My Prayer Today

Sometimes I write out my prayers, especially when I am at work and taking time to close my eyes lends people to believe that I am sleeping. This particular one sort of encompasses some of the things that I have been learning about because of Brennan Manning and his passionate messages -- that is why I am posting it. Please do not consider these words Pharisaic, as they were not intended to reach anyone else's ears but God's.

My God, this poor boy has been ransomed by your grace and, with downcast eyes, I realize your love is like the oceans with their dark and wondrous depths. Teach my heart to pray in silence, my mind not to wander, my feet to be sure in each step of the journey. You have met me in the deafening quiet of my faith and you mix it with your blood, knowing how weak I am. My Father, I am not of the substance of heroes, but I pray you would use these rough and calloused hands for your kingdom. May I be a blessing to others, even as you have been a blessing to me. Lord, I want to know how to love unconditionally: teach me to pray for my enemies, to make space for your depth in my shallow self, to give my heart to you more fully. God, steal your glory back from me, for I do not know what to do with it, even as I try to rob it from you. Thank you for your goodness, for your incomprehensible nature, for your ruthless, unmitigated grace.

Sonnet VI

Sonnet VI

Barefooted, you tread the soft soil
damp earth of my self, quietly --
too quiet for words, or sighs
or breath – you come into the

center of my bosom like a phantom
and your hands reach up my trellis
counting the worn and tattered leaves;
I am growing warm underfoot.

With your eyes made of honey
and lips tasting of blood, your
silent invasion has caused a ripple

across my country-side; there are fires
where there was once peace. My damp earth
self is flooded with flame.

Sonnet V

Sonnet V

I awoke with clear and honest eyes
to you -- the embodiment of soft parts
and soft words, to your singing in warm hallways --
to corridors smelling of your handiwork.

With your voice, the bread rises with the sun, golden,
the cherries sweetly drain at mid-day,
the potatoes murmur in their boil at dusk.
But your crowning lies in the after-glow

of pumpkin-spice along the apple-pathways,
plucking fallen fruit from the orchard floor
and dusting each as a child before they

rest in soft-piles at the road-side.
How we dance in the honeysuckle goodness of your
hands, how we take in solid joy by the mouthful.

Sonnet IV

Sonnet IV

Naked, your body has the fullness of the horizon
The roundness of your breasts like the curvature of the world
where heaven meets earth and the
sea casts its shape.

In the Autumn twilight, I see you nude with poppies
and laurel, with the brown clay of our youth,
with fire and flood in your eyes.

Naked, you have traveled into my dreams, and naked
you rest there,
cupped like a dove in the palm of my hand
lying quiet in the hollow of my abdomen

My naked and lovely queen, how
your form calls to the glory of
the world.

Sonnet III

Sonnet III

In the wood-workings, the carvings of lost cultures
I glimpse your almond-eyes, standing as a
testament to time, a lighthouse in the darkness;
a piercing, perfect apparition.

Where the hibiscus grows and the sea-sand
glistens, there your tiny feet leave prints
on wet soil, fitting within my own impressions
in the dust. Here, even as we are apart

you live inside me. Where I travel, there
too you will be. When I float about those
bulbous waves as driftwood and the sea
robs me of my everything, still

I will keep you in the hollow
I've built within me. You will be carried still.

Pablo Neruda and the 100 Love Sonnets

This weekend, I picked up 100 Love Sonnets by the 1971 Nobel Laureate and my favorite poet, Pablo Neruda. He dedicated the entire book, every line, word and phrase to his beloved wife. With that in mind, I have decided to try my hand at a similar, though much smaller endeavor. I will write 20 sonnets and post them as they come. The term sonnet will be more a loose reference than a strict adherence. I will try to maintain an octet and sextet. I have written 2 sonnets today, so here they are.

Sonnet I

The twilight brings you to me
your thick-as-night hair destined
to entwine about my body, as heat
wrapped round the sun.

In your earthy-eyes, I see
the wheat and deep-soil color of kisses
of your lips pressed against my open heart
and the pulse of harvest, of wine.

Your hips, my portion of the moon
the sway and pounding of sea-salt
in the air, on my skin, in my body --
you have taken dominion.

May you produce a new measure, a new
world in me with your earth-forming eyes
and echo of endless foam.


Sonnet II

You are the heiress of beauty, a ray of stardust
of fire, of flame. Lighting in me that hot tempest,
you melt my bones and take the marrow of my manhood
for your own.

You drink me in with little sips, like lemonade
on summer days. Salty and biting, I go in your mouth
and traverse the insides of your body,
exploring the hidden hills with dark clarity.

My wild-fire, when your hands have seared my heart
and my blood boils with longing, when your pink'd
cheeks have scalded this white chest and burnt
into this body of wood, take me as your own --

Take me and recall my oaken fragility,
let the scent of my burning be your stonghold.

He Kau -- A Season

I am working on writing in Hawaiian, though I am sometimes unsure of the grammar. Here is the latest hand at it.

Kaini'i ikaika
Na nalu nui, huhu, hae
He kino o koa hehe'e
O konikoni
Me limu kohu, me lipoa
Emi a kahe 'oe
Kai make me ka mahina
Kaimalie,
Na wai o kalama
Ho'opa kahakai
Malu, kakahiaka hiki mai

English:

Powerful, salt-encrusted sea
waves large, angry, fierce
a body of melting, fluid strength
of passion
with red seaweed
and valuable seaweed
You ebb and flow
tides receding with the moon.
Silent sea, light on your waters
touching the shore
Peace, dawn approaches

A Funny Birthday

Saturday was my biological mom's birthday. She turned 57. A few days previous, Pualani and I put our heads together and decided to bar-b-q for her. Az was cool enough to come meet her, bake some cookies and brownies, and hang with us all afternoon. It had been over a year since I had last seen her.

At times, I got a distinct awkward feeling, as though we didn't really know one another. I suppose that is true. But we had some fun talking about when I was a boy and I think Az got a chance to see how I interact with my biological family a little more, so that was good.

For her gift, I made her a CD what we listened to while playing some dominoes. She loved it. I also did some hula for her, as I heard that she misses home.

The best part of the whole thing was just the time that we got to spend together and the fact that we got to eat. There were some initial set-backs to our cooking endeavors (Pualani was late to her own house, there was a stove-top fiasco, no lighter fluid, the coals wouldn't burn, etc.) but everything worked out in the end.

As a result of this whole thing, Pua said she is thinking about dancing when the Ike Kume class begins. I'm seriously looking forward to it.

Kahi Ao ka Mauka

Kahi ao ka mauka
Kahi po ke kai;
Kunihi ka mauka,
Malie ke kai.
Na wai no Kakahiaka
Kalama no Po'ele'ele
Ola, Make
Malu, Kaua
Na'e ku laua

Ke Kaiao O Ka La Mua

The Dawning of a New Generation


On Saturday, the halau (school) that I dance for (Na Meakanu O Laka O Hawaii) and the Ke Po'okela Cultural Foundation hosted a night of music and hula. Alongside our halau, 5 other schools had performers on stage ranging in age from as young as 4 to as old as... well, old.

I showed up at noon even though the show did not begin until 7 in the evening. There were plants to set up, a run-through to go through, people to meet, things to carry, etc. As one of the only men of the halau, I got a chance to serve the women, which was very cool. It is pretty amazing how many things a girl will bring to a performance.

Previously, we had all met here and there, made our own lei and kupe'e (wrist/ankle bracelets of ti leaf or kukui nut) and began forming the bonds of friendship. As a result, when everyone was there it was like we were all part of one very large 'ohana hula.

That part is true as well; our kumu hula (headmistress) taught each of the other kumu and gave them their title, effectually letting them teach others and pass on the knowledge of the kupuna (ancestors). This resulted in all of the kumu being close friends -- like family, and we, their students became family by association as well. Real hula has always been a matter of pride to the Hawaiian and we take our hula lineage seriously. This night -- The Dawning of a New Generation -- was Aunty Mohala's formal presentation of our halau to our new kumu hula, Mahiehie. It was Aunty Mohala's wish to present these new kumu as the new face of hula that we might begin to perpetuate our culture on our own.

The performance itself went off without a hitch; everyone danced well and we had a lot of fun. My favorite 2 parts, however, happened both before and after the show.

First - before the show - Polala (a man from Kauai) presented Aunty Mohala with some sacred gifts of the islands. Everyone was musing about in the lobby before getting to our dressing rooms when he asked her if he could present his makana (gifts) to him. When she said yes, he began a chant that was long, fluid and filled with ikaika (power). As soon as his voice began its rhythmic sway, the lobby became silent. All eyes turned to the exchange between him and her. She began crying as he told her in Hawaiian of how he climbed the mountain to get her gifts, of the making of her lei, etc. It was very touching.

Second - and equally important - was after the show when I got to introduce Az to my kumu, some aunties and fellow dancers. Everyone loved her straightaway and she fit in to this part of my family very nicely. It was very, very cool.

The above picture is of just a few of the dancers that performed in a piece called "He Inoa Kalani" -- a dance written by King Kamehameha II -- in which 60 people sat on stage, dancing and chanting. It was surreal.

Hula

"The following account is taken from the Polynesian Researches of the Rev. William Ellis, the well-known English missionary, who visited [Hawai'i] in the years 1822 and 1823, and whose recorded observations have been of the highest value in preserving a knowledge of the institutions of ancient Hawaii:

In the afternoon, a party of strolling musicians and dancers arrived at Kairua. About four o'clock they came, followed by crowds of people, and arranged themselves on a fine sandy beach in front of one of the governor's houses, where they exhibited a native dance, called hura araapapa.

'The five musicians first seated themselves in a line on the ground, and spread a piece of folded cloth on the sand before them. Their instrument was a large calabash, or rather two, one of an oval shape about three feet high, the other perfectly round, very neatly fastened to it, having also an aperture about three inches in diameter at the top. Each musician held his instrument before him with both hands, and produced his music by striking it on the ground, where he had laid a piece of cloth, and beating it with his fingers, or the palms of his hands. As soon as they began to sound their calabashes, the dancer, a young man about middle stature, advanced through the opening crowd. His jet-black hair hung in loose and flowing ringlets on his naked shoulders; his necklace was made of a vast number of strings of nicely braided human hair, tied together behind, while a paraoa (an ornament made of a whale's tooth) hung pendant from it on his breast; his wrists were ornamented with bracelets formed of polished tusks of the hog, and his ankles with loose buskins, thickly set with dog's teeth, the rattle of which, during the dance, kept time with the music of the calabash drum. A beautiful yellow tapa was tastefully fastened about his loins, reaching to his knees. He began his dance in front of the musicians, and moved forward and backwards, across the area, occasionally chanting the achievements of former kings of Hawaii. The governor sat at the end of the ring, opposite to the musicians, and appeared gratified with the performance, which continued until the evening.' (Vol. IV, 100-101, London, Fisher, Son & Jackson, 1831.)" -- Emerson, "Unwritten Literature of Hawai'i: The Sacred Songs of the Hula," 71, 72.

This Saturday, the halau (school) that I attend will be having a large performance in Redondo Beach. We are dancing with 5 other halau; this is one of the first shows of its kind as hula schools typically stay in competition with one another. The great thing is that our long-standing Kumu Hula -- Aunty Mohala -- was the teacher for each of the kumu hula from the other halau. During this time, she will also be formally passing the reigns to Kumu Hula Mahiehie, whom I have had the privilege of dancing under for the last six months.

The say that I am very excited about this event would be a gross understatement. As the days grow closer to Saturday, I find myself thinking about it more and more. E Ho'omau Hula!!! Imua!

Wrestling With Piper

Who would say that Herod's contempt (Luke 23:11) or Pilate's spineless expediency (Luke 23:24) or the Jews' 'Crucify, crucify him!' (Luke 23:21) or the Gentile soldier's mockery (Luke 23:36)--who would say that these were not sin? Yet Luke, in Acts 4:27-28, records the prayer of the saints:

"Truly in this city there were gathered together against your holy servant Jesus, whom you anointed, both Herod and Pontius Pilate, along with the Gentiles and the peoples of Israel, to do whatever your hand and your plan had predestined to take place."

People lift their hand to rebel against the Most High only to find that their rebellion is unwitting service in the wonderful designs of God. Even sin cannot frustrate the purposes of the Almighty. He Himself does not commit sin, but He has decreed that there be acts that are sin, for the acts of Pilate and Herod were predestined by God's plan. (Desiring God, 35-6)

Notice that Piper is not saying God allows sin. He says God decrees that there be acts that are sin, essentially that God Himself -- in all of his perfection and goodness -- wills that there be sin, without actually sinning. Is Our Great God a hypocrite? NO! He has made it so that in the end, we will see His Mercy and His Sovereignty, His Grace and His Judgment, and we will tremble with awe at the majesty of God! Yet this is something that is a hard hurdle to jump - a difficult idea to ponder, especially when coming to the conclusion that God is the ultimate causality of sin. Here is what Job said after losing his livestock and his family:

Naked I came from my
mother's womb,
And naked shall I return there.
The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away;
Blessed be the Name of the
Lord. (Job 1:21)

We all know that God let Satan enter into Job's life -- that he effectively stayed Satan's hand and did not let things happen to Job before its time -- but Job gives God the ultimate causality, not Satan. Job essentially says that it is because of God that he has lost his livelihood, his children and his livestock. And, instead of him being reprimanded, the very next verse says, "In all this Job did not sin nor charge God with wrong."

I am not coming to any conclusions about it at the moment, but I am trying to wrap my head around it, as much as God allows anyway. I know that His thoughts are far above my thoughts and His ways are far above my ways, but I would be hard-pressed not to think about it.

A Piece of a Chapter

There was a time in my life when the idea of beginning something new was both an intriguing and fearful premise: time before an elementary education, the promise of friendships, knowledge and a thirst for more. It was a time of togetherness, of family and of fortunes.

But it was not the fortunes of the wealthy or even that wealth couched in the memories of the elderly: these were the shining days of laughter, hope and smiles. Our fortunes were those of children hard at play and harder at the work of building into our dreams. Our wealth was found in the wink of a sapphire eye and the beat of a five year old heart, rusted with the joy of the young. Adam and I would be lost in the land of the imagination, which lay just beyond the grasp of our screen door when the others came home from school.

Books would go slamming and bags flying. School clothes would come down like the long hair of the islands, held aloft all day at the top of the head, while play clothes would be shimmied into at my mother's call to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Emotion filled our tiny home as our older sister rushed headlong through the lawn, taking no heed of us. And we would go one, Adam and I, in the jungle of our minds with G.I. Joe, sound effects and dirt clods. We were the safari hunters rambling through the honeysuckle in search of our great lion; we were the Tarzans of the white sycamores, the knights of the front lawn, the samurai of Mother's rock garden. Kings amongst children, we played; the living amongst the fantasy, we laughed. Then, in a flash, our glass house came crashing to the ground with the uttering of one frail sentence:

"In three months," Mother said, "you'll be joining your sister in school."

Were it not for the Kool-Aid and sunshine, I would have died there on the spot. But Mother knew that the time for learning was drawing near and the age of ignorance was coming to an end; after all, it was she who taught me best of all.

She told me as I sat barefoot and cross-legged on the kitchen floor, light coming through the window, while I sipped on my grape drink and played with my Hot Wheels. Standing over the stove, she said it nonchalantly as she stirred the green beans and double-checked the heat of the rice.

"Huh?," I said, looking up unbelieving, a purple Kool-Aid moustache developing on my upper-lip.

"This is it, little man. Soon, you'll be in school and making friends, coming home for lunch and wearing a backpack!"

"I don't wanna make friends. I wanna hang out with Adam."

"Well, Adam has a whole 'nother year at home with me, but you guys will still get to play in the afternoon."

With that, I felt the very first twinges of envy, fear and wide-eyed excitement. I mean, she did mention a backpack!

The Weird Lady at Work

Her name is Liz. Older. Totally nutters.

Here is only one example of the craziness that is her life:

I am downstairs at the local cafeteria, ordering a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast and she is ahead of me in the line. She orders the breakfast special, sans hash browns and toast. I immediately think "Atkins" and continue in my waiting. This is pretty normal, right?

Then, the guy gives her the total and she loses it! She becomes upset because he did not deduct the price for her unwanted potatoes and bread. She says, "You're not going to give me a discount?" as though that is what happens everywhere. He replies, "Uh. no." and she decides that this isn't worth her time, so she gives him this maniacal sneer, turns on her heels and huffs out, without so much as a good morning to me when she sees me.

Let me ask: when you order your fast food and request no onions, no tomato, etc., do you expect the burger to be cheaper? NO! So what's the deal with crazy Liz at work, looking for a discount on her already "special" breakfast? Totally weird.

Barn Builders, a Bildungsroman -- page One

"Goddammit!" Blood came rushing from his finger, it now smashed and turning a sickly dark color. He released the hammer – threw it more like – and proceeded to sit on the 4x4 he had been working on. He sat some 28 feet in the air, legs straddling the beam and dangling in the void. The hammer careened into the side of a trashcan below.

"Be careful, man. You’ll hurt someone otherwise." The man from the bottom looked up, craning his neck and shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun as it continued its descent westward. His hardhat had been worn out with scratches of overuse so he covered them with yellow nail polish. The polish was brighter than the rest of the hat, giving it streaks of cleanliness amidst the dirt.
"Whatever."

"What did you say to me? I thought I heard you say 'Whatever.' Perhaps my ears deceive me, boy. Don't pretend you're a man because you can climb up and hammer in some joists. It isn't your time, son. Not yet." The man's voice began hard and sharp but, by the end, had softened so that the boy had to strain his ears to hear him. The elder man looked down, knowing that he would have to show his son to the wilderness for a season, that he would have to experience the pitfalls of his manhood rather soon. But he didn't want to think about it. It seemed only yesterday that Cody was carousing around the backyard in his diaper, cheering on the dog at its digging. That was nearly 15 years ago.

"Ok Pop, I get it."

"Do you?"

"I think so. Yeah, I do. I get it."

"Don't play with me. I will knock you down from that beam quicker than you can scream for help. I promise you that."

"Ok, Ok. I get it."

"Good. Now get down here and get the hammer you threw away."

"Yes, sir."

The young man came quickly down the scaffolding, swinging from pipe to pipe, jumping full floors at a sprint, much like an ape-man. This was his favorite part, when he could go as fast as possible. His dad didn’t mind too much; he said if he hurt himself, he would be paying the bills. And besides, he smiled, a little adrenaline is good for you. The trouble is that Cody was addicted to it. That’s why he went all the way to the top of the structure, hammering and such as he went: that is why he came tumbling down headlong at breakneck speed – he was secretly a bit fearful of heights and this was how you got the most excitement. Landing in the dirt, he patted himself off, rubbed his hands into one another, grabbed a bottle of water and retrieved the hammer. Looking West, the sun had dipped below the tree line. He rubbed the back of his neck with the calloused palm of his hand, then turned to his father.

"How long you think till we're done?"

"Can't tell for certain. We're done for today though, if that's what you're asking."

"Yep. And no. I mean, how long till you think this barn's going to be finished?"

"A year or more the way we're working. It's just you and me and a lot of fresh air. So... I don't know really. We're already at it for 8 hours a day, 6 days a week. We have other priorities, too. And you need to make your trip into the woods some time between now and when this is finished."

"I know that. Just curious."

"You got other plans?"

"Like what, sir?"

"Like college, Cody. What are you doing after this?"

"Working with you, I guess. I wouldn't leave this for more school. I like the work. It suits me."

"Ok. Suits me fine, too."

They gathered the tools into the pickup, tossing in the trash of the day and climbing into the cab. They drove home in silence, only a half-mile away over a dirt road, with corn field and ash trees aplenty.

The Letter

Dear Dad,

This is a hard letter to write, but I suppose it has been a long time coming. I do not know how to soften the blow for you, to cradle your fall so that you feel less pain, or to write in a tone that would signify that I am a caring, human-hearted individual. The hard, bare truth is the only thing I can come up with -- you have been replaced and I am none the worse for wear.

When you and Mom separated that fateful night -- do you remember it? -- I thought I was being torn in half. Even then, during that thunderstorm and your continuous cries in the darkness, I knew what it was like to be something other than a child. Did you know that memory has haunted me nearly every night since its occurrence? It has taken up entirely too much of my life, making it so sleep is a difficult animal to pin down. I know you will say that it is not your fault -- that Mom had been drinking again and overreacted, that she should not have changed the locks, that when you cried out to me to open the door, I should have listened to your voice and taken the wrath of her, though she lay not 10 feet from me. And perhaps you are right. But you cheated. You traded us in for something -- no, someone else. You fucked that up, even if you married Mom because she was pregnant.

And why did you tell Pua that? You think its easy to know that your dad was around an extra 9 years and created 4 more children because of his first mistake, manifested in your very own flesh and blood and bone? You think that doesn't fuck with her head? I exist because you were too much of a coward to leave in the first place. You made me a product of your cowardice. I suppose I should say 'Thank you.'

After you vacated the premises, I put you on this pedestal. I was glad to bear your name, to be called 'Junior,' or 'Keithy,' or 'Little Keith.' I defended your actions -- or lack thereof -- to everyone. Keoki and I fought constantly because of it. But do you know he was right? I still hate to say it, but it is true. I realized how you were still running.

Even from the beginning, I was to be different from them. I look like you, have a similar build, speak in a similar fashion. I am a constant reminder of your fear. Where my siblings got a Hawaiian name -- something that spoke to their character, their spirit, their heart -- I got your name instead; the name of my runaway father. When you ran off with Marie, you took my masculinity with you. I resented you a long time for it.

I was taken in at 14; you know that. I call that man 'Pops' because dad has such a negative connotation in my mind. He helped usher me into manhood where you did not try. So yes, Father, you have been replaced. I don't hate you for your mistakes, though you have shown me what it means to be a bad father. Because of you, thank God, I know what not to do.

Progress

If you don't like, or are offended, by the F-bomb, don't read this poem!

There are many days
when I am too tired and
weather-worn to rise --
the alarm clock is a god-forsaken
testament to Progress --
Fuck Progress, I say
but I rise to dress with a pain
in my back
and sleep in my eyes
anyway.

Lights on, lights off --
I don't care.
I pull my jeans on over
my legs and hop-skotch
over soiled garments to the sink,
where I splash my face
and shave (every three days)
and put on deodorant,
brush my teeth,
pretend I am human again
and bemoan my need of a paycheck --
I'd rather be surfing,
or sleeping,
or sleeping on the beach in quiet
anticipation of surf,
but Progress has me at a 10-7
and I say Fuck Progress!
and sit through traffic anyway.

My boss is a douche-bag
and the work is a pain
but I say Fuck Progress
and do it anyway.

Autumn -- A Sonnet

This poem was written due to the change in seasons, the fresh start at Autumn and because I have heard a few folk speak of how this time of year is their favorite. It has been a while since I have last written a sonnet, but I wanted to try my hand at something with a little more form.

When once the leaves of living green did sway
and take the color from August morning
to float or spin through Summer wind each day
falling to Terra for her adorning.
Now the vig'rous pigment drains from faces
brittling stems and turning green to golden,
they wither, break in the driest places
crashing quiet to the Earth beholden.

The children come, as they are want to do
to stampede neat piles into mulch and mire --
Scattered to the winds by high-kicking boots
leaves end up as martyrs, kindling for fire.
From bowered at branch to litt'ring the streets
high in the heavens to tramped under feet.

Kakau -- Tattoo

Something I threw together. It is a work in progress. If you don't know about Hawaiian myth, this might be a little over your head. They believed that the spirit could be captured and forced back into the body through the sole of the foot, essentially slapping the spirit in. Also, Ka'ena is a place in Western O'ahu where the dead were said to jump into the Underworld (Po). Rowing is merely a symbol for the dead to continue in their activities that they participated in while still living. The last line simply means, "Remember Us."

Trace the symbols in blood and ink,
with fingertips and palms and eyes
perfect shapes of triangles
within triangles
within a greater portrait
to convey a greater meaning.
My leg and my shoulder
both tapestries to honor those
long dead
jumping from Ka'ena
or else floating down a quiet island stream
spirits too crisp, too strong
to head back through the feet
and the rowing goes ever on
and forever onward
I carry those generations in my flesh.
A constant reminder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Crimson seeps out and the black soaks in
sealing the present and the past
speaking in languages unheard
though understood beyond time,
when the ancestors drummed and chanted --
E Ho'omana'o Makou!

Standing Up

Jeff, my good friend, would never profess to being incredibly brave or courageous. His humility has a tendency to far-outshine these attributes and many a man would more quickly describe him as meek. However, this post is dedicated to him and his "intestinal fortitude," so to speak, in the face of danger and possible destruction.

Too often in our society, we men lie in beds of shame and fear while the world around us crumbles under its own dead weight. This story should prove itself an exception to those mornings of cold chill and colder hearts.

On August 27, 2007 Jeff woke up to the ring of his alarm clock at 4 in the morning. Such the creature of habit, he hit the sleep button, turned over and was comforted by the warmth of his wife by his side. They both teach at the high school level -- he crafting murals out of language, she creating fortresses out of paint and charcoal. A few minutes later, shots rang out in his apartment complex, jarring him awake where the alarm clock failed.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop. Pop.

Jeff, like many men, lay in bed and contemplated what he should do next. Continuing in his half-rest amidst twisted sheets, or getting up to continue in his normal routine, seemed the easiest and safest route to take. However, that is not what he did. He told Lindsey, his wife, that he was going to check it out and got dressed in his work clothes. Leaving the house and heading in the direction of the shots, he had his cell phone ready to dial the police. He entered a hallway and heard the muffled sobs, gasps and heavy breathing of an injured woman.

She stood propped against the wall, obviously in need of medical attention. She held a phone in her hand, but -- due to the trauma she had experienced -- she was unable to dial. She said she had been shot twice. Once in the arm. And once in the chest. Jeff hit the send button on his phone, gave directions to the police and moved forward to further evaluate the woman's injuries. As he did so, he noticed two men not far away, wrestling on the ground. The man on top yelled out,

"Help me pin him down. He shot her."

Jeff ran over and jumped on the bottom man's legs, holding him there for approximately 8 minutes until the police arrived, assault rifle in hand. All of the men (including Jeff) were handcuffed and questioned. When it was realized that Jeff called the police, they released him.

The woman lived, largely due to the fact that Jeff was there to dial for help. Being shot in the chest is sort of a big deal.

However, Jeff does not see it that way. When I told him he was a hero, he didn't believe me. He just did what he thought he should do, that's it.

I wish there were more men like this; men who saw these sorts of things that should be investigated and acted on them, even when that steel in the pit of your stomach is heavy and your mind says no. Don't go outside. It isn't worth it. Play it safe.

Just as important, I wish there were more women like Lindsey, who let Jeff take the risk. Who see the value in letting a man put himself out on the line. Who know the value of protection and the inherent danger of marrying a man of courage, valor and action.

So Jeff, thank you for being such a humble and brave example.

A Closeness to Death

Taken from the most current issue of the Paris Review, in an interview with Norman Mailer. This portion is in reference to Ernest Hemingway. (whom I consider a fundamental influence on my writing.)

INTERVIEWER
Do you remember where you were when you heard Hemingway had killed himself?

MAILER
I remember it very well. I was with Jeanne Campbell in Mexico and it was before we got married. I was truly aghast. A certain part of me has never really gotten over it. In a way, it was a huge warning. What he was saying is, Listen all you novelists out there. Get it straight: when you’re a novelist you’re entering on an extremely dangerous psychological journey, and it can blow up in your face.

INTERVIEWER
Did it compromise your sense of his courage?

MAILER
I hated to think that his death might do that. I came up with a thesis: Hemingway had learned early in life that the closer he came to daring death the healthier it was for him. He saw that as the great medicine, to dare to engage in a nearness to death. And so I had this notion that night after night when he was alone, after he said goodnight to Mary, Hemingway would go to his bedroom and he’d put his thumb on the shotgun trigger and put the barrel in his mouth and squeeze down on the trigger a little bit, and—trembling, shaking—he’d try to see how close he could come without having the thing go off. On the final night he went too far. That to me made more sense than him just deciding to blow it all to bits. However, it’s nothing but a theory. The fact of the matter is that Hemingway committed suicide.

First and foremost, please note that I do not have an infatuation with the morbid or macabre, nor do I run that little test of will that Mailer would like to believe Hemingway did to prove his bravery, courage and stupidity. However, I wish that I might stand close to death unblinking -- perhaps that is why I write so much, or bring myself to the wilderness of my thoughts time and again; why I find life in the most absurd, perhaps stupid events of adrenaline-rushing goodness. Perhaps that is why I enjoy love so much, because I feel no more fear, no more joy, no more closer to death than when I am loving a woman unbridled.

More Car Stuff

The Jetta has a new engine in it -- its actually a rebuilt engine with only 50,000 miles on it -- and it cost a total of $2600 to repair (including the initial thermostat and work involved.) It is running like a champ, gets good gas mileage and is in great condition. Oh, and I am selling it.

During the Jetta's hiatus, I bought a 2005 Subaru WRX.

As a result of said purchase, I am parting with the Jetta -- hopefully -- so that someone will get a nice car and will be able to just take over my payments. The car blue books for 5k, though I only owe four on it (and that is not if you call and just get a pay off quote.) At any rate, my new car is blue, fast and awesome. Her name is Scoops. (as she has a turbocharger and is inter-cooled -- hence a hood-scoop.)

Jetta Update.

It's dead.

I blew a head gasket and it is going to cost $600 just to see what else might be wrong. I just can't afford this, so I am a at a bit of a loss. It looks like I am going to fix it, sell it for blue book, pay off the difference of what I owe and then buy a new car.

But as of right now, I'm pretty near broke. Keep praying.

Damon

Johnny Damon is .... well ... sucking right now. I know the Yanks are on a hot streak, but they need to put Cabrera at the top of the order and let Johnny take a rest and figure out where his swing went. Otherwise, I don't know how long this awesome streak can last.

Living on Grace While Life is on the Fritz

Life sucks; its an axiom.

My car started acting up a couple of days ago -- overheating where it used to run cool. I took it in to the shop, payed $300 and they changed the thermostat, flushed the coolant system and replaced a couple of hoses. Unfortunately, they didn't fix the problem. As it turns out, I also blew a head gasket and, as the mechanic mentioned consulting his machinist before giving me a quote some time today, I may have also cracked a head.

Not good.

I have been living in God's grace for the past couple of months, waiting for a job, waiting to get back on my feet, waiting to pay back my friends who have so graciously given me money to pay rent, etc. But its trying.

Sometimes I feel as though I am not living out God's purpose for my life because I am unable to provide for all of my needs, or handling life's financial curve balls proves to be difficult. But I know in my heart of hearts that God is good, that He is much bigger than me or my situation, that He has my back where everyone else would have walked away. Here are two examples of God's goodness, proven to me yesterday.

1. I'm driving home in my sister's car and the sky opens up clear and bright. Seriously clear in Los Angeles. There were a few clouds here and there, all wispy like pulled-cotton against the powder-blue backdrop. I took a picture of it on my phone and felt comforted by God, knowing beyond basic knowledge that God is good. I nearly cried.

2. On the same drive home I called a couple of friends to begin creating a prayer network to get the Jetta fixed. One of the people I called was my good friend April. She's pretty cool -- we climb, surf and hike together. We would snowboard together too, if she could get down the mountain fast enough. Anyway, she fixes the fences at gated communities and works at Starbucks for a living. I tell her what's going on, she says she'll pray and that's that. Or so I thought. Later in the evening I went to the gamers' cafe with Jeff and April called. She said she was stopping by my place to see if I was there and, as I wasn't she left me a note. I didn't think much of it. It sort of happens from time to time. Upon getting home I notice the note she mentioned, tucked inside of an old cardboard cd case. Inside was a list of things to bring for the backpacking trip we are taking this weekend and a check for $400. There was no note, no explanation, just open-hearted generosity.

God, if this is what you have in mind for the rest of my life -- learning to lean into You, to trust you as you provide for my needs, even while I walk, hands forward in the darkness -- count me in.

The longest one

I have been working on this poem today. It is still unfinished, but I thought it might be nice to get some feedback. It is a love story (Surprise!)

Your name has reached me
on the sea-salt winds --
it has entwined itself in my bosom
& stretched deep into my heart
building up a little tower
a stronghold
and, pushing into my blood,
grows roots
with every breath of my body.
You and I
we walked together
along the sun-bronzed shore
and down the muddied lane --
staining our feet with the landscape.
We would meander through the paved
and cobbled streets
where the baker's scent found us
in the goldenrod afternoon
and we pulled apart his sweet bread
with sticky fingers
to taste its flesh upon our mouths.
Do you remember those soporific days, my love?
Do you remember stopping
in that alley to let
time slow,
just a step,
that we might kiss
under the amber light of dawn?
I remember.
I cannot forget.
I recall the night I sped to your open arms
when the glow of your lamplight shone
through your window
and the shock of your touch sent me reeling.
How, with meteor and steel
your comet searing lips made their way
through those unnamed corridors
of oblivion
and I tensed at its burning.
Then I mapped the coastline
and gave special care to your wild places,
breathing in your wheat and honey skin,
expanding your name in my bosom
and navigating through the sea of your eyes,
floating and sinking, living in them,
living on them and their sustenance.
In the Spring,
in the Spring
our outcropping of a life will grow
and our love with it,
so that, when we share the fire
you will sleep in my shadow and keep warm.
In the cold and harsh times
when life is but a dormant memory,
when the eucalyptus ceases its growth
we will go on.
It will be so because your name is on
the sharp Northern wind
and it rakes away the lonely leaves
and gives us strength
to create anew.
It is in these times, my love,
when we will see with honest eyes
and the scent of jasmine and youth
will cause our smiling.
In the dancing shadows of windy Winter,
when your naked silhouette shivers
in the mist
these arms will cover you;
they will cover your perfect breasts,
they will massage away the fear
gripping Spring tightly in both hands
and pulling firmly on the sun
so that the tapestry of my skin will calm your
fragile form.
Then, my love, we will
go walking as before.
And again the roses and junipers,
the ash and pines,
rocks and mountains --
they will say a name,
an unknown and lovely sound,
for it is our Love-Name;
it will be written
on the humped-backs of the waves
roiling forth toward the earth,
and in the stardust
and the moonlight.
The wind will whisper it
in a long-forgotten tongue
so that we will be tied to creation
even as I am tied to you.

Daniel.

There are times in my life when I wish that my pockets went a little deeper, or that my heart were a little bigger. A couple of Sundays ago, I had one of those experiences.

I am currently attending services at CA (Christian Assembly) in Eagle Rock, CA. I stand abreast of them theologically, appreciate the applicable, exegetical style of preaching and have found myself steadily building a community which I am able to help support and vice-versa. For all intents and purposes, I am already beginning to think of CA as "home."

But sometimes you want to punch your brother right in the face.

The evening service, called Fusion, is the service I usually attend; it is geared more or less toward the 18-35 demographic, though the worship and sermon for the day do not change. At any rate, I really enjoy it. So there I am, sitting next to Azina in the 3rd row from the back, minding my own business, listening to the message being given when POW!, in comes a guy, totally late, obviously drunk, disheveled, and maybe a little off his rocker. I imagined he was homeless, or close to it. He came into my row, politely garbled an "excuse me," stepped on my unshoed feet in passing and sat down next to Azina.

To show her comfort -- as I could tell she was obviously uncomfortable -- I put my arm around her.

We resume listening to Mark explain whatever it was he was explaining. (Honestly, I was thinking of that guy sitting next to my girl, wondering about the last time he had a meal, or a shower, or a meal and a shower in the same day.) Then, this guy -- he begins agreeing with Mark from where he is sitting with slurred words and joy! I don't mean that sort of joy mixed in with religiosity and a cool "I love Jesus, but I know when its time to say 'Amen'" sort of joy. I mean real, unbridled, rising-above-the-human-condition sort of joy. The sort of joy you only get to hear about.

Then, people begin looking back, staring. Gaping. Judging.

Men and women alike craned their necks to peer at this man, to silently mock him, to scream "Shut up!" with their eyes, to mingle in their hate of anything "other" with that of their faith in Jesus. A guy about my age at the end of my row came and sat down next to the joyful one, putting his arm around him and whispering for him to be quiet. An apology was given and the man became quiet, somber, ill-at-ease. But soon, very soon, really, he got back to agreeing with Mark, to making his presence known, to exclaiming that he understood. I felt a joy rise up in me for this man. I agreed too. Why was I the quiet one?

So another, older man looks back and retreats up the stairs into the foyer of the sanctuary. Remember, we are seated in the sanctuary, where everyone should feel safe. This is where criminals used to grab the horns of the altar and seek forgiveness. But not this time. An usher came and excused the inebriated man from the rest of the crowd, relegating him to the back of the building. At this point, Mark looked up from his teaching and saw the man escorted out of the sanctuary; he didn't say a word.

It was then that I felt a fury in my bones and I wished to God for violence.

I cannot tell you what the remainder of the service was about because I had stopped paying attention. I had started planning. When all was said and done I got up from my pew and told Azina I would catch up to her. I found the man as he came back in and grabbed him in an embrace.

"Hey brother," I said.
"Hey!," he said.

I found out his name is Daniel. He lives with his brother and has been actually staying sober. (He wasn't drunk after all -- just damaged from all the alcohol and hard times of his life.) We walked across the street to the cafe, I got him some food and we talked. He told me about his time in Viet Nam, his love for Jesus, his brother. I told him about when I was a kid, being homeless, motel life, Jesus, my brother. Even sitting down and talking, people continued to gawk. I couldn't believe it. We departed for the evening, but I know that I will see Daniel again; I hear he is a bit of a regular attender at CA.

Yet I do not understand the men and women of Modern Christianity. Didn't Jesus say that we should clothe the needy, give them food and drink, a place to rest, visit the prisoners, have pity on the widow? Didn't he say that if we did that to them, we were doing it to him? Aren't the poor in spirit blessed? Are these people reading a different Bible than me?

So, I can only do what I have been called to; I am very grateful that I am not responsible for any others' salvation, because -- by this point -- I would have braided myself a cord of leather. I understand that violence is not the answer, though sometimes it seems the easiest route.

The only thing I can say is to remember not to put a limit on your generosity. Who cares what the homeless man does with your dollar? It was never yours to begin with. If you don't have the time to teach the man to fish, why do you withhold the bit of extra that you do have? I understand that it could lead to building a welfare state, but everything you are entrusted with doesn't amount to much if you go hoarding away all of your talents.

Didn't the early Church believe that withholding charity from the poor was the same as thievery?

My God

Something I am working on. Maybe something like a psalm.

Give me Your Name in fire
in meteor steel, in windy whispers
Bruise my calloused, thick-skinned body
with the all-consuming wieght of Your touch;
Brush against my face with the tenderness
of Your fingertips
Cause me, O Faithful One, to remember
the glory of Your back as You walk past --
and I uncover my eyes to glimpse
Your Radiance;
Help me to recall my true name
The name You have called me by since
darkness, since time unending
Tattoo me with Your Love,
That I might not forget,
that Your Name will always remain
On these lips, in this heart, even in murky, milky
silence.

A More Commodious Space, Though Now I Have to Flush the Toilet

The new job is working out pretty well; I actually get a cubicle which I can "decorate" however I choose, as opposed to the "Desk in the Round" setting of the old job, which felt a little 3rd grade-ish. As a result, it is a little more commodious (spacious) though there are a couple of drawbacks. They are as follows:

1. We are sort of situated in the hood.
2. The bathroom isn't nearly as nice -- I have to actually push the handle to flush the toilet.
3. No more free soda. :(
4. The "kitchen" also doubles as the supply closet.

We should be moving to a new office on the 8th floor within the next 2 months and renovating a lot, which I am looking forward to. As I said, this is a pretty cool place; thus far, I really like the people and am getting along quite well. When the dust settles, I hope to move up fairly effortlessly.

The Start of Something New

Today is a funny day; I dragged myself out of bed at 7 am to turn on the shower and breathe in the steam from the hot water. I'm not usually up this early in the morning, at least not on a regular basis. (Granted, sometimes I stay up until about this time, but then I can just go to bed and wake up sometime post-meridian.)

At any rate, I'm up with a bit of free time before I leave in 15 minutes. I'm beginning a new job and am currently in that ambivalent state somewhere between excitement and dread. I'm very happy that I can work on something new, utilizing the gifts I have been given on a more regular basis, but I sort of fear that I won't live up to expectation -- having more experience on the desk than most of the editors currently employed by this new company -- Prime Newswire. As it turns out, I have been out of work for over a month now, though I knew I had locked this job in after my first (and only) interview that lasted more than 3 hours -- which took place over a month ago at this point as well.

I heard that this company was a little unorganized, but I had not realized how true that actually was. I would get calls asking me if I had spoken with so and so and, when I answered in the negative, I was told someone would call me back. Through this job, God is already quickening my patience and giving me this sense that I am in for an exciting, though bumpy ride.

Anyway, I begin the new job, essentially doing the exact same thing I was doing at PRN, though the possibility for growth within the company is drastically improved, it is a little farther away and I will now be on the day shift. Since I don't mind hard work, driving and hanging out with my friends at night, I think this is a good move.

The advent of death in a dying world

It has been nearly a month since my last blog and I am somewhat ashamed about it. However, the past week has been difficult as my grandmother on my father's side passed away and I flew out to New Jersey with Pualani to be with the family. I had not seen many of them since I was nine.

My grandmother lived a good, long life and passed away at the ripe old age of 90. She would have been 91 on the 30th. She was charming, outspoken, a great cook and a lover of the WWE. (seriously.) I got to help out with the obituary and such, as my knowledge of language is a bit far-spread compared with most of the family -- and because I have a basic understanding of how the media works. At any rate, I was out in the pines of New Netherlands feeling both a sense of mourning and joy.

It was nice to see family and all that, but I never realized how different I am from the rest of them. I thought this might be the case, but I had no idea of the actual truth of the matter! My family would readily say yes, they are a bunch of motorcycle-riding pineys (hill billies, mostly.) As a kid, I worshipped my family and their chosen profession of truck-driving. How different I turned out, though! (Thank God for California!)

One last thing: this has been weighing heavily on me. My grandmother was a Lutheran and professed Christian for a long time. Then, at the end of her life, she decided to convert to Mormonism. I am filled with a lead-burden at her choice and have experienced a sorrow beyond words. I hate it when people say, "she is in a better place." It is unfortunate, but I do not think that is true. Her allegiance lied elsewhere. I won't speculate one way or another if I will see her in heaven, but I have never experienced God's sovereignty in such a heart-wrenching way.

My Mother

This is being penned partly in response to a comment I received from Azina regarding "Running the Gauntlet," a fictional piece I wrote and posted here about a week ago. This story is true.

I was born to Roberta Maile Ann Friel Myers, wife of Keith Robert Myers (hence my name) and daughter of Roberta Hegemann Friel in Rancocas Hospital, Willingboro, NJ at 9:39 am on Wednesday, July 14, 1982. I was blue in the face and unbreathing. They tented me. I was asthmatic.

On my mom's side, I come from a prominent hapa-haole family of O`ahu, Hawai`i, considered ali`i (royalty) and had some inter-marriage with the last reigning family of the Monarchy. But based on my upbringing, you wouldn't know it. My mom, Lord bless her, has struggled with gender roles her entire life. As a child, she wanted to be a boy; she did little boy things, played little boy games and dressed in little boy clothes. When my tutu would bring home dolls and such, she would cry and beg for Tonka trucks. As a child, they had two homes on the islands -- a home on O`ahu on the back side of Diamond-Head (where my tutu still lives) and a summer home on the island of Molokai (where my great aunt also resides to this day.) Growing up, she was mentally and physically abused by my grandfather, though it is never talked about. At 16, my mom's family moved to Thailand where she went to the International School of Bangkok, eventually securing her degree. Two years later, my tutu and the children returned home, without my grandfather -- a divorce soon followed. I have heard it said that, when my family returned to the islands from Thailand, all the children (4 of them) went a little screwy in the head; it is generally blamed on my grandfather's capacity for violence. As a result, I have an anakala (uncle) that I have yet to meet, as he is a ward of the State of Hawai`i -- mentally handicapped beyond repair. He, also, is not mentioned by name. His is Earnest.

At any rate, my mother moved to the Mainland to be with her grandmother, who had a tendency to spoil my mom with whatever she wanted. As a result, she met my father, had kids and continued to live with Grandma Buddy in NJ. As a very, very young child, I can faintly remember my mom vacuuming, but always at odd hours (speed.) and never do I remember her doing laundry, cooking, or cleaning. My grandmother took care of most of that. My dad was a truck driver, so we saw him once every few days. Their marriage naturally fell apart. During the course of my family's separation and eventual divorce, we were pitted child against parent, used as a bargaining chip and forced to listen to backbiting amongst parents. As an aside, one of the worst thing a parent can do to a child is to tell them the faults of the other parent, whether present or absent, as it causes questions to rise in the child's mind as to the validity of their life, their family unit and the meaning of `ohana and Aloha. Anyway, we moved to California and lived in motels until I was 13. To read about that trip, the post is called "When I was small..." and was written in April.

Throughout this whole time, my mother began relying on alcohol, marijuana and other drugs to escape the harshness of reality. She was taken advantage of repeatedly and barely clung to the life she had chosen for herself. On more than one occasion she tried to run out on us (literally) , were it not for the fact that her beer was at home, we shed a lot of tears and clung to her legs so she couldn't leave. I can recall hiding under the windowpane, curtains drawn, while Social Services knocked and knocked on the door. We were going to be taken away, and we knew it. I paid the rent when my mom's welfare check came in, handed over the rest and she would drink it away. We went hungry from about the 3rd of the month to the 15th, and then again from about the 18th to the end of the month. I think that is why I don't eat a lot now.

At 13, I had had enough. I was the good kid though I was in a gang. I hadn't been to school in over a year and missed it tremendously. I told my mom I hated what she was doing and I didn't want to be a dad to my own siblings. (My older sister had already moved out by this time and occasionally brought food and punishment by. For more on that, read "Pualani and the Infinite Memory.") She told me if I didn't like it I could get out. I responded:

"You're a selfish bitch and I hope you burn in hell." And then I left.

I went eight years without seeing or speaking to my biological mom. In the course of that time, I came to know Christ as King, forgive her for her own stupidity, I was adopted into a family of love and caring parents and I longed to take back those brutal and hurtful words. But they could not be taken back. They were said and, ashamed as I am to admit it, they were meant. I knew the power of them and I spoke them into existence. I wept openly over it.

Then, when I finally saw my mom in college, she didn't recognize me. I had to tell her who I was, beg forgiveness and hope for the best.

Our relationship is still not great, but it is a lot better than it has ever been. We occasionally talk, but I never have words to speak; I honestly don't know her, nor she me. She is sort of from a past life, one that I never want to relive, but one I would never change.

Running the Gauntlet

*Another story with graphic language. Please be forewarned.

“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.

I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.

“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.

“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.

“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.

“Got your ass beat again, huh?”

“Yeah. Stupid dog.”

“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.

“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”

“Momma gonna hear you!”

“So, I take whatever she got.”

“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”

“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“

I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.

“Told you,” I said.

“What you said?”

“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”

“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”

“You’re a nothing.”

“You gonna turn off the faucet?”

“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”

“I‘ll watch out.”

“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”

“OK.”

“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”

“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”

“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”

“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”

“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.

“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”

“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.

“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”

“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”

“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.

When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”

“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”

“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.

Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.

“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”

The Quiet Life -- and Death -- of Harold Gaines

**Please note that this story contains strong language. Thanks ahead of time.

“Give me another, Barkeep. Straight up.”

“Yep.” The bartender poured another whisky into the shot glass and slid it across the old wooden counter. It was engraved with initials, symbols and the tales of misfortune. Scratched up and ragged, it fit the personality of the man who sat at its foot. The man caught the glass as it sloshed towards him and shot it to the back of his throat in one fluid motion, letting out a grunt as he swallowed and wiped his face with his forearm. He was piss drunk and knew it. He slapped down a five dollar bill and hoped that his head would empty as quickly as his wallet.

“Another.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“No. Not really. Pass another, would you? Same as before.” The neon sign above him shone blue on his tattered face and the salt and pepper five o’clock shadow was tinted in a depressing sort of manner to the bartender. Behind him numerous people shot billiards or threw darts. Music played silently in the background. The bartender looked despairingly at the man, shook his head solemnly, and poured another. Sliding it down the counter again, the man caught it and let it sit on the counter-top. His large white hands fingered the rim of the glass and he looked gloomily into its bottom. I’d just as soon wish it didn’t happen, he thought. But it did happen. He was a wash, and now everyone knew it.

His weather-worn brown leather jacket lay crumpled about the floor and his black tie was pulled out loose to give his throat room to breathe; the first button of his white dress shirt was undone -- his sleeves were rolled up. The drunk’s right elbow was on the table and he leaned upon his open palm. Sighing to himself, he grabbed the shot glass about the base with his thumb and forefinger, his other three fingers spread wide, and shot the hot fluid into his throat. It burned his insides.

He had been writing for some time now. Since he was 16, really, but wasn’t published until about 25. After his first novel, people called him a genius. They hailed him at book signings. Now, though, he was called a “has been” and elementary; redundant. No one taught him how to save the best for last.

“Hey, Buddy. Buddy.” The bartender called to him. “You alright. No dozing off here, chum. You can drink, shoot, throw, wail, complain, bitch. Hell, you can cry if you want. But you cant sleep. This isn’t a hostel. It’s a bar.”

“Yeah. Alright.” He slapped another five spot on the bar and looked up into the bartender’s cool blue eyes. In a scratchy voice, the old author asked, “I’m not a wash, am I?”

“I don’t know who or what you are, Mac. But you’re a paying customer, so I’ve no problem. No, you’re not a wash.” Fucking lush, the bartender thought. That’s what you are. A pity parade.

“Well, thanks, I suppose.” The drunk grabbed his coat and headed out into the night. The streetlights made his face look haggard. He was ready to cry. There was something about his demeanor that made one want to hit them with their car. Not out of spite, really, but out of pity. It was as if one would be doing him a favor. But he got to his car- an old beater- opened the passenger door, and climbed in. He reclined all the way back and lay there, helpless and hopeless. Looking through the dingy sunroof, he could see the stars. I used to be just like them, he thought. Just like them. I was a star once. But his mind would not let him focus on the times of greatness, though he found himself returning to the past few years when his writing really took a drastic step downward.

It wasn’t so much that his wife cheated and eventually left. He didn’t mind his monetary status. He could afford rent, keep a decent library and had a computer to type at. In college, he had to use a typewriter. He knew he was done with that after trying to type his dissertation about a thousand times. He didn’t mind his ugly car or ugly shoes. Life, though different, wasn’t all that bad. But his writing had lapsed. He found that he wrote about the same things and told the same stories. He felt like a dad who respun the same old yarns and whose children were the mass consumers of the world. One day, he knew, they would grow tired and stop buying his books. And they did. Suddenly, without warning, the critics turned on him. The publishing house was not ready to put another one of his stories on the shelves; for the past few years, neither was he. But he had to make a living.

He didn’t like to write anymore and he wasn’t real fond of living. He hadn’t been gifted with a great imagination, so he wrote about what he knew. That’s why people liked his stuff when he had first gotten published. He told it how it was, through his characters. He didn’t pull any punches, but wasn’t heavy handed. He was gritty: raw. In all reality, he told the stories he knew so intimately quite well. The problem was that he hadn’t learned anything for a while; his writing suffered. He was scared to take trips overseas and was tired of the interstates. Road trips are only fun for so long. His newest friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t say much. The publishing house had been hounding him about his final piece so he turned in something he wasn’t very proud of. The critics had a field day. One, quite witty, read “Old Writer at the End of his Road and Cant Turn Back.” Another wrote, “One Way Trip to Bankrupt.” Still another, “Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, and Tired of Reading about the Old Ones.” But he knew it was coming for quite some time.

His literary career was coming to a very abrupt end. Perhaps one day his early works would be read in schools, he thought. He tried to console himself, but he was little good at it. By now, he was becoming more tired and more depressed. The warmth of the whiskey was wearing off and the glassiness of his eyes was returning to normal. He took the cool night air into his lungs and shivered. He pulled his leather jacket over himself and tried to think of other things. Life, bills, anything. But it was of no use. He took the yellow legal pad and pen out from his glove box and began scribbling frantically under the amber colored streetlights. He was unsure of what he was writing, but it didn’t matter anymore. With his reputation in shambles, he could write anything he wanted. And so he did.

He cursed the critics and the readers. He said the has-beens are now the classics, so fuck off. Perhaps he wrote for his own amusement. He was defending the words he put to paper and knew he was probably doing a poor job of it. He wrote until he couldn’t write anymore, flipping page after page in the half-light. It was astonishing how quickly the man wrote, though his drunkenness was now beginning to fade and he only felt the residual effects of his multiple whiskey shots. After a while, he tossed the pad into the backseat, put his pen behind his ear and lie back down. He gazed again up at the stars and released a sigh of relief.

I suppose, he thought, this ends life as I know it. No more critics or fans, no deadlines or signings. I am beginning anew.

Something Calling

I have this deep desire inside me, placed there when I was just a boy with battered knees and broken lungs; I long to be a dad, to raise kids, to have a family of my own.

I want my sons (and daughters) to grow passionately into holy men and women, caring for the poor, the widow, the fatherless. I want to spin a destiny for my children so their lives are a reflection, not of me, but of my Father. I want them to cast big shadows and have strong shoulders: to be men of the earth, to use their hands for glory and their words to build kingdoms.

I want my daughters to be raised knowing their worth without burdens placed on their physical appearance; for them to know they are a loved beyond measure daughter of the King, princesses in his castle, precious thoughts to God Himself. I want them to grow into women of faith, character, tender-hearted strength.

In Hawaiian tradition, the naming of a child holds the weight of their destiny; the meaning of their name casts the die over their life, so to speak. A child is meant to grow into their name, much the same way we grow into our Manhood. That being said, I have not picked out names for my children, though there are a couple that I hold more dear than others. It is my hope that my wife will be okay with her children having Hawaiian names -- even if it is only the middle name -- as I think the continuance of my culture important; I hope it remains important to my children.

I do not remember my dad playing catch with me as a boy -- not once, not ever. I was talking to a good friend of mine this weekend while we were building a fence and I told him that I was very excited about playing catch with Azina at the park. (Azina being the awesome girl in my life, with perfect words always at the ready.) He was oddly interested at my excitement and told me I was acting like I had never played catch with my dad before. It was like I, a 24 year old man, had reverted to my 6 year old days. It was then I realized I hadn't. It was sort of an odd moment: epiphanaic. A couple of times we went fishing, I think, and I ended up eating the corn we were using for bait. I can recall a camping trip, some wrestling on the living room floor, the hugs after work. Everything physical sort of ended abruptly due to my asthma as a child, though we would eventually get together again to tickle, wrestle and fight. But that ended at my folks separation when I was but a child; I was one of those men without any sense of proper masculinity until taken in by my hanai father. It was then that he honed the skills and sense of honor that was already a part of me.

So now, years later, this sense of paternal longing is beginning to call to me in a sort of ebb and flow. At times it will be almost too much to bear -- the way I want to raise someone to see God with clear eyes and an open heart. At other times, though, its just... normal. I know I want kids but the desire isn't gripping me like a vice. Today is one of those vice-gripping days.

The Decay of "I love you"

I was talking to this amazing girl last night on the phone, as has become a bit of a habit, and we fell to discussing the effect that language has on the human heart. I found myself telling her that, when a woman tells me she loves me, I am happy and content for a moment. However, the words eventually grow thin in meaning and decay inside my bosom so that the weight of the words is diminished, as am I with them. In their repetition do we find stale meaning.

But lo, when that same woman tells me that I am strong, courageous, fierce, compassionate, even tempered, brave, tender, righteous, etc., I find my heart grow in size so that my hands are not big enough to wrap themselves around this thing inside me and I fall and float, ecstatic. These words translate more fully as love to me than those old words of consumption. Further, they are not used nearly as often so that, when they are, I am leaded with their meaning, boltered in the downpour of its effect on my masculinity. For, though only masculinity can bestow masculinity, the feminine hand and mind was made to help conjure it when it is most needed, not out of thin air, but out of the wild hearts of the men in her life.

Even still, it could be said that women may come to loathe "I love you" as much as I when its bright filigree has faded and it sits in decay in our hearts, empty ashes of words flying from our mouths when fire is due. To them, I hope things like, "you are worthy to be loved," "you do not go unnoticed," and "I count you as a blessing in my life" weigh as heavily and shine as brightly in their hearts as being told I am fierce shines in mine.

Matt and Ryan -- My Best Friends and Brothers in Righteousness.

This is Matt. Well, this is Matt's back as he walks away on this incredible bridge in Northern California after Ryan's wedding. (More on Ryan later.)

Anyway, Matt is one of the coolest and most annoying men I have ever had the priviledge of knowing. We met in college during my sophormore year -- his freshman. He was loud, obnoxious and wildly hilarious. At first, we would fight, argue, disagree and just plain not like each other. In all honestly, I would start wrestling wars with the intent to do him a mischief. Oh, and I always won. :) Back to the point, we began talking and I realized that Matt was not just loud, but had a heart for holiness that astounded me. When Matt speaks of God I naturally want to listen. His heart, not just for Jesus, but for the nations, causes men to stand and take notice. He loves the Angels -- I mean seriously loves the team.

The thing is, Matt is really not good with women. He opens his mouth and enters his foot on a regular basis. However, he now has this great girlfriend, Niki. (She's the one on the left-most portion of this photo.) We were both pretty astounded when he and Niki hit it off (also at Ryan's wedding) and he eventually managed to get her to be his girlfriend. Now though, he's back to having the mouth-in-foot disease. He tries hard though.

So, after Matt graduated from CalBaptist we drove his S10 out to Alabama, where he began his seminary career. We got out to Houston (to Ryan's house and the Houston Astros) in 20 hours, got some sleep then caught a movie and a ballgame. Seriously, that was one of the best times in my life and I'm glad I got to share the time with him.

Now, on to Ryan. This is him with his stellar wife, Beth. I also met Ryan my sophormore year when I was in the dorms. He had transferred from Texas and was a few years older. He lived across the hall from me and I couldn't stand my roommate at the time. (Sorry if you're reading this.) I'm pretty sure he thought I was weird at first, but that quickly dissolved into a great friendship. We would go surfing on occasion, but more than that we talked about music and baseball. If there are 2 things Matt and Ryan are passionate outside of Jesus, its baseball and music. Ryan cant play any instruments, but he definitely knows where the volume control is. Also, he invited the entire Houston Astros to his wedding. Seriously. :)

Anyway, we ended up working out our theology together, by and large, and living together our junior and senior years. It quickly became evident that he would be a life-long friend. For a long time Ryan lacked direction -- then he met Bethy-poo while working at camp and his life changed. Everyone's life changed. They fell in love, got married and now they will be moving back down to SoCal (woo-hoo!!!) At any rate, it has been a blessing to see this brother grow and stretch in the Lord, not shirking the growing pains that come along with righteousness, but embracing them.

All of these photos come, as I said, from Ryan and Beth's wedding, just a few short months ago. For the bachelor weekend, Ryan, Matt and I went to Lake Tahoe and did some riding. During that time we fell into being our old selves, loving on one another and encouraging Ryan to help him be a strong husband. This is us at the top of Squaw Hill.

Whose Work Is It?: A Response

A few posts ago I mentioned a poem I wrote in response to Talaam Acey's "Go_'s Work," in which he posits the idea that modern poets -- more specifically performance poets, i.e. Slam Poets -- are closer to God's idea of ministers than the modern clergy. As previously stated, please check the poem out for yourself. It can be found on his spoken word album called "Pieces of Change."

At any rate, this is my response to that orginal work. I was going to read it a few weeks ago at the Oasis Cafe Open Mic Night, but they couldn't squeeze me in. Any and all comments/criticism welcome.

I heard today that poets do God’s work
and my itty-bitty poems are the words of creation –
As though my inventions were inspired from the inside of the Creator
and the lines I spew were wired from above –
Those rhymes that come out metaphysical and askew
line up the universe and eclipse the wars of today in a fog.

But let me ask: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?
Again: If the poets of today are prophets
and the words of our mouths come out like nonsense,
then what does that say about God?

Shouldn’t we be the ones to care for the widow?
We, who proclaim war or peace in the streets,
shouldn’t we be the bringers of hope to this generation,
so that we regenerate the wretched and wrench them out of their degradation?
We, who sleep in poet’s dens and bleed our lives through the poet’s pen –
our voices should be raspy with the effects of affecting humanity –
our feet should be sore with uncountable miles.
We should give hope in tribulation and trial –
our child should be fat with wisdom and lean in ignorance.
But where is the humility of longing for renewed innocence?
If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then we should spit for change and not for silver.
And our lines should warm hearts in the dead of winter.
And we should see past hypocrisy to the true believers and
We should rise as one against Caesar.

I said, We should rise as one against Caesar.

But if there are false prophets then there must be false poets,
drawing schismatic lines in the sand
while we hold their overdramatic lines in the palms of our hands and
We should be spitting glory for the widow and the fatherless
Our words should spring to life and cause mental riots till our dying breath.
If we’re on the stage for the sake of personal fame,
and we write these poems for the good of the game,
or the thrill of the chase
And we spit it out to further our name –
if that is me I will take the blame from your hearts
and the shame from your eyes, and by God I will try to change.

Because, If we are doing God’s work,
If we are doing God’s work,
then this goes far beyond profession, I’m professin'
our failed attempts to make clear lack the abstract
lack the eternal shadow behind our minds,
while false poets mine our mayhem with neophyte illusions
and find new ways to spread that age old confusion –
Meanwhile, we posit antique questions and come to masterful conclusions.
We take for granted current destitutions and our thoughts wander
so that we poets are turned to pawns.
I said we poets have been turned into pawns,
fawning over dead metaphors when precise language will educate the masses,
when we should be spitting against classism or Darfur’s state of genocide –
Instead, we return to rhyme in order to hide, so I ask,
Are we poets doing God’s work, or do we merely work for wages?
Are we the smiters of foul kingdoms or another ragged mouthpiece of the ages?

Perhaps we should stand silent in stoic observation,
or shout from the rooftops with fiery consternation –
If we are doing God’s work
We shouldn’t subjugate the masses with a damned sense of attrition.
If we are doing God’s work
We should bend our backs with crosses and take up His holy mission.
If we are doing God’s work.
Are we doing God’s work?

I say we have FAILED to do God’s work.

Family

Family is incredibly important to me. The funny thing is, however, I have a "non-traditional" family.

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As a young teen, I was separated from my mother and biological family, eventually being taken in by a very caring and loving mom and dad (whom I now consider as blood.) Very soon it was considered and decided that I would be raised as one of their own, as a hanai (adopted) son. This family, the one that I have no genetic ties with, taught me a lot about what it means to have a loving mother and a providing, present father. Were it not for them, I could only fear the worst for my life, as it was through these experiences that I eventually came to God as a broken and battered boy.

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Chris, my dad, taught me about manhood and passed his masculinity on to me in a way that came with strength -- but without fear. In the process of all of this, I gained an additional sister, Amber, and brother, Charles. Although we did not always get along, I never felt as though I did not belong in the home. Honestly, it was great times.

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Below is a picture of my family on Amber's 26th birthday, just a few weeks ago. My mom isn't in the picture because she was working in China. (seriously.)

From L to R:

Charles, the youngest of us and chef at Staple's Center. The kid can make some mean food, loves punk rock and was the little brother I "taught" how to wrestle. :) He is quickly becoming the man we feared he would never realize -- someone of courage, strength and honor.

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Dad -- the goat that he is -- did a lot for me though he would say otherwise. I could never consider myself a man until he told me I had passed the test. Until I received his blessing around the age of 20, I considered myself a boy. With a dad like mine, that only makes sense.

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Me.

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Amber, the queen of drama. She deserves better than she gets and I think she is starting to realize it. We are living together currently and rarely see one another. But she's great and I am learning how to tell her I love her without it being weird.

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However, that's not the end of my family. Some of you know, but I recently went to a family reunion and had a great time. My blood family is just as important to me as my hanai family -- I have my genealogy on my body, proven in ink. They help to ground me, support me and understand my love for all things Polynesian better than anyone else I know. Here they are...

L to R:

Pualani, my older sister and the woman who helped to raise me until I moved out of my mom's house. She is strong-willed, hard-headed and recently found God in a way that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring.

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Uncle Steve -- this is the man mentioned in my post dedicated to Azina. Nothing else needs saying.

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Kapono -- my youngest brother -- lives with my little sister in West Virginia. Shortly after I moved out of my mom's place, they got taken away. For a long time I blamed myself. Now he and I are great friends and I can already see the kind of man he will become; he has already stretched himself outside the realm of my father's shadow and he is only 17.

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Uncle Stan, one of the most compassionate men I know, is taking care of my grandma in Hawai`i. The man gets no time for himself and is very, very selfless.

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Pualeiala, my littlest sister is also the most momona (fat). She's great, has a temper and somehow has never aged. Growing up she had this very thin, unnatural hair that didn't want to grow -- ever. We teased her for it. Now though, she has this wonderful mane of hair that curls and spirals down her back. She and Kapono helped to raise one another, similar to how close Pualani and I are.

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Me, hair pulled back for a hula performance.

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Tutu (grandma) -- the matriarch of the family and teller of stories. I have some ink on my body dedicated to her as well. She also lives on O`ahu with my Uncle Stan.

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Not in the picture is my hele hope (little brother) Keoke. We fight like cats and dogs, live on opposite sides of the spectrum and the continent, and take to one another like oil takes to water. But I wouldn't trade him in for any other. He helped keep me alive during the worst of it.

Martyrs in Turkey

This post is being penned in a sea of sorrow. Somehow, the words to express my fear and shame for the actions of men who claim murder "in the name of religion" are far from me. For the first time since the Turkish Republic was founded in 1997, Christians have become martyrs. The chilling thing to note is that this will not be the last time we hear of these gruesome tales.

Please pray for everyone involved. We have been told "They will know us by our love." Please pray that is true and that we, as Christians, will not rush to take up whip and chain against a religion that is already confused and lost in a state of rebellion to the One True God.

Father, we look for mercy where there should not be any, knowing full well that Yours is a plan well beyond understanding. We do not look for clarity, but for peace. Further, we pray for the families of the killers, that they might not take joy in the death of others, but that You, in Your Divine Light, might make them vessels for Your Holy Kingdom. Affect them, God; quicken them.

God, if You so will it, we pray that Your judgement might come down with the weight of Your Mighty Right Hand upon the oppressors of Your People. Save us, God, from the distribution of the wicked. We pray for the Christians in the region, that You might put out Your Hand of Protection and hedge them in. Spare their lives, God, in Your goodness.

To find the original story, please go here: http://www.compassdirect.org/en/display.php?page=news&lang=en&length=long&idelement=4836

The Letdown

It has been a few days since my last post, but this little nugget is about the event on Sunday.

We got to the cafe right around 7, I signed in, gave a copy of my writings to Amy -- the organizer -- and began the long wait until I could get on stage and spit a few verses. (That's ghetto for "say a few poems" for all of you ebonics-illiterate types.) Ryan and Beth were with me, so we all sat up front, waiting. My stomach was in my mouth, as there were about 200 people there. The venue grew so large we had to move to the theater adjacent to the cafe. After about 10 minutes I realized I was not anxious, but excited to drop some knowledge on so many people.

I had two peices in mind. One is on the beauty in grafitti, and the second is a response that defends the clergy. (The original work is called Go_'s Work, by Talaam Acey. I think you can pick it up on iTunes. He posits the idea that modern-poets are closer to God than those in His service. Take a listen.)

Anyway, we waited. And waited. And waited. The people there ranged dramatically in talent. After a while, we were told they didn't have room for me, though more people continued to go up and share. I felt letdown, as though the organizers were telling me my words were worthless.

Dont get me wrong. I know they are not. I've been given a great gift and I know it will be used for the Good of the Kingdom but in that very moment I wanted to bellow my poetry at the top of my lungs and pierce the ears of all who came with my quick wit, wordplay and deep knowledge of the Spirit and the written word.

But needless to say, we left the theatre when it was all over and I was quiet. Ryan and Beth asked if I was ok and I, in all honesty, let out the aggression that was pent up inside of me in a healthy, righteous way. I wanted to cry. I nearly did and I didnt care about it one way or another. On the car ride home, Ryan and Beth listened to my graffiti piece and gave comments.

I am glad they always have my back. Their encouragement meant, and means, a lot.

This Coming Sunday

I have a busy weekend ahead of me with Ryan and Beth, Matt and Niki coming down. I am doing a lot of work for hula as well, so I don't plan on having much in the way of free time. However! There is an open mic night at the cafe my church owns (it is adjacent to the building) and I think I am going to go, drop a few verses and check out the talent. If anyone is in the LA area, feel free to go. I will be doing 2 pieces, I think: one on graffitti and its influence on pop-culture, and another in response to a poem I heard that said poets are closer to God than the modern clergy. There is no cover or whatever. Just good people edifying others in words, song, etc. Here is a copy of the flier:

The cafe is part of Oasis Christian Center, located one block west of Highland on La Brea. Any questions? Hit me up. This shindig starts at 7p on Sunday.

When I Was Small...

This post is for Aziner, who asked me to expand on something noted in a comment.

I love and loathe the smell of diesel gasoline. When I was small, 9 actually, we were living in a rundown, dilapidated home in Camden, NJ. Honestly, I do not remember the sun ever shining, but found a continual gray layer of soot, or something hanging about. Maybe it is just in my mind, but even the day we waged war with our "super-soaker 35s," I cannot recall the sunlight. We were a large family, 6 of us including my mother, and we shared the home with another family, they being the primary owners.

The things I remember from that house are like a multitude of shadows against the nape of my neck: rats in the kitchen, what seemed like thousands of black, plastic trash bags full of dirty, mildew-ridden clothes, a pot-bellied stove to keep us warm at night as we four children huddled onto the pull-out couch and slept abreast of one another, a very leaky roof and the creak of an old floor beneath my little feet. My father lived an hour away in a beach house with his girlfriend at the time; when we saw him on the weekends, it was like sanctuary.

Imagaine our surprise when my mother told us we were moving to California. The first time she said it, we were astonished and overcome with joy. We got pulled out of school, packed our bags and.... nothing happened. We stayed at home. We waited and watched and fell silent in letdown. It happened this way three times. Each time we went back to school, I fought to gain the respect I once had, before the California Dream had taken my petty life and wrung from it the hope of a boy.

Then, in the Spring of 1991, my mother said it the fourth time. "We're moving to California." My older sister laughed. I smirked. We giggled and thought to ourselves, "yeah right." The next day, we came home to my mother waving Greyhound tickets in her hand. They went from Camden, NJ to Anaheim, CA with 15 stops in between. The trek was going to take 3 1/2 days and we were leaving late that night. For the remainder of the day, we packed up our meager belongings, throwing things away and giving up toys we had spent the entirety of our young lives accumulating. I gave away all of my baseball cards, with the exception of some of my favorites, tucked between the pages of a book I read quite often: Hatchet by Gary Paulsen.

That night, we stood bundled up and shivering in the darkness. The man we lived with, whose name I cannot even now recall, pulled us up to the bus-stop and drove away in silence. There were no long good-byes. Only hope. And fear. And this crazy idea in the head of my not-so-sober mother. We never told my dad we were leaving.

The next three days were filled with bumps in the road, very little sleep and vacant eyes looking out of dirty windows. I can recall the smell of diesel gasoline at every single stop, the motor running and headlights on. The horribly cramped bathrooms. Changing my little brother, who was only 14 months at the time, on the seats of the bus. The silver, metal TVs nailed to the chairs in the lobbies. We pretending to watch them, when, in reality we could not afford it. Noticing how the telephone company changed now and again at the pay phones along the road. Gazing at the box that said "Maile Freil. Anaheim, CA" We didn't even have an address. I can recount to you the men my mom rode along-side of, their crisp and gnarled faces, their slurred words in the darkness, the fear of my sisters next to me.

Even then, when I was so young, I was given this.... responsibility. My kid brother Keoki is only 11 months younger than myself and I can remember encouraging him to move forward, to board the bus, to eat his food, to drink water. My mother relied on me and Pua to keep everyone in order, to prepare the make-shift meals, to be on time. I was this Lord Protector. It was more than a side-kick role with my sister. We were partners. Parents.

When we rolled into CA, my uncle was there to meet us. We were dirty, scared and tired. He kissed us, all of us, right on the head and got us into his home, a hot shower and clean clothes. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.

Since then, I rode a Greyhound once -- back to NJ, without a parent, when I was 11. I had my younger siblings and we visited my father. Again, I would not trade those memories for another, as it was an education in what not to do with the children I may someday be blessed with.

So every time my nose picks up that diesel smell in the fog, I think of a Greyhound bus, a cold morning somewhere in the Midwest, a lost family running toward a vague and inconspicuous future. It is haunting, but not unwelcome.