shore: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jowmBOlOB98 RIP.