Ma Yueh Liang was said to be the last great Tai Chi Master of this age. He was the son-in-law of the founder (?) of Wu Style Tai Chi Chuan (he is a second generation disciple).
Of particular interest is his interpretation of the chinese character Peng. Peng is usually translated as (musculoskeletal) frame. It is also a homophone for one of the primary and fundamental "energies" of Taijiquan, usually translated as "Ward-Off." It is also a homophone for the mythic figure Peng, who was said to stand on the earth and hold the heavens on his back (thus the symbolic representation of the role of man, as that which unites the heaven and the earth).
Liang often spoke of a Yang Peng and a Yin Peng. The Yang Peng is the conventional translation of Peng, which involves the musculoskeletal framework necessary for internal strength. It is this which is usually trained in such practices as Zhan Zhuang (Pile Standing). Liang, however, emphasized the Yin Peng, which he said was possible by changing only one stroke of the conventional character Peng; this Yin Peng was more closely associated with sensitivity...
My teacher, Dr. Quach, referred to internal Peng the last time we spoke. At the time, I thought he was merely referring to Wardoff energy, but it turns out that he was talking about the Peng referred to by Liang. Dr. Quach said that, while it was necessary in initial stages to train the Yang Peng, in other words, develop a firm root so that any attack coming in could be redirected through the body into the ground, in the higher stages, one trained Yin Peng, such that when an opponent attacked, they couldn't get a sense of your root, and thus, would feel as though they were "stepping into a cloud."
I, of course, am still trying to understand Yang Peng, by means of Zhan Zhuang exercises. I recently read a book called the "Dao of Yiquan," which, although primarily about Yiquan (another internal martial art, different from, though along the same lines as Hsingyiquan), talks a lot about Zhan Zhuang or pile standing practices. I hope to eventually realize what the author discussed in that book, the ability to root, and to have ideal structural integration. But it will probably take me years.
If you have the time, check out the book, "Dao of Yiquan." Also, go on Youtube to check out Ma Yueh Liang in some push-hands action.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Random Thoughts: Go Stop Go, Goodbye Ruby Tuesday
Go stop go. I heard a story about a boy who got into a car accident, and ended up getting paralyzed from the neck down. Confined to a wheelchair, his only wish was to die. But he was unable to do it himself, and, although he might be able to recruit someone to help him, could not guarantee that that person wouldn't be culpable for it later...
I was thinking of utilizing this in a story I wanted to write entitled "Goodbye Ruby Tuesday." Originally, "Ruby" (a play on the name: it could be shortened to Rue, meaning "regret") was intended to be some sort of Goth ghost who died when her boyfriend, some guy from Punahou, took her out on a date on the night before he was to fly out to college, and got into some kind of an accident that killed her; the accident occurred near Chinaman's Hat. The ghost of this girl was restless to leave this mortal plane, but was unable to, for some reason... It was only when she was somehow able to "resonate" with the protagonist (another boy) on HIS last day on the island (before flying out to the college) that she could "recruit" him surreptitiously in a mission to somehow find a way off this rock...
Central images to this story were to be (not in order of significance):
* The word Termagant, used in Shakespeare's plays, which, at the time, meant something akin to a "shrew", or a "bitch," the etymological origins of which are unclear. Theories abound, one relating to a Saracen, an "oriental man" dressed in the garb of a woman; another relating to the "three agents" of the moon, specifically the three "Pagan" goddesses of the moon: Celene, Artemis, and Athena (?). The later theory associating Termagant to the goddesses is most significant for the story, because it points to three roles/personae/aspects of the woman: the seductress (?), the chaste hunter, and the keeper of wisdom... This is an ancient image, used to great effect in Neil Gaiman's Sandman, to tie together both the Fates (often depicted as three women; similar to those in Macbeth) and the Furies (evocatively described as "The Kindly Ones.").
* The Black Orchid. This is an almost legendary flower. It was, of course, the name of some restaurant in Restaurant Row, somewhat popularized by the show "Magnum PI." (?) But in terms of the actual flower, it has always been somewhat of an impossibility. There have been many attempts to breed a "black orchid," all to no avail. It is difficult to parse out the color of a flower and reconstitute it genetically. Most interestingly, I heard about one attempt to incorporate a deep purplish color into an orchid; the color stuck, but so did an unfortunate "by-product," the scent of rotting flesh... The color black, of course, symbolizes Death.
* Related to the above reference to color are the three colors: White, Red, Black. The automatic associations most have with these three colors are: purity, passion/rage, and death. I wanted to tie these colors in symbolically somehow... One thing that is interesting: there is a whole theory in Chinese Gynecology relating to the colors white and red. White is essence, most closely represented by male sperm. Red, of course, is the color of blood, and although female menses is not precisely or solely blood but the sloughing off of endometrial cells, it is closely tied to blood. Men are said to be abundant in Red blood, but, because of the repeated "ejaculation" of White essence, somewhat deficient in White (or on the threat of being deficient, anyway). Thus, Men grow facial hair (because, in Chinese thought, hair results from abundant blood, which "fills up" to the face), but they lack breast milk (carrying "White" essence). Women, by contrast, are said to be deficient in Red blood (because of the menstrual cycle), but abundant in White essence. Thus, women lack facial hair (most of them, anyway), but their excess in essence leads, after conception, to the production of White breast milk... I somehow intended to tie this story in, because, related to the earlier discussion of Termagant, I wanted to somehow relate things to the moon, to cycles of the moon, to the MENSTRUAL cycle (?)
songs: "Please don't wear red tonight" (?) by the Beatles; of course, "Goodbye Ruby Tuesday" by the Stones; "Just like Heaven" by the Cure.
Chinaman's Hat and Kualoa Ranch are supposed to be areas rife with Night Marchers. Apparently the region was a "city of refuge," and as a result, Hawaiian chiefs placed patrols on the borders of it to catch any "criminals" before they could find sanctuary. In the afterlife, these patrols supposedly became Night Marchers... Also (and I've only read vague reference to this), certain areas of the island were held to be "jumping off points," where the souls of the dead could launch off into the abyss of the afterlife. Chinaman's Hat was supposed to be one of these places, I BELIEVE...
... anyway, instead of making this a more or less conventional love/ghost story, perhaps I could incorporate the idea of "go stop go," specifically a woman placed in the scenario outlined above, a woman who, to all observers, is catatonic, perhaps a "vegetable," but inside is desperately wishing to leave this world... And, instead of a "ghost," meaning someone who has physically and corporeally died, she becomes instead someone who, by means of her truest wish, temporarily leaves her bedridden, paralyzed body to temporarily live as a beautiful spirit (ala Cinderella) because of a particular resonance with the situations of the protagonist boy...
I was thinking of utilizing this in a story I wanted to write entitled "Goodbye Ruby Tuesday." Originally, "Ruby" (a play on the name: it could be shortened to Rue, meaning "regret") was intended to be some sort of Goth ghost who died when her boyfriend, some guy from Punahou, took her out on a date on the night before he was to fly out to college, and got into some kind of an accident that killed her; the accident occurred near Chinaman's Hat. The ghost of this girl was restless to leave this mortal plane, but was unable to, for some reason... It was only when she was somehow able to "resonate" with the protagonist (another boy) on HIS last day on the island (before flying out to the college) that she could "recruit" him surreptitiously in a mission to somehow find a way off this rock...
Central images to this story were to be (not in order of significance):
* The word Termagant, used in Shakespeare's plays, which, at the time, meant something akin to a "shrew", or a "bitch," the etymological origins of which are unclear. Theories abound, one relating to a Saracen, an "oriental man" dressed in the garb of a woman; another relating to the "three agents" of the moon, specifically the three "Pagan" goddesses of the moon: Celene, Artemis, and Athena (?). The later theory associating Termagant to the goddesses is most significant for the story, because it points to three roles/personae/aspects of the woman: the seductress (?), the chaste hunter, and the keeper of wisdom... This is an ancient image, used to great effect in Neil Gaiman's Sandman, to tie together both the Fates (often depicted as three women; similar to those in Macbeth) and the Furies (evocatively described as "The Kindly Ones.").
* The Black Orchid. This is an almost legendary flower. It was, of course, the name of some restaurant in Restaurant Row, somewhat popularized by the show "Magnum PI." (?) But in terms of the actual flower, it has always been somewhat of an impossibility. There have been many attempts to breed a "black orchid," all to no avail. It is difficult to parse out the color of a flower and reconstitute it genetically. Most interestingly, I heard about one attempt to incorporate a deep purplish color into an orchid; the color stuck, but so did an unfortunate "by-product," the scent of rotting flesh... The color black, of course, symbolizes Death.
* Related to the above reference to color are the three colors: White, Red, Black. The automatic associations most have with these three colors are: purity, passion/rage, and death. I wanted to tie these colors in symbolically somehow... One thing that is interesting: there is a whole theory in Chinese Gynecology relating to the colors white and red. White is essence, most closely represented by male sperm. Red, of course, is the color of blood, and although female menses is not precisely or solely blood but the sloughing off of endometrial cells, it is closely tied to blood. Men are said to be abundant in Red blood, but, because of the repeated "ejaculation" of White essence, somewhat deficient in White (or on the threat of being deficient, anyway). Thus, Men grow facial hair (because, in Chinese thought, hair results from abundant blood, which "fills up" to the face), but they lack breast milk (carrying "White" essence). Women, by contrast, are said to be deficient in Red blood (because of the menstrual cycle), but abundant in White essence. Thus, women lack facial hair (most of them, anyway), but their excess in essence leads, after conception, to the production of White breast milk... I somehow intended to tie this story in, because, related to the earlier discussion of Termagant, I wanted to somehow relate things to the moon, to cycles of the moon, to the MENSTRUAL cycle (?)
songs: "Please don't wear red tonight" (?) by the Beatles; of course, "Goodbye Ruby Tuesday" by the Stones; "Just like Heaven" by the Cure.
Chinaman's Hat and Kualoa Ranch are supposed to be areas rife with Night Marchers. Apparently the region was a "city of refuge," and as a result, Hawaiian chiefs placed patrols on the borders of it to catch any "criminals" before they could find sanctuary. In the afterlife, these patrols supposedly became Night Marchers... Also (and I've only read vague reference to this), certain areas of the island were held to be "jumping off points," where the souls of the dead could launch off into the abyss of the afterlife. Chinaman's Hat was supposed to be one of these places, I BELIEVE...
... anyway, instead of making this a more or less conventional love/ghost story, perhaps I could incorporate the idea of "go stop go," specifically a woman placed in the scenario outlined above, a woman who, to all observers, is catatonic, perhaps a "vegetable," but inside is desperately wishing to leave this world... And, instead of a "ghost," meaning someone who has physically and corporeally died, she becomes instead someone who, by means of her truest wish, temporarily leaves her bedridden, paralyzed body to temporarily live as a beautiful spirit (ala Cinderella) because of a particular resonance with the situations of the protagonist boy...
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Benazir Bhutto Assassinated!
My God, what is this world coming to!? It looks like yet another country will slide into chaos very soon...
A Poem: Extremity
I know you like the blind imperial healers of old.
My fingertips trace the braille of your pulse
Swell of crests,
Emptiness of troughs,
Freeing sonnets from their texture,
Ripples from a skipping stone.
But I dare not touch
your mysterious heart,
never have I palpated
your palpitations [<--- YURGH!]
Ancient Chinese believed
fingers and toes
tied a woman to her universe.
Good and evil gained access through them
struggled across clefts in joints
made war on battlefield limbs
until they bore witness to
the Empress, the Heart,
in Her forbidden city.
But that was a far more romantic age.
You're modern,
you don't even believe in
Qi and Xue.
To you, fingers and toes
aren't dooreways
but hinges and pivots of blood,
the violence of the hairpin turn
frozen in the whirls of the prints.
For you, a man never
truly touches anything but himself.
He is his own Middle Kingdom,
hollowed of an Emperor.
It requires more
than a few cubits to reach you.
Would the ends of the earth be enough?
Could I touch your heart from a distance
like the far moon moves the tides?
Or will I always be
Shivering barbarian clinging
frozen and futile steppes
before the Great Wall,
having long lost
all sense of feeling
in extremities?
---
I wrote this poem after re-reading John Pirog's book on Meridian Style Acupuncture. Jing-Well points are acupuncture points located on the most distal parts of the body, specifically the fingers and toes (and sole of the foot). What's interesting about them is that the interpretation of their significance apparently changed with changing historical contexts. In the "beginning" (whenever that was), the Jing-Well points linked a person with the universe; in other words, it was through these "doorways" that a person was able to draw energetic sustenance from the world, and also through them that pathogenic factors invaded. Later, however, the Jing-Well points became less doorways, and more "turn-arounds," where the flow of energy in the body would sharply reverse course. The first interpretation of Jing-Well points, Pirog believes, was due to the fact that, originally, the Chinese felt more at the mercy of the unpredictable forces of nature (notably the flooding of the rivers). Later, after various technological developments, and specifically, the irrigation systems, man felt himself a master over nature, and therefore, a "self-contained" and autonomous being. Therefore, in reflection, the Jing-Well points no longer needed to communicate with the external universe, and were instead viewed as "hairpin turns" that rebounded the current of energy back in towards the heartland, back in towards the self.
My fingertips trace the braille of your pulse
Swell of crests,
Emptiness of troughs,
Freeing sonnets from their texture,
Ripples from a skipping stone.
But I dare not touch
your mysterious heart,
never have I palpated
your palpitations [<--- YURGH!]
Ancient Chinese believed
fingers and toes
tied a woman to her universe.
Good and evil gained access through them
struggled across clefts in joints
made war on battlefield limbs
until they bore witness to
the Empress, the Heart,
in Her forbidden city.
But that was a far more romantic age.
You're modern,
you don't even believe in
Qi and Xue.
To you, fingers and toes
aren't dooreways
but hinges and pivots of blood,
the violence of the hairpin turn
frozen in the whirls of the prints.
For you, a man never
truly touches anything but himself.
He is his own Middle Kingdom,
hollowed of an Emperor.
It requires more
than a few cubits to reach you.
Would the ends of the earth be enough?
Could I touch your heart from a distance
like the far moon moves the tides?
Or will I always be
Shivering barbarian clinging
frozen and futile steppes
before the Great Wall,
having long lost
all sense of feeling
in extremities?
---
I wrote this poem after re-reading John Pirog's book on Meridian Style Acupuncture. Jing-Well points are acupuncture points located on the most distal parts of the body, specifically the fingers and toes (and sole of the foot). What's interesting about them is that the interpretation of their significance apparently changed with changing historical contexts. In the "beginning" (whenever that was), the Jing-Well points linked a person with the universe; in other words, it was through these "doorways" that a person was able to draw energetic sustenance from the world, and also through them that pathogenic factors invaded. Later, however, the Jing-Well points became less doorways, and more "turn-arounds," where the flow of energy in the body would sharply reverse course. The first interpretation of Jing-Well points, Pirog believes, was due to the fact that, originally, the Chinese felt more at the mercy of the unpredictable forces of nature (notably the flooding of the rivers). Later, after various technological developments, and specifically, the irrigation systems, man felt himself a master over nature, and therefore, a "self-contained" and autonomous being. Therefore, in reflection, the Jing-Well points no longer needed to communicate with the external universe, and were instead viewed as "hairpin turns" that rebounded the current of energy back in towards the heartland, back in towards the self.
A Poem: Phantom Pains
A landslide cut the pass overnight
the path we'd walked
gone
in lightning flash
mud and rain
Clouds that drift apart and away
eventually drift back
float
hovering like memories
until heavy with temptation, they fall
I wish we were clouds
wish time really healed
wounds
wish blood of martyred dreams
could cycle like rain forever
But we're made of mortal stuff
and only taste eternity in endings, only
feel
what little we have left
through what has left us forever.
the path we'd walked
gone
in lightning flash
mud and rain
Clouds that drift apart and away
eventually drift back
float
hovering like memories
until heavy with temptation, they fall
I wish we were clouds
wish time really healed
wounds
wish blood of martyred dreams
could cycle like rain forever
But we're made of mortal stuff
and only taste eternity in endings, only
feel
what little we have left
through what has left us forever.
A Visual Poem (Anagrams of the word "Mirrored"): "Omega"
.............................Mid-Error
...............I, Mr. Order.......... Mirderor
...........Doer..................................... Die
..........More....................................... Rid
..........Order................................... Error
..............Doremi .......................Mired
...................Rome ....................Ide
......................Red ................Dim
..............Mirrored ................d.error.I.m
...............I, Mr. Order.......... Mirderor
...........Doer..................................... Die
..........More....................................... Rid
..........Order................................... Error
..............Doremi .......................Mired
...................Rome ....................Ide
......................Red ................Dim
..............Mirrored ................d.error.I.m
A Poem: Buckler
Inculcate the toddler
to state with solemnity
each time safety harnesses click
at chest and crotch:
"Buckle. It's the Law."
Teach her to insist on it
To demand it
No matter what car
or who's driving.
Repetition, in time, will yield
anxiety and alarum
in the absence of its embrace,
adjusted to the correct
level of constriction.
Be diligent,
vigilant
in this.
"Buckle."
While she is young,
and there is still time,
convince her also
that you are Atlas,
that your spine could support the world,
turn it at will,
backwards or forwards,
even make it stop on a dime,
if you wanted to.
Deny gravity and age
their inevitability.
Conceal lordosis
with Salonpas,
chronic fatigue with
double espresso.
Pretend not to hear
a second meaning
in the words
she recites and echoes
over and over
back to you:
"Buckle. It's the Law."
to state with solemnity
each time safety harnesses click
at chest and crotch:
"Buckle. It's the Law."
Teach her to insist on it
To demand it
No matter what car
or who's driving.
Repetition, in time, will yield
anxiety and alarum
in the absence of its embrace,
adjusted to the correct
level of constriction.
Be diligent,
vigilant
in this.
"Buckle."
While she is young,
and there is still time,
convince her also
that you are Atlas,
that your spine could support the world,
turn it at will,
backwards or forwards,
even make it stop on a dime,
if you wanted to.
Deny gravity and age
their inevitability.
Conceal lordosis
with Salonpas,
chronic fatigue with
double espresso.
Pretend not to hear
a second meaning
in the words
she recites and echoes
over and over
back to you:
"Buckle. It's the Law."
A Poem: Kilroy Was Here
Foot falls within footsteps
like stumbling
pen tip into trough,
the deep inset
palimpsest.
Ancient or moments fresh,
it hardly matters.
Someone has always
walked this line
someone has always
been here
first.
Poison taster's saliva,
Thief's prints.
Eyes glaze over
at my approach.
The air is stale,
the words I speak, scripted
my acts rehearsed
their conclusion foregone.
I am always second
and oh, how the second
knows time!
How to count little,
be less than minute,
and measure nothing
but impatience
and half thoughts.
If I were faster, perhaps
I could break this
hymen from within
be a virgin birth
an immaculate conception
But I have no miracles today.
Just expired milk
rancid and colorless
trapped
beneath the skin of time.
like stumbling
pen tip into trough,
the deep inset
palimpsest.
Ancient or moments fresh,
it hardly matters.
Someone has always
walked this line
someone has always
been here
first.
Poison taster's saliva,
Thief's prints.
Eyes glaze over
at my approach.
The air is stale,
the words I speak, scripted
my acts rehearsed
their conclusion foregone.
I am always second
and oh, how the second
knows time!
How to count little,
be less than minute,
and measure nothing
but impatience
and half thoughts.
If I were faster, perhaps
I could break this
hymen from within
be a virgin birth
an immaculate conception
But I have no miracles today.
Just expired milk
rancid and colorless
trapped
beneath the skin of time.
A Poem: "Per Aquem en Verbo: The Water in the Word" (old and original version)
Spare me the water.
Drown in it
yourself
if you must.
Nothing will change.
I've told you this a thousand times,
I'm innocent
of this thing you accuse me of.
It looks bad, I'll admit,
the things we'd done
secret exchanges,
the wet work
beneath the surface,
and what I may have mispoke
in the breathless air between,
back when I was still unaware
of who you really were,
what you really were.
But no.
I'm innocent,
and I refuse to make
a confession.
You told me once,
"Words don't hold water."
Why ask for them now?
Why the wrong ones
the words that incriminate me
drown me in a guilt
of a crime I refuse to commit?
I'm not naive as a babe.
I can't swallow amniotic fluid
and can no longer breathe
with my gut.
And the breath you wish exhaled
and shaped precisely
according to your specifications,
that breath is different,
independent,
undependable.
That breath could lie through its lips,
it could lip while I lie
if I really wanted it to.
But I don't.
So I'll hold it instead.
Hold it,
if need be,
forever.
So please,
for your sake:
Don't hold yours.
---
"Per Aquem en Verbo" is a Latin phrase expressing the justification for the sacrament of baptism. It literally means the "Water in the Word." At the very time I sought to write this poem, there was much debate and controversy regarding the practice of "water-boarding," questions about whether it constituted "torture," or was merely harmless "dunking" as Vice President Dick Cheney seemed to imply. As is often the case with political controversies and scandals, much comes down to the definitions of certain key words, and whether those definitions can "hold water" under the storm of real life situations. I invite you to read one article that explores the broader historical context of "water-boarding": "History of an Interrogation Technique: Water Boarding / New Debate Sparked on What Constitutes Torture" by Brian Ross, Chief Investigative Correspendent in the November 29th, 2005 edition of ABC News.
Drown in it
yourself
if you must.
Nothing will change.
I've told you this a thousand times,
I'm innocent
of this thing you accuse me of.
It looks bad, I'll admit,
the things we'd done
secret exchanges,
the wet work
beneath the surface,
and what I may have mispoke
in the breathless air between,
back when I was still unaware
of who you really were,
what you really were.
But no.
I'm innocent,
and I refuse to make
a confession.
You told me once,
"Words don't hold water."
Why ask for them now?
Why the wrong ones
the words that incriminate me
drown me in a guilt
of a crime I refuse to commit?
I'm not naive as a babe.
I can't swallow amniotic fluid
and can no longer breathe
with my gut.
And the breath you wish exhaled
and shaped precisely
according to your specifications,
that breath is different,
independent,
undependable.
That breath could lie through its lips,
it could lip while I lie
if I really wanted it to.
But I don't.
So I'll hold it instead.
Hold it,
if need be,
forever.
So please,
for your sake:
Don't hold yours.
---
"Per Aquem en Verbo" is a Latin phrase expressing the justification for the sacrament of baptism. It literally means the "Water in the Word." At the very time I sought to write this poem, there was much debate and controversy regarding the practice of "water-boarding," questions about whether it constituted "torture," or was merely harmless "dunking" as Vice President Dick Cheney seemed to imply. As is often the case with political controversies and scandals, much comes down to the definitions of certain key words, and whether those definitions can "hold water" under the storm of real life situations. I invite you to read one article that explores the broader historical context of "water-boarding": "History of an Interrogation Technique: Water Boarding / New Debate Sparked on What Constitutes Torture" by Brian Ross, Chief Investigative Correspendent in the November 29th, 2005 edition of ABC News.
A "Poem": rambling shard-like "poetry"
his words are
broken like a glass bottle.
so he concatenates
stacks the sharded phonics
of his exploded language
picks fragments of meaning
and intention from
between his teeth,
and from out of tasty splinters
in his tongue-
fashions a pile of dangerous and
unstable
rubble
hardly holding together
and wounds to hold
or even touch
it
hasn't a direction or
a purpose
that it can
realize,
but is only
what it has been made to be
the result of the attempt
of the impossible,
which is to say,
the real and
true.
broken like a glass bottle.
so he concatenates
stacks the sharded phonics
of his exploded language
picks fragments of meaning
and intention from
between his teeth,
and from out of tasty splinters
in his tongue-
fashions a pile of dangerous and
unstable
rubble
hardly holding together
and wounds to hold
or even touch
it
hasn't a direction or
a purpose
that it can
realize,
but is only
what it has been made to be
the result of the attempt
of the impossible,
which is to say,
the real and
true.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A Poem: Decree
we
the nonplussed,
puissant,
and super-silly-ass
dictate:
"don't say anything
don't write anything
you haven't the authority
you haven't the right
besides, you haven't a thing
worth knowing in your empty little head.
so keep your mouth shut
keep your paper blank
keep those mothball thoughts to yourself
no one wants to hear
no one wants to know.
just please kindly disappear,
go on.
push off."
the nonplussed,
puissant,
and super-silly-ass
dictate:
"don't say anything
don't write anything
you haven't the authority
you haven't the right
besides, you haven't a thing
worth knowing in your empty little head.
so keep your mouth shut
keep your paper blank
keep those mothball thoughts to yourself
no one wants to hear
no one wants to know.
just please kindly disappear,
go on.
push off."
Monday, December 24, 2007
In Rainbows
I finally got the new Radiohead CD, "In Rainbows," from my wife, via her past co-worker Erin (thanks all!). I've only listened to maybe the first five songs of it, but it is AWESOME. It sounds like Radiohead is returning to their roots, at being just a straight great rock band. For a while now, they've been experimenting with electronica and unusual rhythm patterns (odd numbered), and while I love it all, I must say it's somewhat refreshing to hear their old (new) sound. If nothing else, it sounds more participatory, like everyone in the band is getting in on the act... notably absent in a lot of previous work was the percussion, which is clearly influential in this album (again, in the first five songs I've heard). Percussion frames music; it can mean the difference between an amorphous tune and one that gets people dancing...
In the first song, there's this part where they dub in a bunch of schoolkids yelling "YAY!" It's really a neat effect... (Aiden LOVES the first song, if only because of the heavy percussive effects...)
Yay, Radiohead.
More commentary on the album later!
In the first song, there's this part where they dub in a bunch of schoolkids yelling "YAY!" It's really a neat effect... (Aiden LOVES the first song, if only because of the heavy percussive effects...)
Yay, Radiohead.
More commentary on the album later!
Friday, December 21, 2007
PRAXIS II Scores IN!!!
Well, I finally got my praxis II scores in, too late, unfortunately, to apply to my application status. When I applied to the College of Education, the interviewer said that two things would probably hold me back from full acceptance: since I was not an English Major, I needed to take the Praxis II English (by that point, I had only taken the Praxis I test and assumed that I could get an Education Degree [generic] and deal with questions of subject matter later); and, I needed 40 hours of teaching experience with high school age "children"... WITHIN THE PAST FIVE YEARS. I had taught summer school twice, but that was (GEEZ AM I OLD!!!) roughly TWELVE YEARS AGO...
I got admitted, but as an UNCLASSIFIED GRADUATE. This allows me to take classes, but I will have to formally re-apply, presumably with improved credentials, to get the full status.
... So anyway, back to the scores. They're in. For the Praxis II English Language Literature Comprehenstion and Content Knowledge, out of a possible 200, I got- da da da dum!- 198. (this was the multiple choice one- told you it was a, er, breeze!) Education Testing Services actually gave me a special certificate for this, and said they would mark my score to highlight this "achievement!" Whoohoo!
For the other section of the Praxis II (which, unfortunately? Fortunately? Doesn't really count, although it SHOULD), I got a 165 out of 200 (average range is 150-165). I was actually surprised I got something that high, considering what absolutely foul b.s. I was spreading, particularly for the last question...
So... IN YOUR FACE, English Majors!!! Just Joking... But really, the skills of reading and writing and critical analysis are pretty universal... Or should be. They are NOT the domain of a privileged few, er, I mean MANY (English Majors are probably pretty high up there in numbers).
I do still seek to supplement my deficiencies, notably, my lack of acquaintance with "great" literature and the finer points of grammar, not to mention the whole issue of TEACHING ENGLISH (Got to brainstorm ways to make English interesting...)!
I got admitted, but as an UNCLASSIFIED GRADUATE. This allows me to take classes, but I will have to formally re-apply, presumably with improved credentials, to get the full status.
... So anyway, back to the scores. They're in. For the Praxis II English Language Literature Comprehenstion and Content Knowledge, out of a possible 200, I got- da da da dum!- 198. (this was the multiple choice one- told you it was a, er, breeze!) Education Testing Services actually gave me a special certificate for this, and said they would mark my score to highlight this "achievement!" Whoohoo!
For the other section of the Praxis II (which, unfortunately? Fortunately? Doesn't really count, although it SHOULD), I got a 165 out of 200 (average range is 150-165). I was actually surprised I got something that high, considering what absolutely foul b.s. I was spreading, particularly for the last question...
So... IN YOUR FACE, English Majors!!! Just Joking... But really, the skills of reading and writing and critical analysis are pretty universal... Or should be. They are NOT the domain of a privileged few, er, I mean MANY (English Majors are probably pretty high up there in numbers).
I do still seek to supplement my deficiencies, notably, my lack of acquaintance with "great" literature and the finer points of grammar, not to mention the whole issue of TEACHING ENGLISH (Got to brainstorm ways to make English interesting...)!
A (crappy incomplete) Poem: GI Ant
the boy sprayed the path
with windex
sprayed it in front of
and behind
the one.
the one he had selected
out of a multitude of roving dots
the one that would answer
a question.
before and behind it
the ranks broke in a panic
black bedlam
driven everywhere like
a cloud of dust.
the ant,
which,
until that fateful moment
was not a "one"
but a raindrop
drowned in a black river
water in water,
this ant tasted
not the secret trail left
by the ass of the leader
but something like
stunning and sacred
a scent of Lethe or Styx.
He backed away,
recoiled,
spun about on six springy legs
and scrambled back,
only to find another wall of
noxious scent behind.
the boy watched anxiously above.
like the heavens...
[More later, when I am slightly less cogent.]
with windex
sprayed it in front of
and behind
the one.
the one he had selected
out of a multitude of roving dots
the one that would answer
a question.
before and behind it
the ranks broke in a panic
black bedlam
driven everywhere like
a cloud of dust.
the ant,
which,
until that fateful moment
was not a "one"
but a raindrop
drowned in a black river
water in water,
this ant tasted
not the secret trail left
by the ass of the leader
but something like
stunning and sacred
a scent of Lethe or Styx.
He backed away,
recoiled,
spun about on six springy legs
and scrambled back,
only to find another wall of
noxious scent behind.
the boy watched anxiously above.
like the heavens...
[More later, when I am slightly less cogent.]
Favorite Bjork Videos
If you haven't, check these out on Youtube:
"All is Full of Love" (of course; a classic)
"Oh So Quiet" (perfectly whimsical)
"Human Behavior" (wild)
"Earth Invaders" (powerful)
"All is Full of Love" (of course; a classic)
"Oh So Quiet" (perfectly whimsical)
"Human Behavior" (wild)
"Earth Invaders" (powerful)
Thursday, December 20, 2007
A Poem: Lynn's Poem
The clouds
They are like pigs
Fat and silly
Rolling through the sky
Simply like radiohead songs
Over and over and over
What does this mean?
Ask Randy…
They are like pigs
Fat and silly
Rolling through the sky
Simply like radiohead songs
Over and over and over
What does this mean?
Ask Randy…
A Poem: Weathervane / Whether Vain
I.
The old one was
a virile rooster,
one claw firmly grasping the earth
the other upraised in a cradling fist
as though daring the elements to uproot it.
"Golden Rooster stands on One Leg,"
in Tai Chi poses.
The winds would push the outstretched wings
and the beak and the brass comb would cut into
the very head and heart of the gust.
You could read the storm clearly
on such a bird.
I miss it.
In the redoing of the roof
it was deemed archaic, out of style.
It was done away with.
I don't know how they could have folded it
with all its sharpness and arrogance
but they did, and put it
where no wind would ever touch it.
II.
They say our world is besieged by
"cultural relativism."
That globalism is the unexpected terror
of lacking an edge,
a wall to back up against;
That now we know why Italians
were reluctant to believe Columbus;
it was not out of doubt,
but from foresight of what would happen:
After all, a flat world with an abyss at its edge
is far more trustworthy
than any sphere.
On a globe,
calamitous weather bleeds like a stain
like a bruise across an eye
like rot across an orange.
Nothing contains.
Nothing is innocent.
You say I lack a spine,
that my gentleness is
timidity or cowardice
that my "fairness" and "openness" are
euphemisms for laissez faire in anything and everything:
morality, religion, whatever.
I'll take your opinion into consideration,
along with everything else.
I've no reason left to object:
You have a point.
III.
There once was a weathervane on this roof
it told us where the wind was coming from,
and where it was going.
Only something steadfast can point to change.
But now the weather is in my veins,
I am a whether man, blown thither and yon
and everything I think or say or do
is vanity
the whether of everything is in my veins.
everything is in vain.
I may claim,
sardonically,
to be the new weathervane,
but if you look to me,
you will only see me
trying
trying
to point to you.
The old one was
a virile rooster,
one claw firmly grasping the earth
the other upraised in a cradling fist
as though daring the elements to uproot it.
"Golden Rooster stands on One Leg,"
in Tai Chi poses.
The winds would push the outstretched wings
and the beak and the brass comb would cut into
the very head and heart of the gust.
You could read the storm clearly
on such a bird.
I miss it.
In the redoing of the roof
it was deemed archaic, out of style.
It was done away with.
I don't know how they could have folded it
with all its sharpness and arrogance
but they did, and put it
where no wind would ever touch it.
II.
They say our world is besieged by
"cultural relativism."
That globalism is the unexpected terror
of lacking an edge,
a wall to back up against;
That now we know why Italians
were reluctant to believe Columbus;
it was not out of doubt,
but from foresight of what would happen:
After all, a flat world with an abyss at its edge
is far more trustworthy
than any sphere.
On a globe,
calamitous weather bleeds like a stain
like a bruise across an eye
like rot across an orange.
Nothing contains.
Nothing is innocent.
You say I lack a spine,
that my gentleness is
timidity or cowardice
that my "fairness" and "openness" are
euphemisms for laissez faire in anything and everything:
morality, religion, whatever.
I'll take your opinion into consideration,
along with everything else.
I've no reason left to object:
You have a point.
III.
There once was a weathervane on this roof
it told us where the wind was coming from,
and where it was going.
Only something steadfast can point to change.
But now the weather is in my veins,
I am a whether man, blown thither and yon
and everything I think or say or do
is vanity
the whether of everything is in my veins.
everything is in vain.
I may claim,
sardonically,
to be the new weathervane,
but if you look to me,
you will only see me
trying
trying
to point to you.
Dorkus Malorkus; Memories of Eve
I was recalling my first infatuation in college. Her name was Eve (I won't mention her last name). I saw her in the upperclass facebook (she was a year above me), and was instantly intrigued. She had that mysterious hapa look, actually reminiscent of Bjork (yeah, sure, wierd singer, etc., but you can't deny her dangerous passion). In the picture, black and white, she was in profile, in front of some brick wall. She looked like she was hurrying somewhere, and it was like you were rushing next to her, trying to keep up, and you said something somewhat provocative, and she turned just enough to grant you a flash of those eyes, eyes that were sharp as knives, and as reflective as the moon...
I lived in the Fayerweather dormitory, somewhere in the southeastern corner of the college. I had a room of my own (although there was a door to my next door neighbors, good friends); my window opened out onto the quad, and across the green lawn and the large oak (?) trees was another dormitory with windows in odd places, and it was there that I knew she lived. Once I caught a glimpse of a couple having shameless hedonistic sex in full view, and for some reason, imagined it was her...
Occasionally, I would catch glimpses of Eve at the dining hall, always tagged by some guy with sloppy bleached white hair and goth dress and those square rimmed glasses, who looked like he could pass for a singer in New Order or Depeche Mode... Sometimes I tried to get close enough to "eve's drop" on her conversations... There was always laughter, always a lot of it... Confident, clear.
One evening, I got up enough guts to call her up. Got her answering machine. On it, her laughing full-bodied voice: "Pointy birds, pointy pointy; anoint my head, anointy nointy..." I gulped at the beep, actually left a message, and (stupidly) gave my FULL NAME. Said something like, "Hey, uh, you don't know me, my name's Randy Otaka, but I was wondering if you'd like to, uh, I don't know, hang out or something. You can give me a call sometime if you're interested. My number's ..."
Jeez, what an idiot. I think there was an underground rumor about me after that. Years later, one day, unexpectedly, it surfaced, when someone actually used my name, my FULL NAME, as some kind of insult... Like, "Jeez, you just did a Randy Otaka." It was pretty mortifying stuff...
Relationships are not nice. At least not the kind where there's no equal playing field... It makes you want to stay in your own respective orbit, even if you know you'll be in aphelion near forever, deep in the shadows and the cold and the ice.
Oblivion sometimes is nice, if only you could forget yourself too.
I lived in the Fayerweather dormitory, somewhere in the southeastern corner of the college. I had a room of my own (although there was a door to my next door neighbors, good friends); my window opened out onto the quad, and across the green lawn and the large oak (?) trees was another dormitory with windows in odd places, and it was there that I knew she lived. Once I caught a glimpse of a couple having shameless hedonistic sex in full view, and for some reason, imagined it was her...
Occasionally, I would catch glimpses of Eve at the dining hall, always tagged by some guy with sloppy bleached white hair and goth dress and those square rimmed glasses, who looked like he could pass for a singer in New Order or Depeche Mode... Sometimes I tried to get close enough to "eve's drop" on her conversations... There was always laughter, always a lot of it... Confident, clear.
One evening, I got up enough guts to call her up. Got her answering machine. On it, her laughing full-bodied voice: "Pointy birds, pointy pointy; anoint my head, anointy nointy..." I gulped at the beep, actually left a message, and (stupidly) gave my FULL NAME. Said something like, "Hey, uh, you don't know me, my name's Randy Otaka, but I was wondering if you'd like to, uh, I don't know, hang out or something. You can give me a call sometime if you're interested. My number's ..."
Jeez, what an idiot. I think there was an underground rumor about me after that. Years later, one day, unexpectedly, it surfaced, when someone actually used my name, my FULL NAME, as some kind of insult... Like, "Jeez, you just did a Randy Otaka." It was pretty mortifying stuff...
Relationships are not nice. At least not the kind where there's no equal playing field... It makes you want to stay in your own respective orbit, even if you know you'll be in aphelion near forever, deep in the shadows and the cold and the ice.
Oblivion sometimes is nice, if only you could forget yourself too.
Monday, December 17, 2007
"where I end and you begin"
Another Radiohead song I've grown to love:
there's a gap in between
there's a gap where we meet
where i end and you begin
i'm sorry for us
the dinosaurs roam the earth
the sky turns green
where i end and you begin
i'm up in the clouds
i'm up in the clouds
and i can't
i can't come down
i can watch and not take part
where i end and where you start
where you
you left me alone
you left me alone.
'x' will mark the place
like the parting of the waves
like the house falling in the sea
in the sea
...i will eat you alive...i will eat you alive...i will eat you alive, etc.
there's a gap in between
there's a gap where we meet
where i end and you begin
i'm sorry for us
the dinosaurs roam the earth
the sky turns green
where i end and you begin
i'm up in the clouds
i'm up in the clouds
and i can't
i can't come down
i can watch and not take part
where i end and where you start
where you
you left me alone
you left me alone.
'x' will mark the place
like the parting of the waves
like the house falling in the sea
in the sea
...i will eat you alive...i will eat you alive...i will eat you alive, etc.
A Naruto Spoiler!!! The Death of Jiraiya
Jiraiya died in the last installment of Naruto Shippuuden (issue 382). Sorry if I spoiled it, for you Anime watchers out there (the Anime, by the way, is probably two years behind the Manga storyline)...
Jiraiya was slain by Pain, whom we have yet to identify (both who "he" is, and what "his" powers are). Pain "occupies" six bodies simultaneously, each possessed of the Rinneigan, a special eye that allows, among other things, mastery of all elements. Jiraiya hypothesized that the special eye allows all six bodies to see what all others see, in the same manner as the multiple perspectives allowed by security cameras... Jiraiya managed to "salvage" one of Pain's bodies, and send it back as evidence to the Hidden Leaf Village... No doubt, what will eventually happen is that Jiraiya's corpse will now replace that missing body...
Simultaneously, there are two battles looming: that between Sasuke and his brother Itachi Uchiha... and another between a group of Hidden Leaf Ninjas and the mysterious Tobi/Madara Uchiha... SO MANY QUESTIONS.
[please bear with me, those of you who don't read manga or watch anime...]
Jiraiya was slain by Pain, whom we have yet to identify (both who "he" is, and what "his" powers are). Pain "occupies" six bodies simultaneously, each possessed of the Rinneigan, a special eye that allows, among other things, mastery of all elements. Jiraiya hypothesized that the special eye allows all six bodies to see what all others see, in the same manner as the multiple perspectives allowed by security cameras... Jiraiya managed to "salvage" one of Pain's bodies, and send it back as evidence to the Hidden Leaf Village... No doubt, what will eventually happen is that Jiraiya's corpse will now replace that missing body...
Simultaneously, there are two battles looming: that between Sasuke and his brother Itachi Uchiha... and another between a group of Hidden Leaf Ninjas and the mysterious Tobi/Madara Uchiha... SO MANY QUESTIONS.
[please bear with me, those of you who don't read manga or watch anime...]
Sick day; Wilco; Coral; Flightless Birds; Ewa Bound
Feeling sick this morning. Hopefully, it is not what Lynn and Aiden had... I hope it's just the standard fare, sinus inflammation, eventual clogging of the throat pipes and the lung basin, cough cough etc. Nothing INTESTINAL... Although I've had ominous signs this morning, a mild pain and creaking in my gut (really sounds like I've swallowed a toad), and, well, if not diarrhea, at least semi-urgent Smoothie consistency shit (sorry to offend).
A friend sent some CDs over, and as he is an avid Radiohead fan, I trust his judgment. The CD is by "Wilco," a band I'd heard about, and even heard one song from (it's on the Beetle commercial, the one where this guy breaks into and temporarily steals this girl's Beetle, and then, presumably because of the transformative effects of the drive, has a change of conscience and parallel parks it exactly where he lifted it, leaving the keys in the very same place). Anyways, I was listening to it as I dropped Willow and Aiden off. I like it all, but third song was nice.
It's called "Impossible Germany [Unlikely Japan]". You know how you hear certain lyrics and they stand out, and you're not sure if you get the real meaning of them, because you weren't listening to everything else (you don't know the context)? Well, this stood out to me:
"This is what love is for
To be out of place
Gorgeous and alone
face to face.
No larger problems
need to be erased..."
... also had a mild brainstorm for a poem ... a couple of poems, actually. One about coral. Partially inspired by the whole "coral" posting I put up earlier, and related to the crappy Alzheimer's poem as well...
I wanted to write about Ewa. That's where my grandma lives, Ewa Beach. It is a really dry flat area. It used to be covered over with sugar cane, but with the whole West-side development push, now everything, and I mean everything, is new cookie cutter houses. Not that that's a bad thing at all, I mean people need to live somewhere, but it's just a transformation, that's all...
One thing distinctive about Ewa (similar to what's distinctive about Mililani) is the color of the "soil." Ewa used to be all under water, so its ground composition is primarily white coral. In fact, people build white coral walls in Ewa, in the same manner that people elsewhere on the island build walls out of lava rocks.
Coral is an evocative image for me. All those tiny creatures, communal mouths, dying, and their miniscule skeletons collecting endlessly to form monumental structures... And then the coral "dies," the sea dries up, and what do you know? New people, human beings, doing the same exact thing: building structures upon the dried and dessicated skeletons of coral, structures to house their dreams before they dry up in the leeward sun...
Also: I might be wrong about this, but I heard that there was a flightless bird that used to occupy the Ewa plain, a bird similar to the dodo that was hunted to extinction by the ancient Hawaiians (who said that native Hawaiians were squeaky clean and divinely "eco-friendly?")... The fossils of this bird were only found in Ewa... FLIGHTLESS BIRD. EXTINCT. Again, an evocative image.
Also: there was a license plate. EWABND... I think it was supposed to read EWA BOUND. That's the typical description of traffic headed towards that side of the island: Ewa Bound traffic (usually gridlocked by 3 in the afternoon). But you can read that a different way: Ewa Bound, as in tied to, restricted to, Ewa...
I wrote something about my grandfather, how he suffered from Alzheimer's, and one day wandered off, and was halfway to Hau Bush before the police found him... All of these images, coral, flightless bird, etc. to me are trying to tell me something. They are trying to serve as symbols for, I don't know, the inescapability of the earth contrasted (?)/simultanous with the effacement of memories...
A friend sent some CDs over, and as he is an avid Radiohead fan, I trust his judgment. The CD is by "Wilco," a band I'd heard about, and even heard one song from (it's on the Beetle commercial, the one where this guy breaks into and temporarily steals this girl's Beetle, and then, presumably because of the transformative effects of the drive, has a change of conscience and parallel parks it exactly where he lifted it, leaving the keys in the very same place). Anyways, I was listening to it as I dropped Willow and Aiden off. I like it all, but third song was nice.
It's called "Impossible Germany [Unlikely Japan]". You know how you hear certain lyrics and they stand out, and you're not sure if you get the real meaning of them, because you weren't listening to everything else (you don't know the context)? Well, this stood out to me:
"This is what love is for
To be out of place
Gorgeous and alone
face to face.
No larger problems
need to be erased..."
... also had a mild brainstorm for a poem ... a couple of poems, actually. One about coral. Partially inspired by the whole "coral" posting I put up earlier, and related to the crappy Alzheimer's poem as well...
I wanted to write about Ewa. That's where my grandma lives, Ewa Beach. It is a really dry flat area. It used to be covered over with sugar cane, but with the whole West-side development push, now everything, and I mean everything, is new cookie cutter houses. Not that that's a bad thing at all, I mean people need to live somewhere, but it's just a transformation, that's all...
One thing distinctive about Ewa (similar to what's distinctive about Mililani) is the color of the "soil." Ewa used to be all under water, so its ground composition is primarily white coral. In fact, people build white coral walls in Ewa, in the same manner that people elsewhere on the island build walls out of lava rocks.
Coral is an evocative image for me. All those tiny creatures, communal mouths, dying, and their miniscule skeletons collecting endlessly to form monumental structures... And then the coral "dies," the sea dries up, and what do you know? New people, human beings, doing the same exact thing: building structures upon the dried and dessicated skeletons of coral, structures to house their dreams before they dry up in the leeward sun...
Also: I might be wrong about this, but I heard that there was a flightless bird that used to occupy the Ewa plain, a bird similar to the dodo that was hunted to extinction by the ancient Hawaiians (who said that native Hawaiians were squeaky clean and divinely "eco-friendly?")... The fossils of this bird were only found in Ewa... FLIGHTLESS BIRD. EXTINCT. Again, an evocative image.
Also: there was a license plate. EWABND... I think it was supposed to read EWA BOUND. That's the typical description of traffic headed towards that side of the island: Ewa Bound traffic (usually gridlocked by 3 in the afternoon). But you can read that a different way: Ewa Bound, as in tied to, restricted to, Ewa...
I wrote something about my grandfather, how he suffered from Alzheimer's, and one day wandered off, and was halfway to Hau Bush before the police found him... All of these images, coral, flightless bird, etc. to me are trying to tell me something. They are trying to serve as symbols for, I don't know, the inescapability of the earth contrasted (?)/simultanous with the effacement of memories...
The GENIUS of the BOTH/AND
I heard an interesting statement, which, unfortunately, I can't attribute, or quote properly. But it had to do with the "GENIUS of the Both/And."
In politics, there are a lot of "Either/Or's." "Either" you are conservative, "Or" you are liberal. "Either" you support kicking out all illegal immigrants, "Or" you support amnesty... The list goes on and on, especially in our politically polarized present.
But the real solutions, often devised by simple but wise folk, involves the Genius of the Both/And. With a little perserverance and thought, it is sometimes, SOMETIMES, possible to come up with a BOTH/AND solution. The best of both worlds scenario. Having a cake and eating it too.
Let me hope. And let me hope specifically that, in this and all subsequent generations, we have enough thinkers who persist to the vaunted goal of the BOTH/AND, to the ability to break through the limitations of see-saw alternatives...
In politics, there are a lot of "Either/Or's." "Either" you are conservative, "Or" you are liberal. "Either" you support kicking out all illegal immigrants, "Or" you support amnesty... The list goes on and on, especially in our politically polarized present.
But the real solutions, often devised by simple but wise folk, involves the Genius of the Both/And. With a little perserverance and thought, it is sometimes, SOMETIMES, possible to come up with a BOTH/AND solution. The best of both worlds scenario. Having a cake and eating it too.
Let me hope. And let me hope specifically that, in this and all subsequent generations, we have enough thinkers who persist to the vaunted goal of the BOTH/AND, to the ability to break through the limitations of see-saw alternatives...
MADNESS!!!
It has likely been dreamt of only in nightmares... but here's a scenario:
Perhaps the avian flu could save the world.
Most of the problems of this world are due simply to the fact that there are too many people on this planet, and no one can get along sufficiently to address looming global threats.
What if the avian flu wiped out, let's say, 9/10 of the population of the world?
1) instant reduction of carbon dioxide production, of course from all industrialized nations, but also in countries like Brazil (?) where they burn all of those tropical rainforests to produce grazing land...
2) the end of the "war of cultures," and the "wars of religion." The looming possibility of extinction as a race, hopefully, would wake people up enough to stop trying to kill each other... (then again, the inhumanity of humanity is terribly stubborn and recurring...)
3) Of course, other "benefits" would be: sudden abundance of drinking water, abundance of food resources, etc.
This all is an extension of that old exercise in island ecology. An island is a closed ecosystem, as is this planet. When the demands placed upon the island ecosystem exceed resource availability, then one of several scenarios occurs, none of them exactly good. One, you could have a war, or a "self-inflicted" and internal purging, to reduce the population, and therefore, reduce the demands upon sparse resources (this, perhaps, is the underlying mentality operating in countries like Sudan; I'm not justifying it, I'm just attempting to understand it). Two, the population could diminish "naturally," due to starvation, thirst, sickness, etc. Or Three, you could have a diaspora, in which groups leave the island to search for another place, a "promised land."
Now, our space program is such that it doesn't seem likely we will be setting up colonies on the moon or on Mars anytime soon... And it doesn't seem like we can "pull the magic rabbit out of the hat" and somehow magically reverse global warming WHILE AT THE SAME TIME maintaining our current level of industrial dependence (and, politically, it is impossible to demand our populace to give up our cars, our rapid rate of consumption), nor can we somehow simultaneously "solve" the encroaching and problems of water shortage, food shortage, etc... So, really, what other answers are there?
GODS, am I crazy or what!!?
AVIAN FLU!!??
Perhaps the avian flu could save the world.
Most of the problems of this world are due simply to the fact that there are too many people on this planet, and no one can get along sufficiently to address looming global threats.
What if the avian flu wiped out, let's say, 9/10 of the population of the world?
1) instant reduction of carbon dioxide production, of course from all industrialized nations, but also in countries like Brazil (?) where they burn all of those tropical rainforests to produce grazing land...
2) the end of the "war of cultures," and the "wars of religion." The looming possibility of extinction as a race, hopefully, would wake people up enough to stop trying to kill each other... (then again, the inhumanity of humanity is terribly stubborn and recurring...)
3) Of course, other "benefits" would be: sudden abundance of drinking water, abundance of food resources, etc.
This all is an extension of that old exercise in island ecology. An island is a closed ecosystem, as is this planet. When the demands placed upon the island ecosystem exceed resource availability, then one of several scenarios occurs, none of them exactly good. One, you could have a war, or a "self-inflicted" and internal purging, to reduce the population, and therefore, reduce the demands upon sparse resources (this, perhaps, is the underlying mentality operating in countries like Sudan; I'm not justifying it, I'm just attempting to understand it). Two, the population could diminish "naturally," due to starvation, thirst, sickness, etc. Or Three, you could have a diaspora, in which groups leave the island to search for another place, a "promised land."
Now, our space program is such that it doesn't seem likely we will be setting up colonies on the moon or on Mars anytime soon... And it doesn't seem like we can "pull the magic rabbit out of the hat" and somehow magically reverse global warming WHILE AT THE SAME TIME maintaining our current level of industrial dependence (and, politically, it is impossible to demand our populace to give up our cars, our rapid rate of consumption), nor can we somehow simultaneously "solve" the encroaching and problems of water shortage, food shortage, etc... So, really, what other answers are there?
GODS, am I crazy or what!!?
AVIAN FLU!!??
All coral dead by 2050
Did you hear/read? Scientists say that, at the present rate of carbon dioxide production, all (and let me repeat that, ALL) coral in the sea will be dead, or irreversibly dying, by 2050. Coral suffers doubly from global warming. First of all, the whole warming part. Apparently, coral can only thrive in a delicate range of temperature. Warming the sea by a degree or so can devastate coral communities. Second, the high concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere turns into carbonic acid in the sea, which reduces the pH sufficiently to prevent coral from producing calcium carbonate, the primary building material for the coral lattice structure (calcium carbonate, by the way, also happens to be the building material for all shellfish, snails, clams, etc., so all mollusk species and crustaceans would be in dire jeopardy as well). Interestingly enough, for a time, scientists seriously considered sequestering carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and "burying" it in the sea; studies like this one revealed the foolhardiness of such a venture...
The scientists in this study said that to avert this ecological disaster would require industrial nations to adopt carbon output limits MUCH LOWER than those of the Kyoto Protocol... Guess what? Thanks to the Bush Administration (of course, can't blame it all on them, but it's just so tempting), the United States won't commit to it, or any other limits. Jeez, we're supposed to be "leaders," right? Imagine a similar scenario, say a kid is the #1 bully on the block, and teachers/social workers say he has to cut it out. And this kid says, well that other guy and that other other guy are both bullies too, and, well, I won't stop doing what I'm doing until those other guys shape up first... RIDICULOUS... The problem is staring us in the face...
This metaphor has probably already been used... BUT: Bush's "stay the course" policy (of course, more relevant for the War, but arguably applicable here) is the precise "strategy" that wound up in the sinking of the Titanic... Only, here, the iceberg (or rather, its NOTABLE AND INCREASING ABSENCE) has been staring us right in the face for years.
Doom and gloom.
I try to be optimistic, but I worry that the damage has already been done. The best I can do is to teach Willow and Aiden to be "good people," and at the same time, give them a measure of experience of happiness and love. Their world tomorrow, I fear, will sorely test them...
No coral reefs, for one thing...
The scientists in this study said that to avert this ecological disaster would require industrial nations to adopt carbon output limits MUCH LOWER than those of the Kyoto Protocol... Guess what? Thanks to the Bush Administration (of course, can't blame it all on them, but it's just so tempting), the United States won't commit to it, or any other limits. Jeez, we're supposed to be "leaders," right? Imagine a similar scenario, say a kid is the #1 bully on the block, and teachers/social workers say he has to cut it out. And this kid says, well that other guy and that other other guy are both bullies too, and, well, I won't stop doing what I'm doing until those other guys shape up first... RIDICULOUS... The problem is staring us in the face...
This metaphor has probably already been used... BUT: Bush's "stay the course" policy (of course, more relevant for the War, but arguably applicable here) is the precise "strategy" that wound up in the sinking of the Titanic... Only, here, the iceberg (or rather, its NOTABLE AND INCREASING ABSENCE) has been staring us right in the face for years.
Doom and gloom.
I try to be optimistic, but I worry that the damage has already been done. The best I can do is to teach Willow and Aiden to be "good people," and at the same time, give them a measure of experience of happiness and love. Their world tomorrow, I fear, will sorely test them...
No coral reefs, for one thing...
WHY MY YARD DIED; a working theory
For you yard enthusiasts out there!
IF: you grow Seashore Paspalum on your lawn;
and IF: you leave the cuttings to bleed out nitrogen after you mow it (that is, you don't collect them in a bag, but leave them to "recycle" or "rot");
and IF: you buy a lot of lawn fertilizer and don't read the rate of application;
THEN: like me, you are guaranteed of causing what's called "scalping", or in extreme cases, "balding," formal name, LAWNUS ALOPECIA.
Grasses like Seashore Paspalum DO like nitrogen, but they can easily be overfed. Leaving grass cuttings bleeds nitrogen back into the soil. Lawn fertilizer spread indiscriminately also does the same. Too much of a "good thing" can cause your apparently healthy lawn to suddenly die as though touched by blight, with all manner of invasive weeds taking advantage (my case, clover, and the DREADED [can't hate it enough] NUT GRASS!!!! ARGH!).
So heed my advice... Be spare in the nitrogen. It could save your lawn- AND your life.
IF: you grow Seashore Paspalum on your lawn;
and IF: you leave the cuttings to bleed out nitrogen after you mow it (that is, you don't collect them in a bag, but leave them to "recycle" or "rot");
and IF: you buy a lot of lawn fertilizer and don't read the rate of application;
THEN: like me, you are guaranteed of causing what's called "scalping", or in extreme cases, "balding," formal name, LAWNUS ALOPECIA.
Grasses like Seashore Paspalum DO like nitrogen, but they can easily be overfed. Leaving grass cuttings bleeds nitrogen back into the soil. Lawn fertilizer spread indiscriminately also does the same. Too much of a "good thing" can cause your apparently healthy lawn to suddenly die as though touched by blight, with all manner of invasive weeds taking advantage (my case, clover, and the DREADED [can't hate it enough] NUT GRASS!!!! ARGH!).
So heed my advice... Be spare in the nitrogen. It could save your lawn- AND your life.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Composting versus Decomposition
Composting, or the idea of it, appealed to me, because it seemed a sort of recycling. I mean, with all the fricking weeding I was doing in the yard, it seemed a waste to just throw it all away. All those nutrients, all the fertilizer and organic compost I had invested in the soil, stolen away by the stinking weeds, not to mention all those HOURS I was hunched over pulling each delicate little weedstalk to coax the whole root out... So, I started making little piles of the stuff, and the piles got bigger and bigger. Eventually, I put everything in a single pile over near the rear wall, all on a piece of black paper... The pile grew humongous. At one point, brilliant idiot that I was, I deposited it all into the blue recycle bin (this was when recycling was put on hold). And then, because I kind of heard that ANY organic waste could be deposited into a compost heap, I started putting waste food into the bin. Trouble was, sometimes I would leave it open, and other times I would close it...
Now, there seems to be a fine line between COMPOSTING and DECOMPOSITION. Composting is supposed to be an AEROBIC process; in other words, you need some air to fuel the process. By "burning" the compost (oxygenation is supposed to be a form of burning) slowly, something magical (in other words, beyond my limited scientific understanding) occurs, and all that "waste" plant matter is reduced to digestible nutrients that you can reintroduce into the soil... DECOMPOSITION, on the other hand, is an ANAEROBIC process, and takes place when there is not sufficient air/oxygen to fuel the "burning" process. Decomposition involves a different set of bacteria than Composting, bacteria that specifically function under conditions of little or no oxygen; it also results in, presumably, different end results...
So, by denying the weeds/etc. adequate light, and also because I flooded the bin (leaving it open during rainstorms), I basically concocted a witch's brew of "stuff." Jeez, when I finally dared to open the bin, there were centipedes, roaches... But there were also some of the longest largest earthworms you ever saw, plus a dark black loamy substance, which, it turns out, is pretty darn fertile...
I don't know what the difference in end products is (between composting and decomposition), but so far I can't tell. Now, I'm trying to compost "in earnest;" I have this awkward set up of plastic trays (with holes like a sieve in their bottoms), and I stack them, filled with weeds and other organic waste. I've been trying to shuffle them every now and then, so that the "oldest" gets an occasional chance to be "on top." Hopefully, we'll see tangible results from this. If nothing else, it cuts down almost completely the yard waste that I produce from my endeavors at weeding... As they say, REDUCE, reuse, recycle.
Speaking of reducing yard waste... I also have been leaving all the cuttings from my hedge trimming right at the base of the snow bush. This produces, I think, a sort of mulch, that hopefully prevents weeds, while "trapping" moisture. Unfortunately for my persnickedy neighbors, I think it also attracts African tree snails who just love to attempt to decompose it all... Oh well.
Sorry about all this... Been working in the yard a lot lately. There are so many responsibilities... When I neglect one thing sufficiently, it demands my attention, and then I temporarily become so engrossed in addressing it that I (of course) probably neglect other things... Ideally, I would be able to routinize everything so that I could pay the proper amount of attention to each and all. But who am I kidding? Besides, as Lynn believes, I thrive on adrenaline, on being "last minute." Nothing inspires passion more than procrastination!
Now, there seems to be a fine line between COMPOSTING and DECOMPOSITION. Composting is supposed to be an AEROBIC process; in other words, you need some air to fuel the process. By "burning" the compost (oxygenation is supposed to be a form of burning) slowly, something magical (in other words, beyond my limited scientific understanding) occurs, and all that "waste" plant matter is reduced to digestible nutrients that you can reintroduce into the soil... DECOMPOSITION, on the other hand, is an ANAEROBIC process, and takes place when there is not sufficient air/oxygen to fuel the "burning" process. Decomposition involves a different set of bacteria than Composting, bacteria that specifically function under conditions of little or no oxygen; it also results in, presumably, different end results...
So, by denying the weeds/etc. adequate light, and also because I flooded the bin (leaving it open during rainstorms), I basically concocted a witch's brew of "stuff." Jeez, when I finally dared to open the bin, there were centipedes, roaches... But there were also some of the longest largest earthworms you ever saw, plus a dark black loamy substance, which, it turns out, is pretty darn fertile...
I don't know what the difference in end products is (between composting and decomposition), but so far I can't tell. Now, I'm trying to compost "in earnest;" I have this awkward set up of plastic trays (with holes like a sieve in their bottoms), and I stack them, filled with weeds and other organic waste. I've been trying to shuffle them every now and then, so that the "oldest" gets an occasional chance to be "on top." Hopefully, we'll see tangible results from this. If nothing else, it cuts down almost completely the yard waste that I produce from my endeavors at weeding... As they say, REDUCE, reuse, recycle.
Speaking of reducing yard waste... I also have been leaving all the cuttings from my hedge trimming right at the base of the snow bush. This produces, I think, a sort of mulch, that hopefully prevents weeds, while "trapping" moisture. Unfortunately for my persnickedy neighbors, I think it also attracts African tree snails who just love to attempt to decompose it all... Oh well.
Sorry about all this... Been working in the yard a lot lately. There are so many responsibilities... When I neglect one thing sufficiently, it demands my attention, and then I temporarily become so engrossed in addressing it that I (of course) probably neglect other things... Ideally, I would be able to routinize everything so that I could pay the proper amount of attention to each and all. But who am I kidding? Besides, as Lynn believes, I thrive on adrenaline, on being "last minute." Nothing inspires passion more than procrastination!
Wars with the wind; Sudden Turmoil Disorder
As I may have mentioned, I planted a couple of Podicarpus Trees in the front yard recently. I also had to remove a couple of ficus trees, which, awkwardly planted in pots, have been occupying the right rear corner of the house. Well, recent storms seem to conspire to topple my landscaping efforts. Although the Podicarpus Trees have been standing up well (admirably well, actually, all things considered), every day, the ficus trees topple over. This, despite the fact that I have propped up the pots with a bunch of cinder blocks. I finally decided to move the trees beside the rear three foot wall, and using a makeshift (really shi(f)ty) support of long bamboo poles, sought to keep them upright. Of course, the wind has been very strong and unpredictable today. At one point, it seemed to come from the west, and (I swear!) the next, it came from the complete opposite direction. So, of course, the support held when blown one way, but then quickly fell apart when puffed from the other...
... in other news, Lynn has been terribly terribly sick... We call it in TCM "Sudden Turmoil Disorder." In the West, it's typically called the "stomach flu." I hope I don't catch it... Aiden suffered it first, though much milder than Lynn... Knowing my immunity, it's only a matter of time...
I would like to write more, but Aiden wants to play "the chicken game," whatever that is...
... in other news, Lynn has been terribly terribly sick... We call it in TCM "Sudden Turmoil Disorder." In the West, it's typically called the "stomach flu." I hope I don't catch it... Aiden suffered it first, though much milder than Lynn... Knowing my immunity, it's only a matter of time...
I would like to write more, but Aiden wants to play "the chicken game," whatever that is...
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Paradoxical Zen Koanish Statement
"Things are not what they seem, but they are nothing other than what they seem."
I hate deadlines; Ideas for other holiday stories
Deadlines suck. Especially when you only realize what they are after the fact. Like you are post mortem...
The Advertiser's deadline for the Holiday fiction thingie was November 30th. November 30th! Damn, I wasn't even finished digesting Thanksgiving dinner... Oh well...
I have a plan. Willow is getting really great at drawing. She is creative in depicting whatever she imagines, but more than that, her drawings reflect her exuberant, happy spirit... I think I will collaberate with her, have her make illustrations for the children's stories I write... Starting with the Cactus thingie... Maybe it's the caffeine I recently drank, but maybe I could write a few more holiday stories, and put everything together into a nice little book... And (late as it is) I could distribute them to anyone interested... Maybe eventually even sell them... Hee hee hee... Yeah, yeah...
I was brainstorming ideas for "holiday stories." Not those "feel good" stories, or at least, not on purpose. I don't mean to be irreverent, but honestly, the straight and narrow's pretty boring, don't you think? You need to put in that little ironic twist... like a chili pepper squeezed in your iced water...
IDEA ONE: "Made in China." I don't know... I'd like to write something about this stupid toy recall situation... See, here's the story... the true story. We (Lynn, Willow, Aiden, and reluctant me) were blitzing through the shopping list, trying to get gifts for EVERYONE. And it was like 11:00 pm, and we were aimlessly wandering Toys 'R Us aisles like zombies... Willow complained, said she was tired, and then I chimed in: "Yeah, I'm tired too... But we have to keep going until Mommy finds something..." Bad move on my part. As Lynn described it (subsequently, when there was at least the possibility of seeing humor in the situation), it was "like one of your stupid anime shows. My face was like - [inarticulate sound, meant to be like some kind of rainstorm]. I was about to murder you." And then, Lynn slammed her forearms on the shopping cart, and got in my face, and screamed, "WE'RE LOOKING FOR LANDEN'S [my brother's son's] PRESENT. FOR YOU. FIND IT YOURSELF!!!" So, sheepishly, I started wandering the aisles some more, only this time, my hands would occasionally pick up a box and then shuffle it back on the shelf again... See, the problem was, Dean and Jani told us specifically that Landen would not accept any gift MADE IN CHINA... Well, if you haven't noticed, if a present looks pretty cool, AND it is reasonably priced, well, you can bet that it is MADE IN CHINA... Shoddy workmanship and grossly inflated prices are the outstanding qualities of Made in the USA stuff; they proudly bear the label next to the unbelievable price tag... Long story short, we eventually found something, a computer program... Gotta write something about this...
IDEA TWO: "Care Package." Other working title, "I'll be home for Christmas..." This story will be about the lonely dilemma of staying on campus (Williamstown, Mass, in the hinterlands, on the steppes, just a slight exaggeration away from Siberia), and the comical mishaps (yay) that take place when one student (from Hawaii) receives a care package from Hawaii, and another student (from Hawaii) attempts to "get into" the first student's package...
IDEA THREE: "Letters from the village of cranes." Intended to be a more "spiritual" story... Ostensibly, the protagonist is in Tsuruimura for the purpose of gaining enlightenment, studying under a Buddhist priest... But as his letters reveal, and perhaps exacerbate, he is suffering from intense loneliness, and paradoxically confesses his heart to someone, a friend, in Hawaii, whom he could never "connect" with in person... A cat, Debu (which means Fat) occasionally wanders in and out of his life in the winter shrouded temple. Sometimes he walks over to the fields of Kushiro and watches the red-capped cranes, glumly wondering what they've got to be so f-ing happy about. The despair of being "hetakuso," and feeling as spiritual as a doorknob. Basically, an encapsulation of "someone's" time in Japan, during a harsh winter...
IDEA FOUR: Some children's story about a Gingerbread man who is sick and tired of having his domicile eaten by hungry children who haven't the slightest interest or talent for home-making... a Gingerbread man who decides to replace all the candy and icing with some more decidedly unpalatable stuff... Haven't worked out the plot, or the ironic (happy?) ending yet... [BTW: Willow and Aiden just recently made their gingerbread houses... On Sunday... Pretty nifty.]
... Well, that's all I've got... Unfortunately, with clinic, and treatments, and everything else, don't know if I can hack it... Got to finish it at least by next week...
GODS. I HATE DEADLINES...
The Advertiser's deadline for the Holiday fiction thingie was November 30th. November 30th! Damn, I wasn't even finished digesting Thanksgiving dinner... Oh well...
I have a plan. Willow is getting really great at drawing. She is creative in depicting whatever she imagines, but more than that, her drawings reflect her exuberant, happy spirit... I think I will collaberate with her, have her make illustrations for the children's stories I write... Starting with the Cactus thingie... Maybe it's the caffeine I recently drank, but maybe I could write a few more holiday stories, and put everything together into a nice little book... And (late as it is) I could distribute them to anyone interested... Maybe eventually even sell them... Hee hee hee... Yeah, yeah...
I was brainstorming ideas for "holiday stories." Not those "feel good" stories, or at least, not on purpose. I don't mean to be irreverent, but honestly, the straight and narrow's pretty boring, don't you think? You need to put in that little ironic twist... like a chili pepper squeezed in your iced water...
IDEA ONE: "Made in China." I don't know... I'd like to write something about this stupid toy recall situation... See, here's the story... the true story. We (Lynn, Willow, Aiden, and reluctant me) were blitzing through the shopping list, trying to get gifts for EVERYONE. And it was like 11:00 pm, and we were aimlessly wandering Toys 'R Us aisles like zombies... Willow complained, said she was tired, and then I chimed in: "Yeah, I'm tired too... But we have to keep going until Mommy finds something..." Bad move on my part. As Lynn described it (subsequently, when there was at least the possibility of seeing humor in the situation), it was "like one of your stupid anime shows. My face was like - [inarticulate sound, meant to be like some kind of rainstorm]. I was about to murder you." And then, Lynn slammed her forearms on the shopping cart, and got in my face, and screamed, "WE'RE LOOKING FOR LANDEN'S [my brother's son's] PRESENT. FOR YOU. FIND IT YOURSELF!!!" So, sheepishly, I started wandering the aisles some more, only this time, my hands would occasionally pick up a box and then shuffle it back on the shelf again... See, the problem was, Dean and Jani told us specifically that Landen would not accept any gift MADE IN CHINA... Well, if you haven't noticed, if a present looks pretty cool, AND it is reasonably priced, well, you can bet that it is MADE IN CHINA... Shoddy workmanship and grossly inflated prices are the outstanding qualities of Made in the USA stuff; they proudly bear the label next to the unbelievable price tag... Long story short, we eventually found something, a computer program... Gotta write something about this...
IDEA TWO: "Care Package." Other working title, "I'll be home for Christmas..." This story will be about the lonely dilemma of staying on campus (Williamstown, Mass, in the hinterlands, on the steppes, just a slight exaggeration away from Siberia), and the comical mishaps (yay) that take place when one student (from Hawaii) receives a care package from Hawaii, and another student (from Hawaii) attempts to "get into" the first student's package...
IDEA THREE: "Letters from the village of cranes." Intended to be a more "spiritual" story... Ostensibly, the protagonist is in Tsuruimura for the purpose of gaining enlightenment, studying under a Buddhist priest... But as his letters reveal, and perhaps exacerbate, he is suffering from intense loneliness, and paradoxically confesses his heart to someone, a friend, in Hawaii, whom he could never "connect" with in person... A cat, Debu (which means Fat) occasionally wanders in and out of his life in the winter shrouded temple. Sometimes he walks over to the fields of Kushiro and watches the red-capped cranes, glumly wondering what they've got to be so f-ing happy about. The despair of being "hetakuso," and feeling as spiritual as a doorknob. Basically, an encapsulation of "someone's" time in Japan, during a harsh winter...
IDEA FOUR: Some children's story about a Gingerbread man who is sick and tired of having his domicile eaten by hungry children who haven't the slightest interest or talent for home-making... a Gingerbread man who decides to replace all the candy and icing with some more decidedly unpalatable stuff... Haven't worked out the plot, or the ironic (happy?) ending yet... [BTW: Willow and Aiden just recently made their gingerbread houses... On Sunday... Pretty nifty.]
... Well, that's all I've got... Unfortunately, with clinic, and treatments, and everything else, don't know if I can hack it... Got to finish it at least by next week...
GODS. I HATE DEADLINES...
Monday, December 10, 2007
A Poem: about an Alzheimer's Meanderings (really meandering itself)
one day he wanders off
leaves the nice woman with the
loud voice calling
leaves her submerged in open mouthed
snores
he opens the door
the slippers conveniently waiting
and,
simple as that,
he's off.
"your feet can find you
even when you are lost
they are still there,
loyal,
when you look down.
they may stumble,
trip,
but bruised and complaining
they are stuck to you,
as stuck as shadows
even in darkest of times."
the ground may shift and blur
as it has a penchant to do
the world likely won't hold still
some fool claimed it spins
it circles and circles
"but I know different.
the world is
a table top
with a chess board.
my opponent
has switched the pieces,
and when that didn't work,
earthquaked and overturned
the game
to meaninglessness.
I've forgotten whose turn it was anyways."
what was here a moment ago
(and what is a moment?
a day? a decade?)
what was just here
is gone, replaced:
"there was kiawe
grown wild like the
wave of kanagawa (wasn't there?)
frozen in the midst of
submerging dry plains.
but now there are houses
built up high,
houses like empty monastic cells of coral
bleach white
and stacked like a thousand thousand
empty graves
the remains of a genocide.
coral
like crushed rock
under my feet."
what is here?
what is now?
he scratches an itch.
the world drifts.
he will drift too.
"I know
there is no starting the game over.
the rules have been broken
and there is no sense in
making new ones again."
the rhythm of feet
(so loyal)
will carry him
somewhere.
else.
and he's off.
leaves the nice woman with the
loud voice calling
leaves her submerged in open mouthed
snores
he opens the door
the slippers conveniently waiting
and,
simple as that,
he's off.
"your feet can find you
even when you are lost
they are still there,
loyal,
when you look down.
they may stumble,
trip,
but bruised and complaining
they are stuck to you,
as stuck as shadows
even in darkest of times."
the ground may shift and blur
as it has a penchant to do
the world likely won't hold still
some fool claimed it spins
it circles and circles
"but I know different.
the world is
a table top
with a chess board.
my opponent
has switched the pieces,
and when that didn't work,
earthquaked and overturned
the game
to meaninglessness.
I've forgotten whose turn it was anyways."
what was here a moment ago
(and what is a moment?
a day? a decade?)
what was just here
is gone, replaced:
"there was kiawe
grown wild like the
wave of kanagawa (wasn't there?)
frozen in the midst of
submerging dry plains.
but now there are houses
built up high,
houses like empty monastic cells of coral
bleach white
and stacked like a thousand thousand
empty graves
the remains of a genocide.
coral
like crushed rock
under my feet."
what is here?
what is now?
he scratches an itch.
the world drifts.
he will drift too.
"I know
there is no starting the game over.
the rules have been broken
and there is no sense in
making new ones again."
the rhythm of feet
(so loyal)
will carry him
somewhere.
else.
and he's off.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
A snatch of Lyrics from Radiohead's "A Punch Up at a Wedding"
"...the pointless snide remark
hammerheaded shark
the pot will call the kettle black..."
hammerheaded shark
the pot will call the kettle black..."
Friday, December 7, 2007
Reconstructing the canon
An open question to anyone out there... What works do you think compose "the canon" of literature? Sure, there are different categories: twentieth century, American, whatever... But what do YOU consider to be essential reading? This doesn't necessarily have to be the "personal favorites" list, although it probably will turn out to be it; it is rather what you consider to be representative of "good literature."
I'm trying to compose a list to read through. If I teach English, I'd better have a broad palate... Most of what I read over the past few years has been far from literary, mostly acupuncture and tai chi texts... And in college, most of what I read was philosophy and post-modern deconstructionist crap (can't remember WHAT it all meant!)... So I've actually been out of the whole "reading literature" game.
Any suggestions?
I'm trying to compose a list to read through. If I teach English, I'd better have a broad palate... Most of what I read over the past few years has been far from literary, mostly acupuncture and tai chi texts... And in college, most of what I read was philosophy and post-modern deconstructionist crap (can't remember WHAT it all meant!)... So I've actually been out of the whole "reading literature" game.
Any suggestions?
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Storm
Last night, Hawaii experienced a storm that was, to quote one weatherman, "almost hurricane level." The winds at Schofield (which is somewhat in the vicinity of Mililani) were clocked at 70 mph. At roughly 3 am, Lynn and I were stirred awake by the sound of raindrops pelting and wind rattling our second story window... the wind was so strong that the rain was actually hitting the house horizontally (incidentally cleaning the screens which after a few years had built up a lot of dust; right now, it's all in clumps against the outside of the glass).
Of course, I had only recently done some replanting in our yard... Because I'm such a bone-head stubborn landscaper, I actually planted a couple of ficuses in the front yard about a year ago. If you don't know, ficuses are bad news. They grow fast, and well, and aggressively. If left unchecked (and there are few effective ways to check a ficus), the roots will actually buckle concrete and asphalt. So, after repeated "advice" to remove the trees, I finally capitulated, and replaced the two with Podicarpus trees. Now, the two ficuses are in large temporary pots, placed towards the back of the house on the concrete sidewalk, where they likely won't do much harm.
I was deathly afraid that the fierce winds would slaughter the Podicarpus (or is it Podicarpi?), but my jerryrigged staking somehow worked... I know my next door neighbors (some day I will write about them, as revenge; they are probably the inspiration for Frost's statement, "good fences make good neighbors")- I know my next door neighbors were waiting anxiously to see my newly planted trees split at the trunk from the terrific winds (after all, they have little else to do with their pointless, "persnickedy" lives)... What redemption to see the trees still standing tall this morning!!! It's almost reminiscent of a certain song: "Gave proof to the night that our [tree] was still there..."
What the winds DID do was: topple the potted ficuses (even when the pots were surrounded on all sides by several cinder blocks), move the plastic play kitchen set in our backyard a few feet away from the house, damn near drown our new "stolen" pet, Algernon, the white mouse, in his little fish tank... All, fortunately, recoverable damages. The only major complaint I had about it was the blackout, which lasted until about 2 pm this afternoon...
Of course, I had only recently done some replanting in our yard... Because I'm such a bone-head stubborn landscaper, I actually planted a couple of ficuses in the front yard about a year ago. If you don't know, ficuses are bad news. They grow fast, and well, and aggressively. If left unchecked (and there are few effective ways to check a ficus), the roots will actually buckle concrete and asphalt. So, after repeated "advice" to remove the trees, I finally capitulated, and replaced the two with Podicarpus trees. Now, the two ficuses are in large temporary pots, placed towards the back of the house on the concrete sidewalk, where they likely won't do much harm.
I was deathly afraid that the fierce winds would slaughter the Podicarpus (or is it Podicarpi?), but my jerryrigged staking somehow worked... I know my next door neighbors (some day I will write about them, as revenge; they are probably the inspiration for Frost's statement, "good fences make good neighbors")- I know my next door neighbors were waiting anxiously to see my newly planted trees split at the trunk from the terrific winds (after all, they have little else to do with their pointless, "persnickedy" lives)... What redemption to see the trees still standing tall this morning!!! It's almost reminiscent of a certain song: "Gave proof to the night that our [tree] was still there..."
What the winds DID do was: topple the potted ficuses (even when the pots were surrounded on all sides by several cinder blocks), move the plastic play kitchen set in our backyard a few feet away from the house, damn near drown our new "stolen" pet, Algernon, the white mouse, in his little fish tank... All, fortunately, recoverable damages. The only major complaint I had about it was the blackout, which lasted until about 2 pm this afternoon...
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Live every day as though it were your last... BUT.
There's a saying: "Live every day as though it were you last." It's the inspiration for sentimental movies (most recently, one with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson called "The Bucket List": Aaww...), and, as of a couple years ago, a country music song (can't remember the dude's name, but it had lines that rhymed "sky-diving," and "bullriding," you know, the stereotypical stuff a guy's supposed to do in Texas when he's diagnosed with terminal Stage 4 cancer).
People like drama, and that's a dramatic statement... But to be a bit Buddhist, it is EQUALLY important to say and live the reverse of that statement: that is, "Live your last day as though it were every day." There you go. If you lived every day with the appreciation that it was going to be your last (which, in essence, it is: going back to the Greek saying, you can't enter the same river twice, or even ONCE), then how would your actual last day be any different from any other? Death shouldn't make any difference in how you live, if you live authentically (read Martin Heidegger's Sein Und Zeit for a more convoluted expository on "living authentically").
It is, in fact, an interesting practice to reverse common sayings. Some statements seem to contain some kind of paradox or drama... Reversing them nullifies that drama, and sort of brings an equanimity to the whole issue... Truth, after all, shouldn't be dramatic, shouldn't take sides... It's ultimately empty.
People like drama, and that's a dramatic statement... But to be a bit Buddhist, it is EQUALLY important to say and live the reverse of that statement: that is, "Live your last day as though it were every day." There you go. If you lived every day with the appreciation that it was going to be your last (which, in essence, it is: going back to the Greek saying, you can't enter the same river twice, or even ONCE), then how would your actual last day be any different from any other? Death shouldn't make any difference in how you live, if you live authentically (read Martin Heidegger's Sein Und Zeit for a more convoluted expository on "living authentically").
It is, in fact, an interesting practice to reverse common sayings. Some statements seem to contain some kind of paradox or drama... Reversing them nullifies that drama, and sort of brings an equanimity to the whole issue... Truth, after all, shouldn't be dramatic, shouldn't take sides... It's ultimately empty.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Short Story: Got Your Back (Adult Xmas Story)
Again, last year, Advertiser had some corny holiday story contest. Both children and adult categories. You've read the children's entry I submitted. Here is the adult entry... A tale about tail...
GOT YOUR BACK (ADULT CATEGORY)
Lynn is the manager of an Ala Moana store that sells expensive chocolates.
Late in November, right after the post-Thanksgiving rush, Lynn is working at the store, along with a young girl named Ashley.
Things are slow. Very slow. It’s only after Ashley and Lynn have finished cleaning and adjusting the chocolate displays for the third consecutive time, that a customer walks in.
She’s an elderly woman, in her 60's, rich, white. Her silver hair is immaculately combed back and held in place by a pin shaped like mistletoe, with gold leaves and red berries. In her left hand is a large shopping bag from Neiman Marcus, and in her right is another from Macy’s.
Lynn walks up to the woman, and greets her brightly. “Hello! Why, that’s a beautiful hair pin!”
The old woman strolls past Lynn without responding in the least, her eyes gazing down at the boxes of chocolates around her.
Slightly mollified, Lynn backs away.
Just as she’s about to turn away from the woman she notices it: tucked into the back of the old woman’s skirt is a tissue paper toilet seat cover, gently flapping.
At first, Lynn can’t restrain a grin. The nearest bathrooms are halfway across the mall, so the old woman must have been walking around with this “ring around her rosie” for quite some time, inspiring sniggers and giggles from everyone she passed.
But then, Lynn checks herself. She imagines this woman being someone’s grandmother. Hers, for example. Like her own grandmother, this woman takes great pride in her appearance. And, like her grandmother, it would probably shatter her fragile self-esteem to discover that she had been walking all around town with a white bullseye on her bottom. In fact, Lynn thinks paranoically, who knows, it might even send her into a deep depression. Lynn pictures the woman confining herself to a single room in her mansion in Manoa for the rest of her days, wearing a diaper, so that she never has to see a toilet seat cover, or a toilet seat, ever again.
She shudders. “I have to do something,” she thinks to herself. “Only, I have to do it without her even knowing.”
She pulls Ashley aside, and whispers to her the situation, and her plan.
Although Ashley is a real trooper, she rolls her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “Can’t we just- tell her?”
“No we can’t,” Lynn answers firmly. “What if you walked around with something like that sticking out of your butt?”
“I expect people to tell me if I have a piece of spinach on my teeth,” Ashley argues.
“This is different,” Lynn says, though she can’t quite say how. “And, I’m your boss.”
“Okay,” she says. “So I have to distract her?”
Lynn nods. “Distract her with sweetness, while I do the dirty work.”
Ashley dons her cutest smile, and walks up to the woman. “May I help you with anything?” she asks.
Lynn meanwhile slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, the kind she wears whenever she handles truffles or dipped chocolates, and circles around towards the old woman’s backside.
The old woman tries to give Ashley the same silent treatment she’d given Lynn. But Ashley manages to position herself right in front of her, blocking her advance. Frustrated, the old woman deigns to give Ashley a response. “Out of my way!”
“Might I interest you in a sample?” Ashley asks sweetly. “Freshly dipped strawberry?”
“Alright,” mutters the old woman reluctantly, as though she is granting Ashley the vaunted privilege of serving her.
Lynn meanwhile approaches on tip toe, half-crouched like a lion, nary a foot away from the old woman’s rear.
She reaches, grabs the tissue paper, pulls-
-and with a barely audible shhh! sound, tears one side of the ring open.
She grimaces in frustration, then springs backwards like a cat as the old woman shifts her weight as though she is about to turn around. Lynn casually walks backwards a few steps to catch her breath and to survey the new situation. “Oh great,” she thinks to herself. Now, instead of wearing an “O,” the old woman wears something that sometimes resembles a “C,” sometimes an “S,” depending on how she sways her hips. A slinking tissue paper tail.
Ashley slips Lynn a look over the woman’s shoulder, when she’s not looking: “All pau?”
Lynn returns a pained look.
“Okay,” Ashley says, “Would you mind waiting here for a few moments while I get the strawberries?”
The old woman exhales in frustration. “I haven’t got all day,” she mutters. “Please be quick about it.”
And as Ashley strolls off to get the chocolate strawberries, Lynn saunters off to join Ashley behind the counter.
“So?” Ashley whispers, as she places a chocolate strawberry on a serving plate. “Did you get it?”
Lynn shakes her head no. “I think I made it worse.”
“Shouldn’t we just give up?” Ashley asks. “She’s such a B.”
Lynn has to actually think about it. But finally, she shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “It’s our duty to serve our customers.”
“Serve our customers chocolate,” Ashley mutters.
“Serve our customers in any way that we can,” Lynn corrects. “Give her three strawberries. Whatever you need to, to buy me some time.”
Ashley rolls her eyes, but nods.
When she returns with the plate of strawberries, the old woman greets her with an “About time!” She grabs one of the three strawberries on the plate, takes a bite out of it, and then, as if to insure that the other two don’t run away, swipes the plate itself out of Ashley’s hands.
“How is it?” Ashley asks brightly.
The old woman doesn’t respond. She hands Ashley a green crown of strawberry leaves, the bottom wet with saliva, remnant of the first strawberry. Ashley accepts it graciously in her gloved palm. And then, the old woman greedily attacks the second strawberry.
Lynn meanwhile circles around the store once again to approach her prey, the paper tail.
She reaches tentatively, makes contact, both with the skirt, and with the tissue paper. Now, if she can only pull the skirt away from the old woman’s body, just enough to loosen the paper!
The second strawberry is practically swallowed whole. A second strawberry crown is deposited in Ashley’s palm. The old woman takes a large wolfish bite out of the third strawberry, absently handing the now empty plate to Ashley.
Ashley leans to one side, giving Lynn a look of desperation. “It’s now or never!” she seems to say. With dexterity that she never knew she possessed, Lynn simultaneously pulls the elastic of the skirt ever so slightly off the old woman’s body, and yanks the tissue paper. It instantly falls away like the molted skin of a snake.
The old woman spins around suddenly. “What ARE you doing!?” she demands, spitting droplets of chocolate and strawberry hash into Lynn’s terrified face.
“I- uh- I-“ Lynn stutters, before catching her momentum. “I’m- sorry. I was just- picking up some garbage off the floor.”
“How rude!” snaps the old woman. “Get away from me!”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn repeats, slowly rising. “I’m really sorry.” Then, she bows awkwardly like an actress who’s screwed up her lines, and exits stage right. Towards the trash can.
“I honestly don’t know how you survive as a business,” the old woman snaps at the only remaining audience, poor Ashley. “First of all, your store is filthy. And second, and almost more importantly, why, these strawberries aren’t ripe, and the chocolate is mediocre at best. They certainly don’t warrant the price you’re charging for them.” She picks up her large shopping bags. “I’m walking out of this store, and I’m not looking back, I can tell you!”
Ashley courageously suppresses a giggle.
“Oh, are you going to cry?” the old woman says, turning back, misunderstanding her expression completely. “Well, I’m actually quite glad. It means that you care. But you’re just a little behind in showing it! Goodbye.”
As soon as she storms out of the store, as soon as she glides off the edge of the store front window, Lynn and Ashley let out a shriek.
“We did it!” Lynn shouts.
“My good deed for the century,” Ashley sings.
“Well, that’s the lot of a retail worker,” Lynn murmurs, “Thankless. And insulted to boot.”
“What’s it all for?” Ashley sighs.
“Don’t ask me,” Lynn mutters.
Just then, another customer walks in the door. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And with his fly open to the breeze.
“My turn!” Ashley whispers, grinning wickedly.
GOT YOUR BACK (ADULT CATEGORY)
Lynn is the manager of an Ala Moana store that sells expensive chocolates.
Late in November, right after the post-Thanksgiving rush, Lynn is working at the store, along with a young girl named Ashley.
Things are slow. Very slow. It’s only after Ashley and Lynn have finished cleaning and adjusting the chocolate displays for the third consecutive time, that a customer walks in.
She’s an elderly woman, in her 60's, rich, white. Her silver hair is immaculately combed back and held in place by a pin shaped like mistletoe, with gold leaves and red berries. In her left hand is a large shopping bag from Neiman Marcus, and in her right is another from Macy’s.
Lynn walks up to the woman, and greets her brightly. “Hello! Why, that’s a beautiful hair pin!”
The old woman strolls past Lynn without responding in the least, her eyes gazing down at the boxes of chocolates around her.
Slightly mollified, Lynn backs away.
Just as she’s about to turn away from the woman she notices it: tucked into the back of the old woman’s skirt is a tissue paper toilet seat cover, gently flapping.
At first, Lynn can’t restrain a grin. The nearest bathrooms are halfway across the mall, so the old woman must have been walking around with this “ring around her rosie” for quite some time, inspiring sniggers and giggles from everyone she passed.
But then, Lynn checks herself. She imagines this woman being someone’s grandmother. Hers, for example. Like her own grandmother, this woman takes great pride in her appearance. And, like her grandmother, it would probably shatter her fragile self-esteem to discover that she had been walking all around town with a white bullseye on her bottom. In fact, Lynn thinks paranoically, who knows, it might even send her into a deep depression. Lynn pictures the woman confining herself to a single room in her mansion in Manoa for the rest of her days, wearing a diaper, so that she never has to see a toilet seat cover, or a toilet seat, ever again.
She shudders. “I have to do something,” she thinks to herself. “Only, I have to do it without her even knowing.”
She pulls Ashley aside, and whispers to her the situation, and her plan.
Although Ashley is a real trooper, she rolls her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “Can’t we just- tell her?”
“No we can’t,” Lynn answers firmly. “What if you walked around with something like that sticking out of your butt?”
“I expect people to tell me if I have a piece of spinach on my teeth,” Ashley argues.
“This is different,” Lynn says, though she can’t quite say how. “And, I’m your boss.”
“Okay,” she says. “So I have to distract her?”
Lynn nods. “Distract her with sweetness, while I do the dirty work.”
Ashley dons her cutest smile, and walks up to the woman. “May I help you with anything?” she asks.
Lynn meanwhile slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, the kind she wears whenever she handles truffles or dipped chocolates, and circles around towards the old woman’s backside.
The old woman tries to give Ashley the same silent treatment she’d given Lynn. But Ashley manages to position herself right in front of her, blocking her advance. Frustrated, the old woman deigns to give Ashley a response. “Out of my way!”
“Might I interest you in a sample?” Ashley asks sweetly. “Freshly dipped strawberry?”
“Alright,” mutters the old woman reluctantly, as though she is granting Ashley the vaunted privilege of serving her.
Lynn meanwhile approaches on tip toe, half-crouched like a lion, nary a foot away from the old woman’s rear.
She reaches, grabs the tissue paper, pulls-
-and with a barely audible shhh! sound, tears one side of the ring open.
She grimaces in frustration, then springs backwards like a cat as the old woman shifts her weight as though she is about to turn around. Lynn casually walks backwards a few steps to catch her breath and to survey the new situation. “Oh great,” she thinks to herself. Now, instead of wearing an “O,” the old woman wears something that sometimes resembles a “C,” sometimes an “S,” depending on how she sways her hips. A slinking tissue paper tail.
Ashley slips Lynn a look over the woman’s shoulder, when she’s not looking: “All pau?”
Lynn returns a pained look.
“Okay,” Ashley says, “Would you mind waiting here for a few moments while I get the strawberries?”
The old woman exhales in frustration. “I haven’t got all day,” she mutters. “Please be quick about it.”
And as Ashley strolls off to get the chocolate strawberries, Lynn saunters off to join Ashley behind the counter.
“So?” Ashley whispers, as she places a chocolate strawberry on a serving plate. “Did you get it?”
Lynn shakes her head no. “I think I made it worse.”
“Shouldn’t we just give up?” Ashley asks. “She’s such a B.”
Lynn has to actually think about it. But finally, she shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “It’s our duty to serve our customers.”
“Serve our customers chocolate,” Ashley mutters.
“Serve our customers in any way that we can,” Lynn corrects. “Give her three strawberries. Whatever you need to, to buy me some time.”
Ashley rolls her eyes, but nods.
When she returns with the plate of strawberries, the old woman greets her with an “About time!” She grabs one of the three strawberries on the plate, takes a bite out of it, and then, as if to insure that the other two don’t run away, swipes the plate itself out of Ashley’s hands.
“How is it?” Ashley asks brightly.
The old woman doesn’t respond. She hands Ashley a green crown of strawberry leaves, the bottom wet with saliva, remnant of the first strawberry. Ashley accepts it graciously in her gloved palm. And then, the old woman greedily attacks the second strawberry.
Lynn meanwhile circles around the store once again to approach her prey, the paper tail.
She reaches tentatively, makes contact, both with the skirt, and with the tissue paper. Now, if she can only pull the skirt away from the old woman’s body, just enough to loosen the paper!
The second strawberry is practically swallowed whole. A second strawberry crown is deposited in Ashley’s palm. The old woman takes a large wolfish bite out of the third strawberry, absently handing the now empty plate to Ashley.
Ashley leans to one side, giving Lynn a look of desperation. “It’s now or never!” she seems to say. With dexterity that she never knew she possessed, Lynn simultaneously pulls the elastic of the skirt ever so slightly off the old woman’s body, and yanks the tissue paper. It instantly falls away like the molted skin of a snake.
The old woman spins around suddenly. “What ARE you doing!?” she demands, spitting droplets of chocolate and strawberry hash into Lynn’s terrified face.
“I- uh- I-“ Lynn stutters, before catching her momentum. “I’m- sorry. I was just- picking up some garbage off the floor.”
“How rude!” snaps the old woman. “Get away from me!”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn repeats, slowly rising. “I’m really sorry.” Then, she bows awkwardly like an actress who’s screwed up her lines, and exits stage right. Towards the trash can.
“I honestly don’t know how you survive as a business,” the old woman snaps at the only remaining audience, poor Ashley. “First of all, your store is filthy. And second, and almost more importantly, why, these strawberries aren’t ripe, and the chocolate is mediocre at best. They certainly don’t warrant the price you’re charging for them.” She picks up her large shopping bags. “I’m walking out of this store, and I’m not looking back, I can tell you!”
Ashley courageously suppresses a giggle.
“Oh, are you going to cry?” the old woman says, turning back, misunderstanding her expression completely. “Well, I’m actually quite glad. It means that you care. But you’re just a little behind in showing it! Goodbye.”
As soon as she storms out of the store, as soon as she glides off the edge of the store front window, Lynn and Ashley let out a shriek.
“We did it!” Lynn shouts.
“My good deed for the century,” Ashley sings.
“Well, that’s the lot of a retail worker,” Lynn murmurs, “Thankless. And insulted to boot.”
“What’s it all for?” Ashley sighs.
“Don’t ask me,” Lynn mutters.
Just then, another customer walks in the door. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And with his fly open to the breeze.
“My turn!” Ashley whispers, grinning wickedly.
Short Story: C is for Conifer (Children's Xmas Story)
Last year, the Advertiser (I think?) had a competition for some kind of Christmas story, in either the children's category or the adult's. Being a cornball, and "inspired" by the They Might Be Giants "Here Come the ABC's" CD song, "C is for Conifer," I wrote this story... (There is a line in the song [which was repeating endlessly in my head last year]: "Most have cones for seeds, most have needles for leaves. C is for Conifer, My kind of trees.")
It being the holidays and all (at least that's what the store ads are shouting), I decided to print this for your emetic pleasure...
It being the holidays and all (at least that's what the store ads are shouting), I decided to print this for your emetic pleasure...
The illustrations were drawn by Willow...
"C IS FOR CORNY!" ;)
O CACTUS TREE! (CHILDREN’S CATEGORY)
There is a place in the middle of the desert called the Mirage Hotel.
It is a wondrous place, filled with anything and everything you could ever dream of. A lot of water, first of all, shimmering in large pools. And camels. And food, mostly figs and dates, but they’ve got a lot of cheetos, and chocolates, and, well, anything else your mother never allows you to slip into the shopping cart.
Although it is in the middle of the desert, it is never in the same place for very long. Lots of people have seen it, but they either waited too long, or waited too little, and by the time they got there, well, it wasn’t there any more.
At the Mirage Hotel, there lived a talking Cactus tree named, appropriately, Cactus. He was a tall green cactus, shaped like a man, covered in spiny yellow needles. And at the top of what looked like his head, every once in a while, a beautiful flower bloomed.
His best friend was the Sandman. He looked kind of like a Snowman, only he was made of sand. And instead of standing up, he was always lying down. The Sandman was a very sleepy fellow, you see.
One hot summer day (it was always hot and always summer at the Mirage Hotel), the Sandman had a newspaper draped over his face. Cactus thought he was asleep, as usual. So he was surprised when Sandman shouted through the newspaper.
“Cactus,” he yawned, “Check this out.”
“What?” Cactus said.
“There’s a contest that’s going to happen right here, tomorrow. A Christmas Tree contest. The winner gets to be the new Christmas Tree, and have his picture taken in all the coldest places in the world. And he gets to take along a friend.” Sandman’s voice, which was rarely more than a sleepy murmur, for once sounded excited. “Cactus, this might be your ticket out of here! It might be our ticket out of here!”
For although the Mirage Hotel was a wonderful place, it was always dreadfully hot. For Cactus and Sandman, cold sounded nice.
“What are the rules?” Cactus asked excitedly.
“See for yourself.”
And Cactus bent over to pick up the newspaper. Only, because he didn’t have fingers, the best he could do was stab his needles through the paper.
“Ouch!” cried Sandman.
“Sorry,” mumbled Cactus. And he clumsily spread the newspaper, tearing it some more in the process. This is what he read:
“Christmas Tree Contest Rules. Two Rules. Rule Number One: You must be an evergreen-” Cactus turned to Sandman. “What’s an evergreen?” he asked.
“It’s a tree that- is always green,” mumbled Sandman, who was already falling asleep.
“Check,” chimed Cactus happily. And he continued to read. “Rule Number Two: You must be a conifer-“ Cactus again turned to Sandman. “What’s a conifer?” he asked.
But Sandman was already asleep, snoring peacefully.
Cactus read on, and thankfully got an answer. Or at least part of it. The article said: “A conifer is a tree that has needles for leaves.“
“Check Check!” chimed Cactus happily, wiggling his many many needles.
And he continued to read. “A conifer also has cones for-“ But the last word had been stabbed through by his needles, and could not be read.
“Cones for what?” Cactus wondered. “Cones for- ice cream? Cones for- redirecting traffic?” Finally, he decided. “It must be cones for heads. It must be that.” And he walked over to the Hat Boutique at the Mirage Hotel, and among the many turbans, he was able to find one single purple cone hat, large enough to fit over his head. “Perfect!” he shouted, trying it on.
The very next day, he went to the Mirage Hotel Ballroom, where the contest was to be held.
Poor Cactus. Little did he know that the contest was a big marketing scheme. The rules prevented most trees from entering, except evergreen conifers, which was what Christmas Trees basically were anyway. One of the most popular traditional Christmas Trees, the Silver Fir, was going to win the contest no matter what. And it would get a big boost in publicity at the same time.
Cactus stood proudly in the middle of the ballroom, amidst giant sequoias, dwarf pines, even recumbent junipers, his tall purple cone hat making him stand out.
The judges assigned each of the contestants a number. Cactus was Number 11. The judges then called out the numbers of the trees one by one, letting them know that they weren’t Christmas Tree material. “Number 253!” “Number 17!” “Number 21!” Gradually, the ballroom got emptier and emptier.
Soon, there were only two trees left: #11 Cactus, and the shoe-in winner, #7 the Silver Fir, who was already dressed in Christmas ornaments and flickering electric Christmas lights. Although the judges had already made up their minds, they didn’t know what to think of Cactus, and wanted to ask him some questions.
“So, Number 11,” the head judge said, “Cactus, is it? Why are you wearing that ridiculous purple hat?”
Cactus suddenly felt embarrassed. He realized that none of the other trees in the contest had worn a cone hat, including #7. The Silver Fir shook its needles in laughter, giving off a fresh mountain scent. “Uh,” Cactus muttered, leaning this way and that, not knowing how to answer.
“Psst,” whispered a voice. When Cactus looked down, he noticed Sandman lying on the floor right behind him. “Tell them it’s a Christmas decoration.”
“It’s my, uh, Christmas decoration,” Cactus told the judges.
“Unusual,” murmured the head judge. “And original.”
The Silver Fir bristled its needles in indignation. “What!?” it shouted. “Why are you wasting time listening to this- this impostor! He’s no conifer! Ask him about his seeds already!”
The head judge nodded. “Number 11, conifers have cones for seeds. What about you? Where are your seeds?”
Cactus bowed his head. So that’s what conifers had cones for! Seeds! He shook his head, dejected. “I- don’t have any.”
The head judge nodded. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess that means we have our winner.”
“Alright!” shouted Silver Fir. “It’s about time!”
Cactus shuffled away sadly as a chorus sang “Oh Christmas Tree,” and the head judge walked up to the new (and old) winner to crown it with a super bright halogen star.
But then something happened. The Mirage Hotel was a hot place, you remember, and during the contest, the Silver Fir’s needles had become very dry. So as soon as the super bright (and super hot) halogen star was placed upon its head, it ignited and set the tree ablaze. “Help! Help!!!” it screamed, shaking off ornaments.
Without a thought, Cactus rushed over to the Silver Fir, and poked holes into his own body with his needles. Water shot forth from the holes in tiny jets, and he aimed them carefully at the fire.
Within a matter of seconds, the fire was out! The Silver Fir was almost as good as usual, only the leaves up top were singed and blackened. Cactus carefully removed the purple cone hat from his head, and placed it over the Silver Fir’s burnt head.
“Thank you,” said the Silver Fir in gratitude.
Everyone in the ballroom gasped. For on Cactus’s now hatless head was a beautiful blossom. It was silver and gold colored, and shaped like a many pointed star.
Everyone agreed after that that Cactus should be the new Christmas Tree. He had been selfless and brave in saving the Silver Fir. And he had grown his own star. It also turns out that he was a lot easier to decorate than the previous Christmas Tree; all you had to do was hang an ornament on all of his yellow spiny needles.
So, Cactus and his best friend Sandman got to leave the Mirage Hotel and travel all over the wintry places of the world, and places that weren’t so wintry but were wonderful anyway, like Hawaii, spreading desert warmth and Christmas cheer, and feeling “cool” for the first time in their lives. And everywhere they went, people sang:
“Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Each year you make a point to be, the very coolest Christmas tree,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky.”
(Sandman had a song for himself, to the same tune, which he would attempt to sing afterwards as a second verse. It was called "Oh Tan and Brown." But he always fell asleep after the first line.)
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
It is a wondrous place, filled with anything and everything you could ever dream of. A lot of water, first of all, shimmering in large pools. And camels. And food, mostly figs and dates, but they’ve got a lot of cheetos, and chocolates, and, well, anything else your mother never allows you to slip into the shopping cart.
Although it is in the middle of the desert, it is never in the same place for very long. Lots of people have seen it, but they either waited too long, or waited too little, and by the time they got there, well, it wasn’t there any more.
At the Mirage Hotel, there lived a talking Cactus tree named, appropriately, Cactus. He was a tall green cactus, shaped like a man, covered in spiny yellow needles. And at the top of what looked like his head, every once in a while, a beautiful flower bloomed.
His best friend was the Sandman. He looked kind of like a Snowman, only he was made of sand. And instead of standing up, he was always lying down. The Sandman was a very sleepy fellow, you see.
One hot summer day (it was always hot and always summer at the Mirage Hotel), the Sandman had a newspaper draped over his face. Cactus thought he was asleep, as usual. So he was surprised when Sandman shouted through the newspaper.
“Cactus,” he yawned, “Check this out.”
“What?” Cactus said.
“There’s a contest that’s going to happen right here, tomorrow. A Christmas Tree contest. The winner gets to be the new Christmas Tree, and have his picture taken in all the coldest places in the world. And he gets to take along a friend.” Sandman’s voice, which was rarely more than a sleepy murmur, for once sounded excited. “Cactus, this might be your ticket out of here! It might be our ticket out of here!”
For although the Mirage Hotel was a wonderful place, it was always dreadfully hot. For Cactus and Sandman, cold sounded nice.
“What are the rules?” Cactus asked excitedly.
“See for yourself.”
And Cactus bent over to pick up the newspaper. Only, because he didn’t have fingers, the best he could do was stab his needles through the paper.
“Ouch!” cried Sandman.
“Sorry,” mumbled Cactus. And he clumsily spread the newspaper, tearing it some more in the process. This is what he read:
“Christmas Tree Contest Rules. Two Rules. Rule Number One: You must be an evergreen-” Cactus turned to Sandman. “What’s an evergreen?” he asked.
“It’s a tree that- is always green,” mumbled Sandman, who was already falling asleep.
“Check,” chimed Cactus happily. And he continued to read. “Rule Number Two: You must be a conifer-“ Cactus again turned to Sandman. “What’s a conifer?” he asked.
But Sandman was already asleep, snoring peacefully.
Cactus read on, and thankfully got an answer. Or at least part of it. The article said: “A conifer is a tree that has needles for leaves.“
“Check Check!” chimed Cactus happily, wiggling his many many needles.
And he continued to read. “A conifer also has cones for-“ But the last word had been stabbed through by his needles, and could not be read.
“Cones for what?” Cactus wondered. “Cones for- ice cream? Cones for- redirecting traffic?” Finally, he decided. “It must be cones for heads. It must be that.” And he walked over to the Hat Boutique at the Mirage Hotel, and among the many turbans, he was able to find one single purple cone hat, large enough to fit over his head. “Perfect!” he shouted, trying it on.
The very next day, he went to the Mirage Hotel Ballroom, where the contest was to be held.
Poor Cactus. Little did he know that the contest was a big marketing scheme. The rules prevented most trees from entering, except evergreen conifers, which was what Christmas Trees basically were anyway. One of the most popular traditional Christmas Trees, the Silver Fir, was going to win the contest no matter what. And it would get a big boost in publicity at the same time.
Cactus stood proudly in the middle of the ballroom, amidst giant sequoias, dwarf pines, even recumbent junipers, his tall purple cone hat making him stand out.
The judges assigned each of the contestants a number. Cactus was Number 11. The judges then called out the numbers of the trees one by one, letting them know that they weren’t Christmas Tree material. “Number 253!” “Number 17!” “Number 21!” Gradually, the ballroom got emptier and emptier.
Soon, there were only two trees left: #11 Cactus, and the shoe-in winner, #7 the Silver Fir, who was already dressed in Christmas ornaments and flickering electric Christmas lights. Although the judges had already made up their minds, they didn’t know what to think of Cactus, and wanted to ask him some questions.
“So, Number 11,” the head judge said, “Cactus, is it? Why are you wearing that ridiculous purple hat?”
Cactus suddenly felt embarrassed. He realized that none of the other trees in the contest had worn a cone hat, including #7. The Silver Fir shook its needles in laughter, giving off a fresh mountain scent. “Uh,” Cactus muttered, leaning this way and that, not knowing how to answer.
“Psst,” whispered a voice. When Cactus looked down, he noticed Sandman lying on the floor right behind him. “Tell them it’s a Christmas decoration.”
“It’s my, uh, Christmas decoration,” Cactus told the judges.
“Unusual,” murmured the head judge. “And original.”
The Silver Fir bristled its needles in indignation. “What!?” it shouted. “Why are you wasting time listening to this- this impostor! He’s no conifer! Ask him about his seeds already!”
The head judge nodded. “Number 11, conifers have cones for seeds. What about you? Where are your seeds?”
Cactus bowed his head. So that’s what conifers had cones for! Seeds! He shook his head, dejected. “I- don’t have any.”
The head judge nodded. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess that means we have our winner.”
“Alright!” shouted Silver Fir. “It’s about time!”
Cactus shuffled away sadly as a chorus sang “Oh Christmas Tree,” and the head judge walked up to the new (and old) winner to crown it with a super bright halogen star.
But then something happened. The Mirage Hotel was a hot place, you remember, and during the contest, the Silver Fir’s needles had become very dry. So as soon as the super bright (and super hot) halogen star was placed upon its head, it ignited and set the tree ablaze. “Help! Help!!!” it screamed, shaking off ornaments.
Without a thought, Cactus rushed over to the Silver Fir, and poked holes into his own body with his needles. Water shot forth from the holes in tiny jets, and he aimed them carefully at the fire.
Within a matter of seconds, the fire was out! The Silver Fir was almost as good as usual, only the leaves up top were singed and blackened. Cactus carefully removed the purple cone hat from his head, and placed it over the Silver Fir’s burnt head.
“Thank you,” said the Silver Fir in gratitude.
Everyone in the ballroom gasped. For on Cactus’s now hatless head was a beautiful blossom. It was silver and gold colored, and shaped like a many pointed star.
Everyone agreed after that that Cactus should be the new Christmas Tree. He had been selfless and brave in saving the Silver Fir. And he had grown his own star. It also turns out that he was a lot easier to decorate than the previous Christmas Tree; all you had to do was hang an ornament on all of his yellow spiny needles.
So, Cactus and his best friend Sandman got to leave the Mirage Hotel and travel all over the wintry places of the world, and places that weren’t so wintry but were wonderful anyway, like Hawaii, spreading desert warmth and Christmas cheer, and feeling “cool” for the first time in their lives. And everywhere they went, people sang:
“Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Each year you make a point to be, the very coolest Christmas tree,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky.”
(Sandman had a song for himself, to the same tune, which he would attempt to sing afterwards as a second verse. It was called "Oh Tan and Brown." But he always fell asleep after the first line.)
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Kiiko Matsumoto Style Acupuncture
Today was the second (and final) week of what my acupuncture school calls "Practitioner Observation." Basically, I go into clinic and work on patients as I normally would in my practice, and then answer any and all questions from the observing students... Last week, I treated it more as a classroom exercise. I had no formal patients come in, so instead, I treated a student... We performed the intake together, with the other observing students asking questions, etc. I think it was an all around success, a good exercise in the whole intake procedure... And I got to do Kiiko Matsumoto Style Acupuncture, which is VERY DIFFERENT (almost an entirely different species) from Traditional Chinese Acupuncture (as is taught and tested in the school).
LO and behold, this week one of the students comes in with a friend who had just been studying and practicing intensely with Kiiko Matsumoto herself! And, as again there were no formal patients, this friend volunteers to be the patient! Talk about intimidation! I mean, everything I know of Kiiko Matsumoto Style comes from a couple of seminars I attended in San Francisco, and careful study of all the books she's written... I've never worked with the woman myself (I once made her crack up at a seminar when I mentioned that, in Hawaii, all we watch is "Soko ga Shiritai" and [in that voice] "Abarenbo Shogun!")... Still, I tried my best, again, treated it like a good classroom exercise... Did some Kiiko Matsumoto, and then some more musculoskeletal stuff on the patient's back... It was a success, both for the students, and for my "patient." She gave me some pointers at the end ("Kiiko actually does it this way"), but she really enjoyed and appreciated the treatment.
THANK GOD PRACTITIONER OBSERVATION IS OVER!
And, as this is Finals Week, after this, school will be over for at least a few weeks!!!
LO and behold, this week one of the students comes in with a friend who had just been studying and practicing intensely with Kiiko Matsumoto herself! And, as again there were no formal patients, this friend volunteers to be the patient! Talk about intimidation! I mean, everything I know of Kiiko Matsumoto Style comes from a couple of seminars I attended in San Francisco, and careful study of all the books she's written... I've never worked with the woman myself (I once made her crack up at a seminar when I mentioned that, in Hawaii, all we watch is "Soko ga Shiritai" and [in that voice] "Abarenbo Shogun!")... Still, I tried my best, again, treated it like a good classroom exercise... Did some Kiiko Matsumoto, and then some more musculoskeletal stuff on the patient's back... It was a success, both for the students, and for my "patient." She gave me some pointers at the end ("Kiiko actually does it this way"), but she really enjoyed and appreciated the treatment.
THANK GOD PRACTITIONER OBSERVATION IS OVER!
And, as this is Finals Week, after this, school will be over for at least a few weeks!!!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Random Thoughts: Bufotenin
The Cane Toad, the toad that plagues Hawaii and Australia (I believe that the Australian plague of toads actually originates from Hawaii) secretes a toxin from its parotoid glands. One component of the toxin is called Bufotenin, which is commonly classified as a hallucinogen. Other components of the toxin include a digoxin like compound (similar to foxglove). Digoxin is used therapeutically to treat problems such as arrhythmia and angina. However, it has a very narrow therapeutic index (the range between therapeutic and toxic dosages), and therefore is dangerous, and potentially fatal.
In a two part short story, I write about cane toads. The second part of the short story introduces a (fictitious) gay Nerd who harbors "venomous" resentment towards those who persecute him and his friends, and, inspired by the protagonist's repeated use of the imagery of toads, decides to utilize toad venom (bufotenin, mixed with digoxin) to poison his enemies... There are several reasons why toad venom, secreted from parotoid glands, is an effective image: 1) the characters in this story are adolescent, undergoing puberty, and therefore suffering from "zits." Whiteheads, parotoid gland secretions; 2) toads secrete toad venom when threatened. Similarly, the gay character considers poisoning his enemies the only fit remedy to intolerable persecution.
In a two part short story, I write about cane toads. The second part of the short story introduces a (fictitious) gay Nerd who harbors "venomous" resentment towards those who persecute him and his friends, and, inspired by the protagonist's repeated use of the imagery of toads, decides to utilize toad venom (bufotenin, mixed with digoxin) to poison his enemies... There are several reasons why toad venom, secreted from parotoid glands, is an effective image: 1) the characters in this story are adolescent, undergoing puberty, and therefore suffering from "zits." Whiteheads, parotoid gland secretions; 2) toads secrete toad venom when threatened. Similarly, the gay character considers poisoning his enemies the only fit remedy to intolerable persecution.
A Poem: One that Got Away
This poem was written during my senior year at Williams. It was published in the Williams Literary Review, Spring of 94. I plan on using it after the "Backwards Carp" Story, in order to resonate with the "fish" imagery.
The One that Got Away
Boxed in water
drowned in glass
the gourami eyes the green
that frosts the walls
its only food in years.
It knows the lay
of shit-stained gravel
just by the touch of
whiskers that drag limp.
Here, neglected plastic aquarium mesas,
gaudy hiding places for
this fish that no one sees.
There, in the far corner,
the charcoal filter
that lost its breath,
air pipes stuffed by age,
algae arteriosclerosis.
Outside
sits the same sad boy,
still trying to capture
the Perfect Fish
with crayon lines,
the one that will hook
his parents’ eyes,
the one that will keep them
from getting away.
It slip-slithers like slick scales
before fingers that grip too tightly,
glitters behind seaweed fronds
in his mind.
A frown draws his hard lips shut.
“Look at me,” mouths
the gourami over and over,
unnoticed.
Its wish comes true one day,
for the first time in years.
Its brilliant smell gives it away.
Lying in webs behind the shelf
its spine frozen in the arc
of its last and only silver leap.
Its belly is up,
open to a blind corner of the ceiling
far above.
The father wraps it up
in last week’s edition.
The boy returns
to his crayons.
Tired of fish,
he grinds a fresh pink scrape,
tip of a tentacle,
with puckered suckers
that he hopes
will wrap,
grip,and never let go.
The One that Got Away
Boxed in water
drowned in glass
the gourami eyes the green
that frosts the walls
its only food in years.
It knows the lay
of shit-stained gravel
just by the touch of
whiskers that drag limp.
Here, neglected plastic aquarium mesas,
gaudy hiding places for
this fish that no one sees.
There, in the far corner,
the charcoal filter
that lost its breath,
air pipes stuffed by age,
algae arteriosclerosis.
Outside
sits the same sad boy,
still trying to capture
the Perfect Fish
with crayon lines,
the one that will hook
his parents’ eyes,
the one that will keep them
from getting away.
It slip-slithers like slick scales
before fingers that grip too tightly,
glitters behind seaweed fronds
in his mind.
A frown draws his hard lips shut.
“Look at me,” mouths
the gourami over and over,
unnoticed.
Its wish comes true one day,
for the first time in years.
Its brilliant smell gives it away.
Lying in webs behind the shelf
its spine frozen in the arc
of its last and only silver leap.
Its belly is up,
open to a blind corner of the ceiling
far above.
The father wraps it up
in last week’s edition.
The boy returns
to his crayons.
Tired of fish,
he grinds a fresh pink scrape,
tip of a tentacle,
with puckered suckers
that he hopes
will wrap,
grip,and never let go.
A Poem: GAMAN
Just a short little ditty I wrote about being five.
Gaman*
Five year old sits on the kitchen chair
While mother razors unruly hair
To all his tears and sobbed despair
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
His head ends up a chawan bowl
to catch stray questions from his soul
“Why is hair cut, why must hair grow?”
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
*"Gaman” is a Japanese word that means “to endure, persist, or persevere - to do one’s best - in times of frustration and adversity.” It is a fundamental attitude in Japanese society, the source, perhaps, of all the contorted facial expressions and constipated cries of Kabuki theater. Interestingly enough, “Gaman” (as spelled, not pronounced) is also an old German word for “amusement,” and is the root for the modern word “game.” Which makes you wonder about some past cultural infection, because the Japanese seem to actually enjoy and entertain themselves by holding their farts in until they have an aneurysm (I’m Japanese, I should know).
Gaman*
Five year old sits on the kitchen chair
While mother razors unruly hair
To all his tears and sobbed despair
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
His head ends up a chawan bowl
to catch stray questions from his soul
“Why is hair cut, why must hair grow?”
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
*"Gaman” is a Japanese word that means “to endure, persist, or persevere - to do one’s best - in times of frustration and adversity.” It is a fundamental attitude in Japanese society, the source, perhaps, of all the contorted facial expressions and constipated cries of Kabuki theater. Interestingly enough, “Gaman” (as spelled, not pronounced) is also an old German word for “amusement,” and is the root for the modern word “game.” Which makes you wonder about some past cultural infection, because the Japanese seem to actually enjoy and entertain themselves by holding their farts in until they have an aneurysm (I’m Japanese, I should know).
The text introducing Part One: Life in the Trenches
Following is the text, the preface (?) for Part One. The stories in this initial section deal with early life in Mililani, from childhood to the start of high school... Although it would be thematically consistent to have all stories deal with the end of innocence (in degrees, perhaps), I'm afraid that not all of the three (four?) stories in this section do. But what they do share, largely by design, is the common image of the "trench"...
I start with a quote taken from Wikipedia about Mars itself, and then attempt to tie the quote into the general theme of the stories within this "part."
Here goes:
Part I. Life in the Trenches
“The Italian word canale (plural canali) can mean ‘canals’ (including artificial canals or ducts) or ‘channels’ or ‘gullies’. This ambiguity also exists in cognate words in other Romance languages such as French (canal), and also in German (Kanal).
It is often stated that Schiaparelli [an Italian astronomer who observed Martian ‘canali’] intended the meaning ‘channels’ and that ‘canals’ was a misunderstanding or mistranslation into English. Nevertheless, the English term ‘canals’ [artificially constructed waterways] was used from the very earliest accounts in English, and as far as is known, Schiaparelli made no effort to correct the supposed misunderstanding if he was aware of it....
It is perhaps not so odd that the idea of Martian canals was so readily accepted by many. At the time, in the late 19th century, telescopic observers had difficulty distinguishing exactly what they were seeing when they looked at Mars.... In addition, the late 19th century was a time of great canal building on Earth. For instance, the Suez Canal was completed in 1869, and the abortive French attempt to build the Panama Canal began in 1880. It is perhaps natural that some thought similar projects were being undertaken on Mars.”
-From the Wikipedia entry on “Martian Canals” as of June 22, 2006
The compulsion to perceive an origin, a once upon a time, is like an unreachable itch. Small wonder, then, that upon the landscape of yesterday’s desert world, we continually “start from scratch,” digging straight lines in the dust with our eyes, in the hope that someday we may draw water from imaginary polar seas, and irrigate the dead and forgotten to renewed life. “The canals are there,” we announce excitedly to the world, “I can see them, yes, yes, they are definitely there!”
No one has the heart to point out the scratches upon our telescopic lens.
Least of all, ourselves...
I start with a quote taken from Wikipedia about Mars itself, and then attempt to tie the quote into the general theme of the stories within this "part."
Here goes:
Part I. Life in the Trenches
“The Italian word canale (plural canali) can mean ‘canals’ (including artificial canals or ducts) or ‘channels’ or ‘gullies’. This ambiguity also exists in cognate words in other Romance languages such as French (canal), and also in German (Kanal).
It is often stated that Schiaparelli [an Italian astronomer who observed Martian ‘canali’] intended the meaning ‘channels’ and that ‘canals’ was a misunderstanding or mistranslation into English. Nevertheless, the English term ‘canals’ [artificially constructed waterways] was used from the very earliest accounts in English, and as far as is known, Schiaparelli made no effort to correct the supposed misunderstanding if he was aware of it....
It is perhaps not so odd that the idea of Martian canals was so readily accepted by many. At the time, in the late 19th century, telescopic observers had difficulty distinguishing exactly what they were seeing when they looked at Mars.... In addition, the late 19th century was a time of great canal building on Earth. For instance, the Suez Canal was completed in 1869, and the abortive French attempt to build the Panama Canal began in 1880. It is perhaps natural that some thought similar projects were being undertaken on Mars.”
-From the Wikipedia entry on “Martian Canals” as of June 22, 2006
The compulsion to perceive an origin, a once upon a time, is like an unreachable itch. Small wonder, then, that upon the landscape of yesterday’s desert world, we continually “start from scratch,” digging straight lines in the dust with our eyes, in the hope that someday we may draw water from imaginary polar seas, and irrigate the dead and forgotten to renewed life. “The canals are there,” we announce excitedly to the world, “I can see them, yes, yes, they are definitely there!”
No one has the heart to point out the scratches upon our telescopic lens.
Least of all, ourselves...
A Poem: Revisioning Marsilani Poem [a pathetic attempt]
We
here, it's said,
live a charmed life
a lucky life.
We are safeguarded by
a glyph,
hushing us shut
an aegis shaped like
rainbows-horseshoes-hugs
a promise-a blessing-an embrace.
But rainbows!
teeter unsteady,
to people who never rode one.
They have one foot
the other end's a cloud
(and we all know what happens to clouds)
and that one foot-
if you ever find it,
lift it
show me
the pot,
the leprechaun,
without the whole color'd arch
toppling over.
And horseshoes!
are magnets
and magnets draw blood-
rusted hemoglobin-
always back
and always down
twisting it in symmetric
patterns of force.
A hug?
This community never embraced me
and my culdesac was
a forgotten alveolic sac
noosed off
air-starved.
Speak of hugs, but
hugs are close kin
to choke-holds.
here, it's said,
live a charmed life
a lucky life.
We are safeguarded by
a glyph,
hushing us shut
an aegis shaped like
rainbows-horseshoes-hugs
a promise-a blessing-an embrace.
But rainbows!
teeter unsteady,
to people who never rode one.
They have one foot
the other end's a cloud
(and we all know what happens to clouds)
and that one foot-
if you ever find it,
lift it
show me
the pot,
the leprechaun,
without the whole color'd arch
toppling over.
And horseshoes!
are magnets
and magnets draw blood-
rusted hemoglobin-
always back
and always down
twisting it in symmetric
patterns of force.
A hug?
This community never embraced me
and my culdesac was
a forgotten alveolic sac
noosed off
air-starved.
Speak of hugs, but
hugs are close kin
to choke-holds.
The meaning of Mililani
From my scanty and shoddy research, there seems to be a discrepancy in the meaning of "Mililani." According to the plaque at Mililani Town Center, the name "Mililani" was given to this region by the developers, Castle and Cooke, who intended it to be a planned community for middle to upper middle classers. On this plaque, as I recall, "Mililani" is supposed to mean "Look Skyward." Many of the streets in Mililani Town actually reflect this meaning of the town name, as they refer to stars and other heavenly bodies. For example, Meheula Parkway, the large thoroughfare running the length of Mililani (from Mililani Mauka all the way to "Safeway side") means "Pathway of the Sun" (lit: "with a redness"), and Aohoku Place, the culdesac I grew up in, is the Hawaiian name for Jupiter.
Yet, in other texts, Hawaiian dictionaries, for example, the name "Mililani" actually seems to mean something more along the lines of "Giving thanks." The "Hawaiian Street Names" book by Budnick and Wise translates "Mililani" as "To praise; exalt." It's possible that the latter definition may be "stretched" to include or connote the initial definition of looking skyward, as you tend to "look up" at what you "raise up" through praise (okay, okay, maybe I AM stretching it).
In any case, the plaque in Town Center says what it says. And it's that definition that I am taking advantage of, to critique Mililani...
By the way, a point of interest: Kipapa Gulch, the "wound" that encircles a large part of Mililani Town, and a popular and famous haunting ground (ghostly hitchhikers, the night marchers, etc.) has a name which means almost precisely the opposite of "Mililani." "Kipapa" means to lay prone, and if we take the [medical] definition of "prone," this means to lay FACE DOWN. The name "Kipapa" was given to the gulch after a major and legendary battle about 700 years ago, when a large army from the Big Island sought to invade Oahu, and was soundly defeated in the gulch. It was said that the floor of the gulch was filled with corpses, "lain prone."
The juxtaposition (or perhaps superimposing) of the two names is very interesting and intriguing to me. The one name, for the gulch below, refers to a bloody battle, to the corpses lying at the gulch floor. The other name, for the town built above, an "exalted" town with people who "only look up." This, to me, is a key dynamic of Mililani, its denial of the past violence beneath its feet, its middle class Pollyanna optimism...
Yet, in other texts, Hawaiian dictionaries, for example, the name "Mililani" actually seems to mean something more along the lines of "Giving thanks." The "Hawaiian Street Names" book by Budnick and Wise translates "Mililani" as "To praise; exalt." It's possible that the latter definition may be "stretched" to include or connote the initial definition of looking skyward, as you tend to "look up" at what you "raise up" through praise (okay, okay, maybe I AM stretching it).
In any case, the plaque in Town Center says what it says. And it's that definition that I am taking advantage of, to critique Mililani...
By the way, a point of interest: Kipapa Gulch, the "wound" that encircles a large part of Mililani Town, and a popular and famous haunting ground (ghostly hitchhikers, the night marchers, etc.) has a name which means almost precisely the opposite of "Mililani." "Kipapa" means to lay prone, and if we take the [medical] definition of "prone," this means to lay FACE DOWN. The name "Kipapa" was given to the gulch after a major and legendary battle about 700 years ago, when a large army from the Big Island sought to invade Oahu, and was soundly defeated in the gulch. It was said that the floor of the gulch was filled with corpses, "lain prone."
The juxtaposition (or perhaps superimposing) of the two names is very interesting and intriguing to me. The one name, for the gulch below, refers to a bloody battle, to the corpses lying at the gulch floor. The other name, for the town built above, an "exalted" town with people who "only look up." This, to me, is a key dynamic of Mililani, its denial of the past violence beneath its feet, its middle class Pollyanna optimism...
A Poem: Marsilani, original version
Following is the original version of the "Marsilani" poem intended to encapsulate the collection of short stories. Clumsy, almost better as prose.
Mars-ilani
“Mililani” means “Look Up”
(“Look Skyward,” to be poetic).
For the lower to middle class suburbanites who moved here in the late 60's,
How apt:
Hope,
Look up,
And you too can someday reach the stars.
Mililani’s symbol is the horseshoe
(a three-colored rainbow, to be poetic),
a bridge of dreams,
the embrace of a community,
etc., etc., etc.
I was born and raised in Mililani.
And, like the fruit of a tired tree,
Fell and returned here,
Laying roots in its rusty soil.
Now,
When I look upon my town’s symbol,
I see neither a bridge nor an embrace.
I see the inevitable path of middle class life.
For if it is a rainbow,
it is on the verge of collapsing in on itself,
teetering unsteady
on one invisible pot of gold.
And if it is a horseshoe,
then it is a horseshoe magnet,
drawing the very iron in my blood back
to join the rust of its soil.
If an embrace,
then it holds me
like an umbilical culdesac noose.*
“Mililani” means “Look Up.”
But if you look down,
you may see
ancient tectonic rifts
buckling the pavement.
Look around, and find,
not commonality,
but indifference.
Alienation, a constant companion,
and aliens, sometimes acquaintances.
“Mililani” means “Look Up.”
But all I see
through haze of street lamp and telescopic lens
is a glass mirrored ceiling.
Where my reflection should be standing
in the midst of my hometown,
I only see Mars:
blood soiled,
canal scarred,
rumored of life,
certain of war;
And a Martian,
trying to find a way
to where I’m
supposed to be,
trying to discover
intelligent life.
Thus it is that I dub thee
“Mars-ilani”
town of past futures
and futures passed,
where aliens
shy of escape velocity
find
home
away from home.
* Culdesacs, the “leaves” (if not the flowers) of suburban development, are banned in some modern communities because of the high incidence of a specific kind of “freak accident”: parents unsuspectingly backing over their toddler children, whom they left to play unsupervised in supposed “safety.” An apt symbol for suburban life in general, where “[apparently] nothing ever happens.”
Mililani’s symbol, by the way, resembles a culdesac. Read the story “Culdesacs: Suburban Dream or Dead End” by John Nielsen in the June 7th 2006 broadcast of NPR’s “Morning Edition.”
[There was also some interview on November 3rd, with an author, something Foley? About suburbia. Noted it, but can't remember currently.]
Mars-ilani
“Mililani” means “Look Up”
(“Look Skyward,” to be poetic).
For the lower to middle class suburbanites who moved here in the late 60's,
How apt:
Hope,
Look up,
And you too can someday reach the stars.
Mililani’s symbol is the horseshoe
(a three-colored rainbow, to be poetic),
a bridge of dreams,
the embrace of a community,
etc., etc., etc.
I was born and raised in Mililani.
And, like the fruit of a tired tree,
Fell and returned here,
Laying roots in its rusty soil.
Now,
When I look upon my town’s symbol,
I see neither a bridge nor an embrace.
I see the inevitable path of middle class life.
For if it is a rainbow,
it is on the verge of collapsing in on itself,
teetering unsteady
on one invisible pot of gold.
And if it is a horseshoe,
then it is a horseshoe magnet,
drawing the very iron in my blood back
to join the rust of its soil.
If an embrace,
then it holds me
like an umbilical culdesac noose.*
“Mililani” means “Look Up.”
But if you look down,
you may see
ancient tectonic rifts
buckling the pavement.
Look around, and find,
not commonality,
but indifference.
Alienation, a constant companion,
and aliens, sometimes acquaintances.
“Mililani” means “Look Up.”
But all I see
through haze of street lamp and telescopic lens
is a glass mirrored ceiling.
Where my reflection should be standing
in the midst of my hometown,
I only see Mars:
blood soiled,
canal scarred,
rumored of life,
certain of war;
And a Martian,
trying to find a way
to where I’m
supposed to be,
trying to discover
intelligent life.
Thus it is that I dub thee
“Mars-ilani”
town of past futures
and futures passed,
where aliens
shy of escape velocity
find
home
away from home.
* Culdesacs, the “leaves” (if not the flowers) of suburban development, are banned in some modern communities because of the high incidence of a specific kind of “freak accident”: parents unsuspectingly backing over their toddler children, whom they left to play unsupervised in supposed “safety.” An apt symbol for suburban life in general, where “[apparently] nothing ever happens.”
Mililani’s symbol, by the way, resembles a culdesac. Read the story “Culdesacs: Suburban Dream or Dead End” by John Nielsen in the June 7th 2006 broadcast of NPR’s “Morning Edition.”
[There was also some interview on November 3rd, with an author, something Foley? About suburbia. Noted it, but can't remember currently.]
AWESOME
Now, I'm not a football person, but tonight's win (UH over Washington) was AWESOME. Final Score: 35-28. It's especially impressive considering how far behind UH was: in the first quarter, they were back 21 points. Way to turn it around.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Getting Better... Still...
The score now is 28-14, UW... No, let me amend that, 28- 21!!! Can't help myself. Don't usually watch, but let's hope UH can win DESPITE me.
Jinxer
I decided not to actively watch the UH-UW game. I was watching the first few minutes, in which Washington scored two touchdowns with apparent ease, and almost took Brennan out. De-pressing... My via-negativa perspective is probably jinxing the team. So, I'll check in, fleetingly, periodically, just to check on the score. Not long enough to do any more damage...
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