“You can’t go.”
Randy says this with as much calm as he can muster, standing in the middle of the doorway.
It is Friday evening, and Dean and his friends, scattered about the living room, are staring at him in silence.
“What are you talking about, dweeb,” Dean mutters abruptly. Dean’s friends smirk and begin to turn away.
“You can’t go,” Randy repeats. “It- it looks like it’s going to rain tonight. Who knows, it might- it might even flood.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Dean shoves Randy roughly aside. His friends laugh openly.
Undaunted, Randy rushes over to Dean, grabbing his left hand.
“Ow!” Dean shouts, pulling his hand away. His eyes flare dangerously. He’s about to shove Randy back, but noticing all eyes are on him, thinks better of it.
Whether Randy realizes how close he was to being pushed to the ground or not, he doesn’t pause to appreciate it. “Look,” Randy begins, breathless. “I didn’t want to tell you this. But there’s a monster down in the canal.”
Despite his obvious annoyance, Dean laughs. He glances over at his friends, and they share conspiratorial winks. “A monster?”
“Yes,” Randy says. “A kappa.”
“A kappa,” says Dean, nodding. “What is that again?”
Randy looks down at an empty corner on the ground; it’s easier than seeing all the incredulous, mocking faces above. “At first, I thought he was just a water-monkey, or something. But then, I found out that kappa are actually the angry ghosts of unwanted babies who were drowned in rivers. And this kappa, he hates you.” Randy dares a glance at his brother, to make a point. “He hates you because of how you treat me.”
Dean’s expression is at first condescending, and then puzzled, and then (at the last part) almost hurt. He is quiet for a couple of seconds. Then, he walks around Randy, and his friends follow him. “You’re a riot,” one of them murmurs in passing.
Randy is about to follow them, to make one last attempt to save Dean. Just as Randy reaches the door, however, Dean stands like a wall at the threshold. He doesn’t look Randy in the eye. He just calls above his head: “Mom, Dad. Can you take Randy away? He’s trying to tag along.”
Mom comes around, and pulls Randy sharply by the arm. Randy tries to pull himself free, tries to reason with his mother. “But Mom, you don’t understand- the kappa-”
“Randy!” she shouts. “Stop it!” She looks out the doorway at Dean’s assembled friends, and gives an embarrassed grin. “I’m sorry,” she calls out. “Go! Have fun now! Catch a lot of toads!”
As Dean and his friends leave, carrying lanterns and flashlights and buckets and nets towards the backyard fence, Randy is pulled upstairs by his mother. All the while, she is complaining: “What is wrong with you, embarrassing Dean in front of his friends like that?”
Randy just hangs his head as he is ushered into his room.
“You go to bed,” Mom commands. “If I catch you trying to sneak out, then Dad’s going to hear about it!”
As soon as she departs, Randy shuffles over to his louvered glass windows, gazing out at his brother and friends. He just manages to see the last of their group crawl through the opening in the chain link, and disappear into the canal. He can still hear them, their jovial conversations and laughter echoing off the slanted canal walls and into the sky. And he can still see their lamplights and flashlights, shining up and out, and casting strange shadows on the darkening weedelia fields. And then, suddenly, they enter the tunnel, and their voices become abruptly muted.
Randy lies on his back, feeling his heart pounding. What had he done? And what could he do?
He thinks. He remembers what Yagoro said, that just as all water finds its way down into the canals, so too do the careless words and whispers of the townspeople. “The pipes,” he says out loud to himself. He creeps out of his bedroom, and into the nearby bathroom. He closes the door behind him. He leans over the porcelain sink, and hesitantly speaks into the drain at the bottom of the bowl, as through a microphone.
“Hello?” he calls awkwardly. “Yagoro? I- I hope you can hear me. Please- don’t hurt my brother. I know what I said earlier –”
Just then, Randy’s mom opens the door. The back of Randy’s head glances the faucet as he jerks himself up.
“Who are you talking to?” Mom asks sharply.
Randy conceals the sharp pain at his occiput with a forced grin. “Nobody,” he mutters. “I was just- I was just about to brush my teeth.”
“Well, hurry it up!” Mom says. “And go straight to bed afterwards. Don’t wait up for your brother. I want you to go to sleep.”
Randy nods. “Okay.”
When the door is closed again, Randy puts the stopper in the sink, and begins to fill it with warm water. He needs to make a sound, a sound loud enough to reach Yagoro, and, hopefully, stop him. But that sound also needs to be quiet enough to slip under the attentions of his parents.
He dunks his head fully into the sink.
For some reason, at the instant his head breaks the surface, the ancient memory flashes, the one of him nearly drowning in the surf, the one where his parents and brother stood high on a sand dune laughing. It saps his resolve, and he finds he can’t think of anything to say to save his brother. He lifts his dripping face from the water, breathless.
“I hate myself.” The thought comes spontaneously, and fully formed. It surprises Randy with its forcefulness, and its truth. Other thoughts follow it, like tongues of flame. “I can’t do anything, not even to save my brother. There’s always been something wrong with me. I- I think I was born without a soul. I don’t know where this hate comes from. It’s easy to think that it came from him, that he made me hate myself. But he didn’t. It was always all me. It was always all me. I hate myself so much.”
And suddenly, Randy realizes what the answer is: the one thing that he can do better than anyone else, better than Dean, and better than Yagoro.
He dunks his head fully into the sink once again, and screams the answer, tears flowing and mixing invisibly and silently into the waters.
When he is done, he wipes his dripping face on a towel, and walks back to his room. He suddenly feels deeply exhausted. He crawls into bed, barely managing to push aside Owlie and Donald Duck, and the books he had “researched,” before falling into sleep as into a pool with no bottom…
It’s the oldest dream.
The waves, the wind, the sand.
The laughter.
And in the midst of the tumult, just when Randy is about to give up, he hears the voice: “Sink. Sink. Sink and then float.”
But then the dream continues.
There is a hand that wraps around Randy’s wrist. It pulls him, leads him, reorients him. His head breaks the foamy surface, and in the brilliant, burning air, he can hear himself coughing above the shhh of the waters.
He blinks the stinging salt from his eyes.
It’s his brother Dean.
“Stand up,” he says, smiling. “C’mon, stand up!”
Randy’s feet suddenly feel a floor underneath. He rises up, his face almost copying his brother’s smile.
“C’mon!”
Randy wakes up.
There is a sound in his room, the sound of someone walking softly across the carpeted floor. Randy opens his eyes very slightly, so that he can peer through slits into the darkness. He sees a dark silhouette leaning over him, its face obscured in shadow. For a terrifying moment, Randy imagines that it is Yagoro the Kappa, slinking out of the canal to pay a personal visit. But the figure withdraws slightly, and as it passes through a sliver of half-light, Randy sees that it is only his older brother Dean.
Dean seems to carry something in his hands. He gently places it on Randy’s cramped wooden desk. The contact of the object onto the desk’s surface is accompanied by a small sound, halfway between the contact of metal, and a splash of water. Then, Dean sits in Randy’s chair, which creaks softly beneath his weight.
For long moments, Dean sits in silence. During this period, Randy struggles to keep his breathing slow and even, to maintain the illusion that he is still sleeping. Oddly enough, whether the illusion worked or not, Dean abruptly begins to speak.
“You have to understand,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Nothing ever came easy. And no one ever helped me out. I had to do everything, all by myself. So if I leave you out, if I’m not always the best brother to you, it’s because that’s how it was for me. It’s because-” Dean seems to want to say something more, but sighs and leaves the sentence unfinished. He gets up from the chair swiftly. “I found this. It reminded me of you.” And with that, he leaves the room.
Randy waits for long minutes after the sound of his brother’s breathing grows even next door. Then, he slowly and quietly slips out of bed and creeps over to the light switch, on the wall beside his desk. He flips the switch, his eyes wincing at the sudden illumination.
He gasps.
On the middle of his desk is a bowl fashioned out of blue-green pennies, all rusted together. The bowl is half-filled with dark water. Hovering within that water is a pollywog, forest green and mottled with dark spots.
“Ranidae,” he whispers.
According to legend, there is one way to defeat a Kappa.
Kappa may be shiftless, with unfathomable motives; but they are also creatures of propriety. It is said that if you bow to a Kappa, they cannot help but bow back. In doing so, they empty the bowls on the tops of their heads, and lose all of their magical powers.
The rules of politeness have changed over time and across cultures. The modern Kappa no longer recognizes a bow as a simple physical gesture. No, for Yagoro, a bow must mean something real. It must mean that someone has lowered himself first.
Yagoro thinks about this as he drifts on the black currents, deep beneath the earth. The boy Randy discovered the one thing he could do better than anyone else, and in so doing, had stolen back any and all of Yagoro’s powers over him.
Yagoro feels himself sinking, feels the gentle pull of an invisible current. He knows not where the waters carry him, and he doesn’t care. “Kappa no kawa nagare.”
Someday, he will find where he belongs. Somewhere, he will find someone that needs him, like a brother.
“Until then,” he murmurs, his voice staining the waters, “I will sink… sink… sink… and I will float.”
Thursday, April 30, 2009
monday's funeral was wonderful, if such a thing may be said. there was a pretty big turnout. and i got to sit next to both my brother and sister. it's funny how only at times like that, family comes together. it is only when wounds appear that everyone comes together to pretend the gaps can close...
when our family went up to offer flowers to my grandmother's spirit, there was an awkwardness. my mother, being the eldest daughter, was called up first. or rather, her family was. i'm a part of her family, but i have a family as well. and besides that, my sister's kids live with my parents, and they consider themselves a part of my mother's immediate family as well. so we basically had a bunch of people getting flowers to offer, with no clear idea about who should go first, or who should wait for whom. what eventually happened was my mother's family (including me) went up first, in straggling pieces- one cool moment was when my brother and i offered up our flowers and prayers side by side- and then i went up again, with my own family. i had to help aiden clap four times, as is the tradition.
the slideshow was a success, although i had to set everything up, and keep everything set up throughout the entire proceedings. that made greeting people pretty awkward. the mourners would come up to offer their condolences, but when they got to me and my sister, a lot of them looked at the equipment (on a piano bench) and simply bypassed us and moved on. i have a fundamental insecurity about these issues, but it sometimes seemed like people recognized my older brother as the "honored one," and shook hands with him- but they instantly perceived that i (and my sister) weren't quite worthy of any condolences. but then again, that's just me.
i didn't know a lot of the people. my grandmother sure touched a lot of people's lives.
there were actually four eulogies, delivered by my cousin dana, my uncle masao, my brother dean, and me. i think the best by far (and perhaps the most unexpected) was my uncle's. my uncle masao, a bachelor, probably knew my grandmother the best. even though he lives in downtown, and doesn't own a car himself (although he is a perfectly capable driver), he would catch the bus down to ewa beach about two or three times a week to water the plants, and check on my grandma. he was her personal assistant and chauffer. he would take her to the monthly services over at the aloha kyokai in waipahu. sometimes i attended those services as well.
let me tell you a bit about my uncle. he is one of the most cynical people around, or he can seem to be. you have to look underneath the surface, or perhaps look at his actions, to understand what a truly compassionate person he is. anyway, sometimes when i'd listen to the way my uncle talked to my grandmother, i would wince. and sometimes i would laugh.
i would go to the monthly service at aloha kyokai and sit somewhere near the rear, next to my uncle. and all throughout the service, he would badmouth the religion, or complain (half-humorously) about my grandma... OUT LOUD. the other people in attendance were probably already used to my uncle's crass statements, but i kinda felt a mix of embarrassment and amusement at it all.
so when my uncle VOLUNTEERED to deliver a eulogy, it came as something of a shock. when he went up to speak, he certainly didn't disappoint. on the one hand, he spoke with brutal honesty about some of my grandma's ways: he used words like "annoying" and "outspoken," and i felt myself laughing and crying all at once, despite myself. but the bottom line, he said, was that my grandma was a truly sincere, positive force in the world, and he would really miss her. coming from my uncle, that was a truly heart-wrenching statement.
i was worried that my eulogy would run too long, but somehow it didn't. i was also worried that i would sound either completely emotionless, or i would break down to unintelligible sobs (that actually happened, unexpectedly, when i did a read-through with my wife). but neither happened. i managed to speak loudly, and keep it together. and at certain points near the end, i started to break down, but not enough to lose it completely.
i think it was well-received. in any case, i know it was well-received by the person who counted, my grandmother. my words were directed to her.
***
the past few days have been hard. i caught a cold, and have been struggling to complete a couple of killer projects for my courses. i feel numb inside, and i have this tremendous inertia; in fact, i feel like a boulder. there are many times when i understand that i just can't get to work, just can't do things in a "responsible" manner; and then, when it comes down to it, when i absolutely have to do something, i have this juggernaut-like persistence that actually comes through. i like to think that i'm "guided," or at the very least, that i understand myself and my "fate" enough to be patient, and not apply force to myself when and where it would do the least good. i like to think that i am procrastinating because it is the most efficient way i could use my time, given the state of my emotions. but whatever. i accept myself the way i am right now, and function accordingly. no complaints. but some small panic.
***
today, i created a "manipulative" to teach phonemic blending and segmentation. for those of you who don't know, phonemic blending and segmentation is a fundamental skill, usually (or ideally) taught in preschool or kindergarten, to help kids to begin to decode text and start to read words. phonemes are the basic sound units of language. kids learn, for example, that the letter "b" makes the /b/ sound (i can't depict sounds, so convention dictates that i use the diagonal slashes). phonemic blending and segmentation builds on the foundation of the awareness of the phonemes of individual letters. with blending, kids attempt to combine individual sounds to form simple words. with segmentation, kids attempt to "break apart" the sounds of words into their component phonemes.
it might not seem important, but phonemic blending/segmentation has been studied extensively, and has been found to be a key determinant in the eventual reading success of a child. that was why i decided to focus on this skill with my preschool class.
one of the greatest difficulties i have had with the whole notion of phonemic blending/segmentation is that it is primarily an intangible process of sound manipulation. how do you "explain" such a concept to a child, especially when their language is not sufficiently developed? following principles of special education, i decided to create some kind of manipulative to make the whole phonemic blending/segmentation process far more tangible. i initially thought of using alphabet blocks, but alphabet blocks don't CONNECT or SEPARATE, so they wouldn't really illustrate the key idea i was trying to convey. eventually, i thought of using lego blocks, particularly duplo lego blocks (the largish ones), with individual letters written on the sides.
last night, after picking aiden up, i went to toys-r-us to buy a box of duplo blocks. i wish that you could hand pick the kind and color of blocks in a set, but you can't. it would have been ideal if i could use one color for vowels, and another for consonants. but i wasn't about to buy two boxes for this lesson; too rich for my blood.
i tested out my manipulative on one student this morning. they seemed to work REALLY well (or maybe the student was dead spot on). he was able to form words and break words apart into component sounds (i had him SAY the sounds as he touched the blocks). the one disadvantage was that, in a way, the lego blocks were TOO fun; sometimes he wanted to play with them in more conventional ways.
as far as assessment and tangible student-made product, this is what i did: i drew a picture in front of the student (students LOVE when you draw in front of them; they like to "discover" the image as you produce it). for example, i drew a picture of a bat. then, i had the student use post-it notes with the appropriate letters printed on them, and had him "create" the word for that picture. the student was able to do this with remarkable ease for 4 pictures.
i also recorded the student's voice on my mac (using garage band) so that i could analyze his pronunciation of the phonemes, and recheck my results.
all in all, it was a good lesson.
i believe that all parents should do such activities with their children (for that matter, I should, with aiden). maybe i will post up detailed instructions for how to conduct the phoneme blending/segmentation lessons i have created...
***
at the same time, i have been doing a behavioral modification project for one of the "problem" students in the class. that seems to be going okay, at least for the time period during which i conduct observation and interventions. i am using a dra procedure (differential reinforcement of alternative behavior), which is a fancy way of saying that i reward the child for doing one specific (good) behavior, and don't reward him if he does something else. as far as the observation scheme (i may be using incorrect terminology), i use randomized time sampling. i went to random.org to generate a list of random numbers in the range of 1 to 7. i set my handy portable kitchen timer to the first number in the list. when the timer goes off, i check to see if my kid is performing the good behavior or doing something else; if the former, then he is rewarded (unfortunately, he chose skittles as his preferred reward).
he is doing better during morning sessions. not only is his specific bad behavior reduced to nothing, but he is also participating more actively in the morning session activities.
***
but i am sick, and i am tired. although (deep down) i am enjoying what i do, i can't wait for the semester (and all of its hanging dreadful deadlines) to be over with.
i need to finish marsilani (the first story has been proceeding slowly but surely!). i think i will post the tentative ending of "amphibious: brother's keeper," a story that i have been reworking IN REVERSE (never let it be said that you can't write a story from the end back). i know, you may not know what it's about, but read it anyway, let me know what you think...
when our family went up to offer flowers to my grandmother's spirit, there was an awkwardness. my mother, being the eldest daughter, was called up first. or rather, her family was. i'm a part of her family, but i have a family as well. and besides that, my sister's kids live with my parents, and they consider themselves a part of my mother's immediate family as well. so we basically had a bunch of people getting flowers to offer, with no clear idea about who should go first, or who should wait for whom. what eventually happened was my mother's family (including me) went up first, in straggling pieces- one cool moment was when my brother and i offered up our flowers and prayers side by side- and then i went up again, with my own family. i had to help aiden clap four times, as is the tradition.
the slideshow was a success, although i had to set everything up, and keep everything set up throughout the entire proceedings. that made greeting people pretty awkward. the mourners would come up to offer their condolences, but when they got to me and my sister, a lot of them looked at the equipment (on a piano bench) and simply bypassed us and moved on. i have a fundamental insecurity about these issues, but it sometimes seemed like people recognized my older brother as the "honored one," and shook hands with him- but they instantly perceived that i (and my sister) weren't quite worthy of any condolences. but then again, that's just me.
i didn't know a lot of the people. my grandmother sure touched a lot of people's lives.
there were actually four eulogies, delivered by my cousin dana, my uncle masao, my brother dean, and me. i think the best by far (and perhaps the most unexpected) was my uncle's. my uncle masao, a bachelor, probably knew my grandmother the best. even though he lives in downtown, and doesn't own a car himself (although he is a perfectly capable driver), he would catch the bus down to ewa beach about two or three times a week to water the plants, and check on my grandma. he was her personal assistant and chauffer. he would take her to the monthly services over at the aloha kyokai in waipahu. sometimes i attended those services as well.
let me tell you a bit about my uncle. he is one of the most cynical people around, or he can seem to be. you have to look underneath the surface, or perhaps look at his actions, to understand what a truly compassionate person he is. anyway, sometimes when i'd listen to the way my uncle talked to my grandmother, i would wince. and sometimes i would laugh.
i would go to the monthly service at aloha kyokai and sit somewhere near the rear, next to my uncle. and all throughout the service, he would badmouth the religion, or complain (half-humorously) about my grandma... OUT LOUD. the other people in attendance were probably already used to my uncle's crass statements, but i kinda felt a mix of embarrassment and amusement at it all.
so when my uncle VOLUNTEERED to deliver a eulogy, it came as something of a shock. when he went up to speak, he certainly didn't disappoint. on the one hand, he spoke with brutal honesty about some of my grandma's ways: he used words like "annoying" and "outspoken," and i felt myself laughing and crying all at once, despite myself. but the bottom line, he said, was that my grandma was a truly sincere, positive force in the world, and he would really miss her. coming from my uncle, that was a truly heart-wrenching statement.
i was worried that my eulogy would run too long, but somehow it didn't. i was also worried that i would sound either completely emotionless, or i would break down to unintelligible sobs (that actually happened, unexpectedly, when i did a read-through with my wife). but neither happened. i managed to speak loudly, and keep it together. and at certain points near the end, i started to break down, but not enough to lose it completely.
i think it was well-received. in any case, i know it was well-received by the person who counted, my grandmother. my words were directed to her.
***
the past few days have been hard. i caught a cold, and have been struggling to complete a couple of killer projects for my courses. i feel numb inside, and i have this tremendous inertia; in fact, i feel like a boulder. there are many times when i understand that i just can't get to work, just can't do things in a "responsible" manner; and then, when it comes down to it, when i absolutely have to do something, i have this juggernaut-like persistence that actually comes through. i like to think that i'm "guided," or at the very least, that i understand myself and my "fate" enough to be patient, and not apply force to myself when and where it would do the least good. i like to think that i am procrastinating because it is the most efficient way i could use my time, given the state of my emotions. but whatever. i accept myself the way i am right now, and function accordingly. no complaints. but some small panic.
***
today, i created a "manipulative" to teach phonemic blending and segmentation. for those of you who don't know, phonemic blending and segmentation is a fundamental skill, usually (or ideally) taught in preschool or kindergarten, to help kids to begin to decode text and start to read words. phonemes are the basic sound units of language. kids learn, for example, that the letter "b" makes the /b/ sound (i can't depict sounds, so convention dictates that i use the diagonal slashes). phonemic blending and segmentation builds on the foundation of the awareness of the phonemes of individual letters. with blending, kids attempt to combine individual sounds to form simple words. with segmentation, kids attempt to "break apart" the sounds of words into their component phonemes.
it might not seem important, but phonemic blending/segmentation has been studied extensively, and has been found to be a key determinant in the eventual reading success of a child. that was why i decided to focus on this skill with my preschool class.
one of the greatest difficulties i have had with the whole notion of phonemic blending/segmentation is that it is primarily an intangible process of sound manipulation. how do you "explain" such a concept to a child, especially when their language is not sufficiently developed? following principles of special education, i decided to create some kind of manipulative to make the whole phonemic blending/segmentation process far more tangible. i initially thought of using alphabet blocks, but alphabet blocks don't CONNECT or SEPARATE, so they wouldn't really illustrate the key idea i was trying to convey. eventually, i thought of using lego blocks, particularly duplo lego blocks (the largish ones), with individual letters written on the sides.
last night, after picking aiden up, i went to toys-r-us to buy a box of duplo blocks. i wish that you could hand pick the kind and color of blocks in a set, but you can't. it would have been ideal if i could use one color for vowels, and another for consonants. but i wasn't about to buy two boxes for this lesson; too rich for my blood.
i tested out my manipulative on one student this morning. they seemed to work REALLY well (or maybe the student was dead spot on). he was able to form words and break words apart into component sounds (i had him SAY the sounds as he touched the blocks). the one disadvantage was that, in a way, the lego blocks were TOO fun; sometimes he wanted to play with them in more conventional ways.
as far as assessment and tangible student-made product, this is what i did: i drew a picture in front of the student (students LOVE when you draw in front of them; they like to "discover" the image as you produce it). for example, i drew a picture of a bat. then, i had the student use post-it notes with the appropriate letters printed on them, and had him "create" the word for that picture. the student was able to do this with remarkable ease for 4 pictures.
i also recorded the student's voice on my mac (using garage band) so that i could analyze his pronunciation of the phonemes, and recheck my results.
all in all, it was a good lesson.
i believe that all parents should do such activities with their children (for that matter, I should, with aiden). maybe i will post up detailed instructions for how to conduct the phoneme blending/segmentation lessons i have created...
***
at the same time, i have been doing a behavioral modification project for one of the "problem" students in the class. that seems to be going okay, at least for the time period during which i conduct observation and interventions. i am using a dra procedure (differential reinforcement of alternative behavior), which is a fancy way of saying that i reward the child for doing one specific (good) behavior, and don't reward him if he does something else. as far as the observation scheme (i may be using incorrect terminology), i use randomized time sampling. i went to random.org to generate a list of random numbers in the range of 1 to 7. i set my handy portable kitchen timer to the first number in the list. when the timer goes off, i check to see if my kid is performing the good behavior or doing something else; if the former, then he is rewarded (unfortunately, he chose skittles as his preferred reward).
he is doing better during morning sessions. not only is his specific bad behavior reduced to nothing, but he is also participating more actively in the morning session activities.
***
but i am sick, and i am tired. although (deep down) i am enjoying what i do, i can't wait for the semester (and all of its hanging dreadful deadlines) to be over with.
i need to finish marsilani (the first story has been proceeding slowly but surely!). i think i will post the tentative ending of "amphibious: brother's keeper," a story that i have been reworking IN REVERSE (never let it be said that you can't write a story from the end back). i know, you may not know what it's about, but read it anyway, let me know what you think...
Monday, April 27, 2009
deep sea flower, a cover of radiohead's "last flowers"
okay, so i shouldn't have been doing this, but i couldn't get this song out of my head. so this morning, i worked this song out on garage band. it was literally done in a couple of hours, so sue me if it doesn't sound all that great. it was fun, though.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
my eulogy: for grandma mitakara (1919-2009)
My grandma always inspired me. I like to write stories and poems, and my grandma was always a central and recurring figure. I'd like to read a poem I wrote for her. It's called For Ewa.
There used to be this road
to get to grandma’s house.
It was just one road,
Fort Weaver,
and it didn’t wind or curve,
so there was little chance of getting lost.
It just divided up the sugar caned flats
like the cut of a cake knife.
Beyond the cane,
and below the setting sun,
dry coral and kiawe and scrub brush
folded gently up to the Waianae range.
It was hard staying up
all the way there,
especially lying in the trunk
of our station wagon Pinto
baking in the leeward sun
like gingerbread.
We’d always arrive late
for monthly otsutome
and grandpa and grandma
would already be crowing their
twenty one ashiki harai’s
out of tune and out of rhythm
to the clapping furoshikis.
In any other neighborhood,
only the dogs would dare join in
but out in Ewa,
it was the late roosters
that vied to be heard.
We’d creep in and kneel seiza
in some corner,
sweat pinched and leaking behind our knees
and pretend to do the service sincerely.
At the ichiretsu sumashite part
my brother and I would part our hands
extra wide like karate chops into each other
and our sidelong eyes would laugh
even as our mouths kept lip-synching.
After grandma’s sermon about
the proper hierarchy of men and women
it was time for lunch.
I barely touched the “old folk’s
country style food”: gobo kimpira
and that stuff that looked like a slug
tied with a rubber band.
I drank two or three cans of grape soda
instead.
And then we would go home.
There used to be
a way to get to grandma’s house.
But grandpa and now grandma are gone.
I will never again get to taste
Grandma’s home-made sushi,
Never again get to half ignore
one of her nature-teaching sermons
Never again feel her calloused hand
Gently touch my arm to make sure I’m paying attention
Never again hear her voice
A voice that always sounded like laughter
Never again see her eyes-
Those eyes, like stars twinkling.
The sky of my world
Is a little less bright
And a little more silent
And the only thing I can do is rely on memories
Memories of you
To keep me from getting lost.
Grandma,
I could always count on you. Whenever I was feeling down or frustrated, I could call you, or drive out to your house. And even if you were busy (and you were always busy, making pillows or food for someone- you were never doing nothing), even if you were busy, you put down what you were doing for me. You would listen to me, and even if everyone else just thought I was full of crap, even if no one else had the patience to listen to me, you listened to me. And after you had me eat something that you seemed to always have prepared just for me, then you had me sit down next to you at your kitchen/conference table, and you would tell me a story, or give me a sermon. A lot of times, I wasn’t sure how relevant it was. And it seemed like I had heard it all before.
“Drink the mamansan rice! Or do the otsutome every day! Or do the sazuke! Or, most frequently, take your Yamazu!” One of your most regular sermons was about how your kids all turned out alright, how they had all gone to college, and how you attributed it to a lesson you learned when they Karen had a really high fever, and how that was a reflection of you, that the fire and water in you was reversed, and how you had to train to be a good wife, to cool that temper and shut that mouth. And I would be thinking, grandma, you are the most outspoken person I know (maybe after my own mom); I can’t imagine what you must have been like before!
And then, somehow, you would always get to talking about marital relationships, even in pretty graphic ways, and I would be thinking: 1) this is kind of gross, and 2) this is kind of sexist, and I don’t know many women nowadays who would sit around and listen to this kind of talk, much less obey it. Except Lynn…
There would be a point where I wouldn’t really be listening to you any more. My eyes would glaze over, and I would just be nodding and saying “Yes” periodically. I think you knew when I had enough. You would close. And then, as I hurried to leave, you would remind me to do mamansan before I left. And I would sit on that chair, the same chair that you sat in every morning and every evening, and I would try to copy what you did, clap 4 times and talk to God, and the ancestors, and to Oyasama (who I always felt was the most like you anyway). And I would leave, waving at you from the car as you hobbled all the way out to the front steps. And you know what? No matter what my problems were, whether it was the trifles of a little boy, or the confusion of a teenager, or even the mid-life crises of a father, I always always always felt better. I always knew that there was someone who would listen to me, believe in me, and do anything that she could to help me.
I want to thank you, grandma, for everything you have done for me and for everyone in this world.
There used to be this road
to get to grandma’s house.
It was just one road,
Fort Weaver,
and it didn’t wind or curve,
so there was little chance of getting lost.
It just divided up the sugar caned flats
like the cut of a cake knife.
Beyond the cane,
and below the setting sun,
dry coral and kiawe and scrub brush
folded gently up to the Waianae range.
It was hard staying up
all the way there,
especially lying in the trunk
of our station wagon Pinto
baking in the leeward sun
like gingerbread.
We’d always arrive late
for monthly otsutome
and grandpa and grandma
would already be crowing their
twenty one ashiki harai’s
out of tune and out of rhythm
to the clapping furoshikis.
In any other neighborhood,
only the dogs would dare join in
but out in Ewa,
it was the late roosters
that vied to be heard.
We’d creep in and kneel seiza
in some corner,
sweat pinched and leaking behind our knees
and pretend to do the service sincerely.
At the ichiretsu sumashite part
my brother and I would part our hands
extra wide like karate chops into each other
and our sidelong eyes would laugh
even as our mouths kept lip-synching.
After grandma’s sermon about
the proper hierarchy of men and women
it was time for lunch.
I barely touched the “old folk’s
country style food”: gobo kimpira
and that stuff that looked like a slug
tied with a rubber band.
I drank two or three cans of grape soda
instead.
And then we would go home.
There used to be
a way to get to grandma’s house.
But grandpa and now grandma are gone.
I will never again get to taste
Grandma’s home-made sushi,
Never again get to half ignore
one of her nature-teaching sermons
Never again feel her calloused hand
Gently touch my arm to make sure I’m paying attention
Never again hear her voice
A voice that always sounded like laughter
Never again see her eyes-
Those eyes, like stars twinkling.
The sky of my world
Is a little less bright
And a little more silent
And the only thing I can do is rely on memories
Memories of you
To keep me from getting lost.
Grandma,
I could always count on you. Whenever I was feeling down or frustrated, I could call you, or drive out to your house. And even if you were busy (and you were always busy, making pillows or food for someone- you were never doing nothing), even if you were busy, you put down what you were doing for me. You would listen to me, and even if everyone else just thought I was full of crap, even if no one else had the patience to listen to me, you listened to me. And after you had me eat something that you seemed to always have prepared just for me, then you had me sit down next to you at your kitchen/conference table, and you would tell me a story, or give me a sermon. A lot of times, I wasn’t sure how relevant it was. And it seemed like I had heard it all before.
“Drink the mamansan rice! Or do the otsutome every day! Or do the sazuke! Or, most frequently, take your Yamazu!” One of your most regular sermons was about how your kids all turned out alright, how they had all gone to college, and how you attributed it to a lesson you learned when they Karen had a really high fever, and how that was a reflection of you, that the fire and water in you was reversed, and how you had to train to be a good wife, to cool that temper and shut that mouth. And I would be thinking, grandma, you are the most outspoken person I know (maybe after my own mom); I can’t imagine what you must have been like before!
And then, somehow, you would always get to talking about marital relationships, even in pretty graphic ways, and I would be thinking: 1) this is kind of gross, and 2) this is kind of sexist, and I don’t know many women nowadays who would sit around and listen to this kind of talk, much less obey it. Except Lynn…
There would be a point where I wouldn’t really be listening to you any more. My eyes would glaze over, and I would just be nodding and saying “Yes” periodically. I think you knew when I had enough. You would close. And then, as I hurried to leave, you would remind me to do mamansan before I left. And I would sit on that chair, the same chair that you sat in every morning and every evening, and I would try to copy what you did, clap 4 times and talk to God, and the ancestors, and to Oyasama (who I always felt was the most like you anyway). And I would leave, waving at you from the car as you hobbled all the way out to the front steps. And you know what? No matter what my problems were, whether it was the trifles of a little boy, or the confusion of a teenager, or even the mid-life crises of a father, I always always always felt better. I always knew that there was someone who would listen to me, believe in me, and do anything that she could to help me.
I want to thank you, grandma, for everything you have done for me and for everyone in this world.
free roxana saberi
today is roxana saberi's 32nd birthday.
roxana saberi is a journalist (half iranian, half japanese) who has dual citizenship (us and iran), and has lived in iran for six years. she has reported for several news outlets, including npr.
she is currently in an iranian prison, serving out an eight year sentence for what most in the world believe are trumped up charges of espionage. on this day, please pray for her, and support efforts to free her. you can do this in a very small way by posting the above picture on your facebook page, posting messages about her on your blog or facebook profile, etc.
if you are interested in posting the above image, visit http://budurl.com/23ks. right click on the image, and select save to desktop. once you have it on your desktop, you can post it anywhere you want: facebook, blog, etc.
let's support efforts to free her, and the other journalists who now suffer imprisonment, in their job of speaking truth to power.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
when i was a child, i knew how to love.
but grown up people called this knowledge naivette and ignorance, and they instead taught me how to discriminate, which was a nice way to say that they taught me how to hate. and as i listened to the grown up people more and more, i learned to see things as they did. and when i looked upon people i had once simply loved, it was as though they had been transformed (deformed) and transfigured (disfigured). they were no longer simply who they were, and my relationship to them wasn't a simple enjoyment of their presence and company. it was as though they were held at a distance, and everything about them was no longer innocent, but tainted by motives.
and thus it was that i learned the ways of the world, which were primarily the pathways of hatred.
i am older now, and i can see the folly of the worldly view (even though once it was something to aspire to). but it is hard to return to the pure and simple innocence that i once had; it is hard to trust love. this, nevertheless, is the thing which i must do. this, after all, is the only way to redeem the world: not to correct it, but to remember how to love it, in all its simple glory.
never forget this, that love was not something taught to us; it always already was. it was the world that taught us to hate. and we were all quick studies in a fundamental falsity.
***
parents always wish the best for their children. but in wishing the best, don't discriminate. don't discriminate aspects of the child, and don't discriminate between your child and others. this is perhaps the hardest thing to do. but if you overtly do this, then you covertly teach your children to discriminate within and amongst themselves, and discrimination is on a slippery slope with hatred.
i can clearly remember the words of one nearby parent, who stated proudly that her child was going to punahou (a private school) because she didn't want her child to associate with mediocrity.
i am glad that my daughter and son have not learned to look down on anyone, but approach all with open arms and open heart. someday (soon) the world will teach them to choose their friends wisely; but it is my hope that they will never completely forget how to love. for this is the path that saves the world, this is the labor of the peacemaker, that he can find a way to love the unlovable.
but grown up people called this knowledge naivette and ignorance, and they instead taught me how to discriminate, which was a nice way to say that they taught me how to hate. and as i listened to the grown up people more and more, i learned to see things as they did. and when i looked upon people i had once simply loved, it was as though they had been transformed (deformed) and transfigured (disfigured). they were no longer simply who they were, and my relationship to them wasn't a simple enjoyment of their presence and company. it was as though they were held at a distance, and everything about them was no longer innocent, but tainted by motives.
and thus it was that i learned the ways of the world, which were primarily the pathways of hatred.
i am older now, and i can see the folly of the worldly view (even though once it was something to aspire to). but it is hard to return to the pure and simple innocence that i once had; it is hard to trust love. this, nevertheless, is the thing which i must do. this, after all, is the only way to redeem the world: not to correct it, but to remember how to love it, in all its simple glory.
never forget this, that love was not something taught to us; it always already was. it was the world that taught us to hate. and we were all quick studies in a fundamental falsity.
***
parents always wish the best for their children. but in wishing the best, don't discriminate. don't discriminate aspects of the child, and don't discriminate between your child and others. this is perhaps the hardest thing to do. but if you overtly do this, then you covertly teach your children to discriminate within and amongst themselves, and discrimination is on a slippery slope with hatred.
i can clearly remember the words of one nearby parent, who stated proudly that her child was going to punahou (a private school) because she didn't want her child to associate with mediocrity.
i am glad that my daughter and son have not learned to look down on anyone, but approach all with open arms and open heart. someday (soon) the world will teach them to choose their friends wisely; but it is my hope that they will never completely forget how to love. for this is the path that saves the world, this is the labor of the peacemaker, that he can find a way to love the unlovable.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Change
I have exported (to hard drive) all previous entries of this blog. There were several reasons for this.
First of all, I am getting close to self-publishing "Marsilani 4." I posted early versions of many of the stories and poems in this blog, and thought that I would be defeating the purpose of publishing them if they could be accessed by anyone in the blog format.
Second (and this has been an ongoing concern for me), the blog has become more well-known, despite my infrequent, awkward posts, and I think I may have posted several things that should not have been broadcast to the world. Don't get me wrong. I intend to continue to "write my mind" on this blog. However, I vow to be more careful and responsible about what I post, particularly when it may hurt other people's feelings or interests.
Finally, I simply wanted a change. A lot has happened recently, most significantly, the death of my Ewa Beach grandma. Such things have ramifications, and this "new start" for my blog is a reflection of this.
I hope that I continue to provide the people who read my blog with something significant, or interesting.
First of all, I am getting close to self-publishing "Marsilani 4." I posted early versions of many of the stories and poems in this blog, and thought that I would be defeating the purpose of publishing them if they could be accessed by anyone in the blog format.
Second (and this has been an ongoing concern for me), the blog has become more well-known, despite my infrequent, awkward posts, and I think I may have posted several things that should not have been broadcast to the world. Don't get me wrong. I intend to continue to "write my mind" on this blog. However, I vow to be more careful and responsible about what I post, particularly when it may hurt other people's feelings or interests.
Finally, I simply wanted a change. A lot has happened recently, most significantly, the death of my Ewa Beach grandma. Such things have ramifications, and this "new start" for my blog is a reflection of this.
I hope that I continue to provide the people who read my blog with something significant, or interesting.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
this afternoon, my grandma died.
she had been vomiting constantly for nearly a week. apparently, towards the end, it was primarily fecal matter, even though her stomach had been empty for quite a long time. because of the assumed blockage in the intestines, she had been given something to "irritate the bowels" and facilitate passage. unfortunately, one of the side-effects of this medication was arrhythmia, and this has been cited as one possible cause of what eventually occurred. of course, it could also have been that she had been so weakened and "poisoned" by the backflow.
i visited my grandma on thursday alone, and at that time had to wipe up some of her recent vomit. i spoke to her then, briefly. she seemed cogent but tired.
i visited my grandma again on friday, with the kids. i performed the sazuke on her (which she seemed to appreciate), while the kids drew pictures for grandma.
the weekend passed, and i was "busy" with easter things.
then, on monday night, at around midnight, my grandma coded. our family rushed over. by the time most of us arrived at the hospital, she had pulled through. however, her brush with death had not been without consequence. she was intubated and a central line was providing pressins to maintain her dropping blood pressure. a ventilator filled her lungs up like a balloon, and then she would collapse with each recoiled exhale. i remember touching her leg, and i recall her spasming after that. my brother took that as a good sign: spontaneous movement.
today was tuesday. i visited grandma at around noon. her situation was the same, but it was grim: ideally, her blood pressure should have stabilized, but it remained low, even with a large dose of vasopressins (?). my brother came in, explained a few things to me. he checked her pupillary response at one point, then mentioned to another doctor that things didn't look good (negative pupillary response: brain damage).
at around 3:30 pm, i got another call. my brother told me that she was coding again, and this time, it was likely to be the last...
***
my grandma... how can i explain what she was to me? i feel numb and dead. sometimes, like my grandma's depressed blood pressure, i want to stir myself up by feeling the only thing that i am passionate about: i tell myself how much i hate myself, for not feeling, for not ... but stubbornly, i return to this deadness, this hollow feeling. i felt myself reaching for memories to make me feel, to feel something, anything. why was i so cold and matter-of-fact about everything? but when i started to feel, when i started to cry, i began to hate myself more, because it seemed like i had to manipulate myself to even feel anything. my grandma was so much a part of my life- why didn't it hurt more? why didn't it make me ...
at the moment, i don't care much about anything. tired. but can't sleep.
my grandma wasn't supposed to die like this. i mean, i'm glad it was quick, but my grandma had a lot of years left in her. she was sharp, active. she had mentioned having a 90th birthday. it's not fair.
i keep thinking about her pulling me aside, having me sit beside her, so she could give me a sermon. i never really listened to her sermons. they seemed antiquated. but i listened to the love she felt, her constant unflagging support. i don't know what the world will be like for me now. it will be as though the earth beneath my feet has grown fragile and hollow. i don't think i can trust anything any more.
***
a collateral issue: as my grandma was dying, after her second code, i decided to pick my sister up. she was staying at a drug-court house, and she didn't have a car. i felt it was important that she get to say her goodbyes. my mom decided to come, even though i told her that her place was with her mother. anyway, we drove from pali momi to kalihi valley, and on the way back, fighting all that late afternoon traffic, we learned that my grandma was coding again. in fact, by 4:45, when we were still stuck, we learned that she was pretty officially dead.
i didn't really feel it, the regret, at not having been there. at least not then. neither did my mother. or, she hid it, pacified any regrets with verbal assurances, as though she were convincing herself. my brother felt real anger, that again, because of my sister, the family hadn't been together at this critical moment...
maybe it was a dumb idea. but i thought that, with all my sister's other regrets, this one would be a killer... to not be able to say goodbye.
lynn had been at the hospital at 4:45. she told me she spoke to my grandma for me, and i appreciated that...
i love my sister. i really miss her. things may be messed up, but i will always vouch for her. even if i do kill her relentlessly in my writings.
***
there are always consequences. but i don't care. i am falling off the edge of the world. no one really sees me anyway, me and my impotent compassion which is really a mask for sediment apathy. my heart is stone. and that stone is at the bottom of the sea. i am gentle with my wife and children, and with those i meet, but it is the gentleness of the dead man, it is the gentleness that arises from an inability to feel much of anything... again, the only thing that stirs me is the deep and original hatred i have always felt towards myself. a frustrated desire to not exist.
i will do right by my grandmother. i don't have a soul or a heart like she did, but i at least can try to help people as she did... relentlessly.
she had been vomiting constantly for nearly a week. apparently, towards the end, it was primarily fecal matter, even though her stomach had been empty for quite a long time. because of the assumed blockage in the intestines, she had been given something to "irritate the bowels" and facilitate passage. unfortunately, one of the side-effects of this medication was arrhythmia, and this has been cited as one possible cause of what eventually occurred. of course, it could also have been that she had been so weakened and "poisoned" by the backflow.
i visited my grandma on thursday alone, and at that time had to wipe up some of her recent vomit. i spoke to her then, briefly. she seemed cogent but tired.
i visited my grandma again on friday, with the kids. i performed the sazuke on her (which she seemed to appreciate), while the kids drew pictures for grandma.
the weekend passed, and i was "busy" with easter things.
then, on monday night, at around midnight, my grandma coded. our family rushed over. by the time most of us arrived at the hospital, she had pulled through. however, her brush with death had not been without consequence. she was intubated and a central line was providing pressins to maintain her dropping blood pressure. a ventilator filled her lungs up like a balloon, and then she would collapse with each recoiled exhale. i remember touching her leg, and i recall her spasming after that. my brother took that as a good sign: spontaneous movement.
today was tuesday. i visited grandma at around noon. her situation was the same, but it was grim: ideally, her blood pressure should have stabilized, but it remained low, even with a large dose of vasopressins (?). my brother came in, explained a few things to me. he checked her pupillary response at one point, then mentioned to another doctor that things didn't look good (negative pupillary response: brain damage).
at around 3:30 pm, i got another call. my brother told me that she was coding again, and this time, it was likely to be the last...
***
my grandma... how can i explain what she was to me? i feel numb and dead. sometimes, like my grandma's depressed blood pressure, i want to stir myself up by feeling the only thing that i am passionate about: i tell myself how much i hate myself, for not feeling, for not ... but stubbornly, i return to this deadness, this hollow feeling. i felt myself reaching for memories to make me feel, to feel something, anything. why was i so cold and matter-of-fact about everything? but when i started to feel, when i started to cry, i began to hate myself more, because it seemed like i had to manipulate myself to even feel anything. my grandma was so much a part of my life- why didn't it hurt more? why didn't it make me ...
at the moment, i don't care much about anything. tired. but can't sleep.
my grandma wasn't supposed to die like this. i mean, i'm glad it was quick, but my grandma had a lot of years left in her. she was sharp, active. she had mentioned having a 90th birthday. it's not fair.
i keep thinking about her pulling me aside, having me sit beside her, so she could give me a sermon. i never really listened to her sermons. they seemed antiquated. but i listened to the love she felt, her constant unflagging support. i don't know what the world will be like for me now. it will be as though the earth beneath my feet has grown fragile and hollow. i don't think i can trust anything any more.
***
a collateral issue: as my grandma was dying, after her second code, i decided to pick my sister up. she was staying at a drug-court house, and she didn't have a car. i felt it was important that she get to say her goodbyes. my mom decided to come, even though i told her that her place was with her mother. anyway, we drove from pali momi to kalihi valley, and on the way back, fighting all that late afternoon traffic, we learned that my grandma was coding again. in fact, by 4:45, when we were still stuck, we learned that she was pretty officially dead.
i didn't really feel it, the regret, at not having been there. at least not then. neither did my mother. or, she hid it, pacified any regrets with verbal assurances, as though she were convincing herself. my brother felt real anger, that again, because of my sister, the family hadn't been together at this critical moment...
maybe it was a dumb idea. but i thought that, with all my sister's other regrets, this one would be a killer... to not be able to say goodbye.
lynn had been at the hospital at 4:45. she told me she spoke to my grandma for me, and i appreciated that...
i love my sister. i really miss her. things may be messed up, but i will always vouch for her. even if i do kill her relentlessly in my writings.
***
there are always consequences. but i don't care. i am falling off the edge of the world. no one really sees me anyway, me and my impotent compassion which is really a mask for sediment apathy. my heart is stone. and that stone is at the bottom of the sea. i am gentle with my wife and children, and with those i meet, but it is the gentleness of the dead man, it is the gentleness that arises from an inability to feel much of anything... again, the only thing that stirs me is the deep and original hatred i have always felt towards myself. a frustrated desire to not exist.
i will do right by my grandmother. i don't have a soul or a heart like she did, but i at least can try to help people as she did... relentlessly.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
apologies
sorry i haven't been actively blogging. i've been working a lot on marsilani. i have finalized (at least tentatively) marsilani part 4, and put it in book format. i hope to receive a copy of it tomorrow. i will look it over, see if it is decent, and if it is, i'll release it via lulu.com. (sure, there are other venues, but this is so far the easiest). i'll let you all know first! (i know, i'm probably talking to myself here).
with concern about marsilani 4 out of the way, i can tackle the next easiest part, part 1 (life in the trenches). the stories were actually all completed, but due to great dissatisfaction on my part, and because i wanted a kind of resonance between stories of part 1 and those of part 2 and 4, i decided to scrap the final three stories, and start nearly from scratch... so that's what i'm obsessed with now.
so far, story 1 from part 1 (the backwards carp) has received a lot of good feedback from the reviewers at reviewfuse. i'm content that it is "comprehensible," and may simply work out a few kinks. but in the meantime, the story that was supposed to be the second one, "amphibious part 1," will likely replace "the backwards carp" as story 1. i am reworking this one from scratch. this is the story with the kappa. i've hinted at my interest in kappa before, and now, this is my battleground, to see if i can incorporate all of my so-called research into a viable story...
once amphibious 1 is out of the way, then i suspect (or hope) that amphibious 2 "kaeru" will kind of write itself. "kipapa," the final story of part 1, has some well-written sections, but requires a massive overhaul in terms of dialog and the incorporation of an entirely new storyline, the "flashbacks" of ghosts. also, i think i need to give "hamlet" a once over, just to be sure there is resonance (i want to almost re-enact hamlet and ophelia's doomed relationship).
... a lot to do, but i'm kinda excited. i feel a sense of urgency with this. these stories/poems have been mulling around in my head for SO LONG. it will be such a relief to get them down and released. then, i can relax in the knowledge that people will have been able to read my strange thoughts... and i can MOVE ON...
***
meantime, i have a lot of other stuff to do. taxes, for one. easter. these massive projects for my two sped classes. and my remaining observation lessons. it's going to be a killer this next month or so. but i'll make it...
with concern about marsilani 4 out of the way, i can tackle the next easiest part, part 1 (life in the trenches). the stories were actually all completed, but due to great dissatisfaction on my part, and because i wanted a kind of resonance between stories of part 1 and those of part 2 and 4, i decided to scrap the final three stories, and start nearly from scratch... so that's what i'm obsessed with now.
so far, story 1 from part 1 (the backwards carp) has received a lot of good feedback from the reviewers at reviewfuse. i'm content that it is "comprehensible," and may simply work out a few kinks. but in the meantime, the story that was supposed to be the second one, "amphibious part 1," will likely replace "the backwards carp" as story 1. i am reworking this one from scratch. this is the story with the kappa. i've hinted at my interest in kappa before, and now, this is my battleground, to see if i can incorporate all of my so-called research into a viable story...
once amphibious 1 is out of the way, then i suspect (or hope) that amphibious 2 "kaeru" will kind of write itself. "kipapa," the final story of part 1, has some well-written sections, but requires a massive overhaul in terms of dialog and the incorporation of an entirely new storyline, the "flashbacks" of ghosts. also, i think i need to give "hamlet" a once over, just to be sure there is resonance (i want to almost re-enact hamlet and ophelia's doomed relationship).
... a lot to do, but i'm kinda excited. i feel a sense of urgency with this. these stories/poems have been mulling around in my head for SO LONG. it will be such a relief to get them down and released. then, i can relax in the knowledge that people will have been able to read my strange thoughts... and i can MOVE ON...
***
meantime, i have a lot of other stuff to do. taxes, for one. easter. these massive projects for my two sped classes. and my remaining observation lessons. it's going to be a killer this next month or so. but i'll make it...
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