i have been listening to david sedaris again. this time, the gist of his message was that you should be kind to people, and trust them. it was interesting. he is "living the dream," so to speak, as an author. he has sold 12 million copies, as he said, and had his work translated into 27 languages. but he didn't pursue the "traditional path" of being an author. he never submitted his work to a publisher. he never sought out an agent to promote his work. (that's not to say that he doesn't have a publisher, or an agent, now. it is to say that he never pursued them from his end.)
what happened, as he says it, (and i'm sure it was a bit more complicated than the way he presented it) was that he did a reading in a creative writing class... which led to an invitation to successively bigger and bigger readings (at which he would write new material each time; as he puts it, you don't want to be lugging around your one successful work...). eventually, someone called him to do a reading on npr, and voila, that led to a publisher asking if he had a book ready to go (which he did, because he had been constantly writing...).
that sounds like (pardon the pun) a fairy tale, if i'd ever heard one...
*****
in any case, i'm thinking of revising how i do my writings. this compulsory "poem" "story" thing is really killing me. the reason is because i usually just start writing whatever comes to mind, and as a result, there's no continuity (at least for the story). they are just 30 minute vignettes, and incomplete ones at that. i know i need a more disciplined approach. so i bought printer ink finally, and i think the idea is that i map out the work that i intend (and, really, in some format, i've had a general web of ideas for this book- it's just i always get tangled in the details and execution). i will write focused on some story in the book, and print it, and put it up... and then when i'm done, i'll try to do readings or something, in the fashion of david sedaris... or maybe not... i don't know. i'm not sure if there is such a venue for such readings, especially in the age of covid. maybe a zoom call or something. but i'm not sure if we can get people to commit to listening to such stuff... and in any case, i'm not sure if there would be the sort of reaction that sedaris got, the kind of reaction that would serve as feedback...
anyway, that's kind of the plan.
when i write, i'm going to still set a timer, but maybe longer. and again, it will be "disciplined," i.e., focused on a single work. and i won't shift to another story until i finish the one i'm working on. and i think i'll listen to music (on earbuds or something) to sort of tune out the world, and get into a kind of "zone."
i recall that sometimes the best writing i've done has been when i felt really... "smooth." like everything was okay. i don't know. it would feel like i was "in tune." like (and i'm not consciously making a radiohead reference) i was a radiohead, and i had turned the dial gradually until the music, the most awesome music, would come out crystal clear... no static.
lately, or maybe like forever, i've been plagued by anger. and hatred. and self-loathing. and shame. i'll tell you what that feels like, it feels like a fist in your gut clenches, and your teeth gnash, and you want to rip yourself apart... and you don't feel like talking or writing any more, because it seems like the eyes of the sphinx are staring down at each letter, and making it feel ashamed and worthless... and then the words that come out, the dead insipid words, are strung together like a weak and listless ribbon, pale and transparent, and floating off into the ether, unseen or unheard, by the audience who is listening to fox news... that's what it feels like.
i need to bypass the anger. i have to just get to the job and write.
Sunday, July 5, 2020
Saturday, July 4, 2020
story: 7/4/2020
there's this idea that if you go far enough away from your past, then you can escape it.
that was the theory behind my scheme to stay at a zen temple. i suppose it was a pie in the sky idea for a long time, and only started to get wheels on the ground when my japan grandmother found an article in the newspaper of a foreigner (gaijin) who got to stay at a zen temple in rural hokkaido. there was even a grainy picture of the gaijin. he looked like an anglo-american, but could have honestly been almost anything else, including something like me, a nikkei, a person of japanese ethnicity but american citizenship. the gaijin was standing in the middle of some sort of crop. it looked like cornfields, only the tops of the stalks only came up to his armpits. he was looking down at the crops, at an angle, and laughing. at least, it looked like he was laughing, in that kind of nervous, bemused sort of way you do when you know someone is taking a picture of you.
the actual text of the article (which, of course, i couldn't read) mentioned that this gaijin had an interest in zen buddhism, and was allowed to stay in residence at the temple, which was called tsurui-mura. my japan grandma tried to explain to me that "tsurui-mura" was a place famous as a gathering place for "tsuru" (or cranes), and that it was located near kushiro, a port town on the southwestern part of the island of hokkaido.
she then asked if i were interested in staying there.
i replied in an abstract, noncommital manner, one which reflected my general attitude towards life at the time.
i was already in japan then, but i wasn't quite sure what for. in a way, i was the rope in a mild tug-of-war of sorts between my hawaii grandma, and my japan grandma. i had graduated from college with a degree in religion about a year ago. i'll explain it here just to be clear (because many ask, and many assume): a religion degree from my school has nothing to do with "theology" or "christianity," but is the study of religion as a social, psychological, cultural phenomenon. some actually consider the religion department at my school "antireligious", in the sense that, from the outset, it divorces itself from the "practitioner" or "believer" perspective, and attempts to instead use secular, philosophical lenses to understand what religion is, and what role it plays. in any case, after returning home, i was honestly floating. i was working three meaningless part time jobs just to keep myself busy, but none of it was leading anywhere that i wanted to go.
i guess when i mentioned to my hawaii grandma that i was interested in studying and practicing buddhism because i'd already gotten a degree in the subject, then she jumped in and offered for me to go to japan to practice her religion, tenrikyo, instead. i shrugged, and said why not, and that led to me staying over in tenri city in nara, japan, to go through some religious training courses.
it was only after about half a year that my japan grandma showed me the article.
poem: 7/4/2020
your name popped up out of nowhere-
whole and correctly spelled-
a revenant from my high school days
sophomore or junior year perhaps.
we were in either a math or science class together
i'm not too sure
but we all sat in the back-
you (the only girl), me, richard, and
some other guy whose name i can't recall.
good times.
perhaps it wasn't your choice
to be surrounded by 3 guys
in the back of the class
but you played it well
and gave us an honesty
and i daresay sophistication
that we were sorely lacking.
you made the period something
to pause at.
it intrigued me-
to hold a stance,
to hone a style,
to have eyes
that chose where to look, and why-
that was rare.
i googled your name
(you don't understand how rare
it is for me to recall
anything whole)
and reconstructed a narrative from
fragments on pinterest-
stints in korea to finish up
high school,
then alabama, and finally
married in atlanta.
i hope you are happy,
me, i'm doing alright.
we didn't mean much to each other back then-
and we certainly don't now.
i've no illusions of that.
but somehow being stuck with
strangers four hours a week
always on the way to some place,
some time else-
it was nice.
whole and correctly spelled-
a revenant from my high school days
sophomore or junior year perhaps.
we were in either a math or science class together
i'm not too sure
but we all sat in the back-
you (the only girl), me, richard, and
some other guy whose name i can't recall.
good times.
perhaps it wasn't your choice
to be surrounded by 3 guys
in the back of the class
but you played it well
and gave us an honesty
and i daresay sophistication
that we were sorely lacking.
you made the period something
to pause at.
it intrigued me-
to hold a stance,
to hone a style,
to have eyes
that chose where to look, and why-
that was rare.
i googled your name
(you don't understand how rare
it is for me to recall
anything whole)
and reconstructed a narrative from
fragments on pinterest-
stints in korea to finish up
high school,
then alabama, and finally
married in atlanta.
i hope you are happy,
me, i'm doing alright.
we didn't mean much to each other back then-
and we certainly don't now.
i've no illusions of that.
but somehow being stuck with
strangers four hours a week
always on the way to some place,
some time else-
it was nice.
7/4/2020
i had at first intended to write an entry last night, but we had people over. it was my son's birthday party last night (his actual birthday was on 6/29), and some of his friends came over to play smash. i know, it wasn't maintaining social distance, etc., and only one of the participants wore an actual mask. but these kids have been socially isolated for many months now, and we (all parents involved) considered them as safe as anyone else. in addition to that, my niece and nephew and his girlfriend came over (the first to help lynn bake cupcakes, and the second and third to eat stuff). i suppose the rules should have applied to them, but they kept themselves separated from the party goers.
anyway, i have been off and on doing my routines. it has been far more sporadic.
i listened to david sedaris again last night. i must say that his routine and commitment to writing are impressive. he says he goes through an average of 18 revisions or rewrites before he allows an editor to view things. and between revisions or rewrites, he actually reads his work in front of an audience to gauge their reactions. he talked about the concern of holding an audience's (reader's) attentions, and that, for him, he averages about 12 pages... he's definitely not a novelist, so he doesn't have to worry about, say, holding a reader's attention to page 274 or something.
one thing that really stuck with me was his distinction between "emoting" (cue the little violins) and "getting at the truth." he said that, unless you're writing for a hallmark special, you should avoid emoting at all costs, and instead get at the "peel at your skin" practice of getting at the truth... i.e., the heart of the matter. that's what real writing is about anyway. he also said something about how, as a reader, he's not interested in knowing "how you feel"; he IS interested in hearing about your problems. i think that's an interesting distinction.
*****
my writing of late has SUCKED. i am dry of inspiration. and, again, i am wary of writing the longer projects, because of the way it feels so boring and contrived. even if it is meaningful. i wish i could write in the 12 page frame, but frankly, my life is NOT funny, and i don't have a funny perspective on things. i find my wife is funny, she often says little funny observations... but i'm not. in fact, i have a decidedly dour and depressing take on life. and i don't know, i can't get to the meat of things in a short time frame, AND put out some sort of endearing or uplifting message.
i have imagined that it was partially due to my commitment. i mean, i am committed to writing, i think. but i don't rearrange my life for it. i don't put into place some of the practices that make writing a vocation. i just incorporate into my routine. and maybe that's for my protection, and for my sanity. i recall times when i would simply write and write and write myself into a corner, and then be filled with complete loathing, and be unapproachable by anyone. and besides that, while i obsessed about my writing, other aspects of my life would go to shit. so i made the decision to keep a routine, and just cycle through it... that would eliminate some of the guilt i felt about, say, not getting to any one particular thing... i mean, i would get to it eventually, but out of fairness, i would have to do everything before it. i imagined that i could increase my commitments gradually, as i evolved. for example, in piano, i can definitely play the 3 staples, and i have tried to expand to some more modern repertoire... and for drawing, i am experimenting with color now, hopefully in preparation for learning how to paint. writing, though... it is, how shall i put it, hard to progress.
i'll keep trying at it. maybe i will buy printer cartridges, and print out my writing, and post them up on a wall or something... some sort of visible reminders... and maybe get a little pocket notebook to jot down ideas that may come up (i believe gaiman and sedaris both do this; as well as the poet billy connor). i don't know.
oh well, happy independence day!
july 4 is a special day for lynn and i (though i haven't prepped anything special for her). it's the occasion when i proposed to her.
anyway, i have been off and on doing my routines. it has been far more sporadic.
i listened to david sedaris again last night. i must say that his routine and commitment to writing are impressive. he says he goes through an average of 18 revisions or rewrites before he allows an editor to view things. and between revisions or rewrites, he actually reads his work in front of an audience to gauge their reactions. he talked about the concern of holding an audience's (reader's) attentions, and that, for him, he averages about 12 pages... he's definitely not a novelist, so he doesn't have to worry about, say, holding a reader's attention to page 274 or something.
one thing that really stuck with me was his distinction between "emoting" (cue the little violins) and "getting at the truth." he said that, unless you're writing for a hallmark special, you should avoid emoting at all costs, and instead get at the "peel at your skin" practice of getting at the truth... i.e., the heart of the matter. that's what real writing is about anyway. he also said something about how, as a reader, he's not interested in knowing "how you feel"; he IS interested in hearing about your problems. i think that's an interesting distinction.
*****
my writing of late has SUCKED. i am dry of inspiration. and, again, i am wary of writing the longer projects, because of the way it feels so boring and contrived. even if it is meaningful. i wish i could write in the 12 page frame, but frankly, my life is NOT funny, and i don't have a funny perspective on things. i find my wife is funny, she often says little funny observations... but i'm not. in fact, i have a decidedly dour and depressing take on life. and i don't know, i can't get to the meat of things in a short time frame, AND put out some sort of endearing or uplifting message.
i have imagined that it was partially due to my commitment. i mean, i am committed to writing, i think. but i don't rearrange my life for it. i don't put into place some of the practices that make writing a vocation. i just incorporate into my routine. and maybe that's for my protection, and for my sanity. i recall times when i would simply write and write and write myself into a corner, and then be filled with complete loathing, and be unapproachable by anyone. and besides that, while i obsessed about my writing, other aspects of my life would go to shit. so i made the decision to keep a routine, and just cycle through it... that would eliminate some of the guilt i felt about, say, not getting to any one particular thing... i mean, i would get to it eventually, but out of fairness, i would have to do everything before it. i imagined that i could increase my commitments gradually, as i evolved. for example, in piano, i can definitely play the 3 staples, and i have tried to expand to some more modern repertoire... and for drawing, i am experimenting with color now, hopefully in preparation for learning how to paint. writing, though... it is, how shall i put it, hard to progress.
i'll keep trying at it. maybe i will buy printer cartridges, and print out my writing, and post them up on a wall or something... some sort of visible reminders... and maybe get a little pocket notebook to jot down ideas that may come up (i believe gaiman and sedaris both do this; as well as the poet billy connor). i don't know.
oh well, happy independence day!
july 4 is a special day for lynn and i (though i haven't prepped anything special for her). it's the occasion when i proposed to her.
Wednesday, July 1, 2020
story: 7/1/2020
"move, you fuck!"
i am screaming in futility at the car immediately in front of me- a black toyota pickup truck. of course, there's nowhere for that truck to go, as it is just the tail end of a column of cars that stretches on into the distance, on the junction between the moanalua freeway and the h1. a part of me understands this, but most of me is just filled with an anxious rage, needing a target. hence, the outburst.
i don't look to my right, to my sister, who is sitting in the passenger side. maybe i'm afraid that if i do, some of that rage will seep out to her. it's because of her, after all, that i'm stuck in this traffic. it's because of her that i may not get back in time, back to-
"holy fuck!" i shout out. "no fucking way!"
there's one of those sporty-looking, tricked out race cars trying to cut in front of me. i hit the accelerator to close the narrow gap between myself and the truck. i successfully close block the car, and flash a glance at the punk in the driver's seat, who's caught angled across the lane strip, unable to proceed.
"rand," says my sister hesitantly. closer to the car i've just cut off, i suppose she takes the brunt of the hostile energy coming off of it. "calm down."
i don't even want to reply. i'm afraid that if i do, i might say something that i'll regret.
there's a tense silence, during which i grip the wheel hard, my eyes burning like the taillights in front of me.
"can you tell me about grandma?" kristine asks finally. "how was she?"
i want to explode at first, but stop myself. i take a deep breath, and let it out long and slow. my voice, when i respond, is quiet, if somewhat constrained. "not good," i say. "she was in a coma when i left. something about how her heart is really weak. and how her bowels are obstructed, like really obstructed, and all the feces and stuff is coming back the wrong way and toxifying her blood."
kristine is quiet after my clumsy report. i don't look at her, but i hear some soft sniffling, and i know that she is crying. i feel my anger softening a bit, but i shake my head and cling to it. it's the only thing keeping me together right now.
"did she- did she say anything about me?" kristine asks shakily.
i can't stop myself from retorting. "of course not!" i shout. i still keep my eyes on the road, because if i didn't they'd be flashing crazily and violently, and i can't let myself lose that much control. "i told you! she's in a fucking coma." i should have stopped there, but i didn't. "and why would she?" i added quietly, like a hidden knife.
kristine sobs, louder now.
i shut my eyes, sigh, deflating. "i'm sorry," i mutter clumsily. "i shouldn't- i shouldn't have-"
"that's okay," kristine murmurs in reply. and then her voice takes on a bit of an edge. "why would she care about a fuck up like me?"
i am screaming in futility at the car immediately in front of me- a black toyota pickup truck. of course, there's nowhere for that truck to go, as it is just the tail end of a column of cars that stretches on into the distance, on the junction between the moanalua freeway and the h1. a part of me understands this, but most of me is just filled with an anxious rage, needing a target. hence, the outburst.
i don't look to my right, to my sister, who is sitting in the passenger side. maybe i'm afraid that if i do, some of that rage will seep out to her. it's because of her, after all, that i'm stuck in this traffic. it's because of her that i may not get back in time, back to-
"holy fuck!" i shout out. "no fucking way!"
there's one of those sporty-looking, tricked out race cars trying to cut in front of me. i hit the accelerator to close the narrow gap between myself and the truck. i successfully close block the car, and flash a glance at the punk in the driver's seat, who's caught angled across the lane strip, unable to proceed.
"rand," says my sister hesitantly. closer to the car i've just cut off, i suppose she takes the brunt of the hostile energy coming off of it. "calm down."
i don't even want to reply. i'm afraid that if i do, i might say something that i'll regret.
there's a tense silence, during which i grip the wheel hard, my eyes burning like the taillights in front of me.
"can you tell me about grandma?" kristine asks finally. "how was she?"
i want to explode at first, but stop myself. i take a deep breath, and let it out long and slow. my voice, when i respond, is quiet, if somewhat constrained. "not good," i say. "she was in a coma when i left. something about how her heart is really weak. and how her bowels are obstructed, like really obstructed, and all the feces and stuff is coming back the wrong way and toxifying her blood."
kristine is quiet after my clumsy report. i don't look at her, but i hear some soft sniffling, and i know that she is crying. i feel my anger softening a bit, but i shake my head and cling to it. it's the only thing keeping me together right now.
"did she- did she say anything about me?" kristine asks shakily.
i can't stop myself from retorting. "of course not!" i shout. i still keep my eyes on the road, because if i didn't they'd be flashing crazily and violently, and i can't let myself lose that much control. "i told you! she's in a fucking coma." i should have stopped there, but i didn't. "and why would she?" i added quietly, like a hidden knife.
kristine sobs, louder now.
i shut my eyes, sigh, deflating. "i'm sorry," i mutter clumsily. "i shouldn't- i shouldn't have-"
"that's okay," kristine murmurs in reply. and then her voice takes on a bit of an edge. "why would she care about a fuck up like me?"
poem: 7/1/2020
frost once wrote about fire and ice.
the ending of the world and such.
while walking my dog
i thought of another duality:
flow and freeze.
i've been having trouble
remembering my life.
it's almost as though i hadn't lived it.
sometimes a fragment would float up
and i'd examine it-
the shape of the bannister in a building i'd dormed in
or what i wore the first morning i'd arrived
at college sophomore year,
lying in the dew of a golf course-
stuff like that, with no context,
no meaning,
just a distant sadness.
i wonder why i can't recall more,
especially about people, and
stories, and how they broke my heart
or i broke theirs.
am i heartless?
do i even have a soul?
memory for me is sometimes like a flow
and in the flow of the moment,
when the world is stirred by your current
or colored streams swim through you
everything is alive and vivid and real.
but a flow never remembers things outside of itself-
(insert famous tale of not even stepping in a river once).
other times it is a crystal.
a dead thing.
but perfectly capturing the contours and details
of a moment.
sharp, but separated from time.
seesaws have a fulcrum.
frost's dualities were tied to destruction.
what is the sticking point
for me?
if i could find it,
i would break it
or melt it.
it's like the horcrux
keeping me from
killing me
and living me.
the ending of the world and such.
while walking my dog
i thought of another duality:
flow and freeze.
i've been having trouble
remembering my life.
it's almost as though i hadn't lived it.
sometimes a fragment would float up
and i'd examine it-
the shape of the bannister in a building i'd dormed in
or what i wore the first morning i'd arrived
at college sophomore year,
lying in the dew of a golf course-
stuff like that, with no context,
no meaning,
just a distant sadness.
i wonder why i can't recall more,
especially about people, and
stories, and how they broke my heart
or i broke theirs.
am i heartless?
do i even have a soul?
memory for me is sometimes like a flow
and in the flow of the moment,
when the world is stirred by your current
or colored streams swim through you
everything is alive and vivid and real.
but a flow never remembers things outside of itself-
(insert famous tale of not even stepping in a river once).
other times it is a crystal.
a dead thing.
but perfectly capturing the contours and details
of a moment.
sharp, but separated from time.
seesaws have a fulcrum.
frost's dualities were tied to destruction.
what is the sticking point
for me?
if i could find it,
i would break it
or melt it.
it's like the horcrux
keeping me from
killing me
and living me.
6/30/2020
i listened to david sedaris's masterclass on "ending with weight." or was it, "ending with meaning?" in any case, one of the most poignant things about the class was his attempt to reconcile or justify or explain or apologize for his actions regarding his sister tiffany. this sister, apparently, was very difficult. this is made clear in his essay, "the spirit world," in which he likens her to two crows that got into his apartment through the chimney. he says they poked through and shit on "everything that he loved." so it's small wonder then that when she confronted him at one of his book signings, he directed security to shut the door in her face. that was to be the last time he saw her. supposedly she was evicted from her home, raped, and then attempted, and later succeeded, at suicide.
he is frank about this. i noticed that he oscillated between talking as a writer, and expressing how he "found the ending" to a story that had been about psychics and such; and between talking as someone, perhaps, consumed by guilt, but not wanting to fully acknowledge that. he spent a full 18 minutes on this class, and much of it was dominated by a near soliloquy in which he- well, i already said it- how he sort of went back and forth. it sort of seemed like he intended to "go to this place" because there was a writing lesson in it, but in going to this place, he was immediately incriminated by what it revealed about him...
i wrote a story called taishokuten about my sister. while i never "shut a door in my sister's face," and while she is still alive, the story itself was my attempt to write about a similar desire to cut someone out of my life. in the story, the protagonist (myself) has seemingly attempted to commit suicide by putting his hand in the waste disposal unit... the story then goes backwards and forwards in time, in an attempt to explain the reasoning behind this thoughtless act. a lot of it basically ties in to my sister, and these feelings of guilt associated with her... guilt related to an abortion that never happened... guilt related to teaching my sister how to lie... things like that. there is a part where i visit my sister in jail, and i am tempted to tell her how she needs to make a clean cut of her life, that is, cut away all the bad things in her life, including all of her ties to the losers in jail... but it is just as i'm about to say this that i learn that she's pregnant with a second child...
(this actually happened, by the way. it wasn't the second child, but the third, at the time. i recall that moment well, when my mother talked with my sister, and i built up these words to say to her, as i stared at my hands... and then i eavesdropped and learned the truth. i remember how the words just dissipated within me, and how i felt so incredibly- i don't know- full of despair.)
... the end of that story is my figurative "door in her face." i basically wake up, with my hand intact, saying that it was all some sort of bad dream... a dream in which i HAD a sister, a sister whom i loved very much...
*****
today was a sort of non-day. i did a few errands, and by a few, i mean, less than three. i took my son to his summer fun meeting (he's going to be a junior leader again), and then picked him up (filling up the tank and buying a couple of hardware things on the way). oh yes, at about 1:30, my mom and i went to go look at ag-land in kunia. it was somewhat depressing. we saw one 1 acre strip that couldn't really be accessed, because the owners of the neighboring lot had dumped a bunch of dirt and gravel over what would have been the driveway. anyway, it wasn't much to look at. it wasn't flat land. it sort of occupied this narrow strip within a little sloping gorge. there was a fence on one side (the border of the next lot), and some banana trees on the other (the other border). the lot went "up to that tree," which was basically the end of that gorge... it was going for (no joke) $120,000. the realtor warned that if we bought this, we might be part of a lawsuit involving the illegal houses built in the area (technically as this area is zoned for ag, and only has potable water, and no utilities, it is illegal to build and live in a house... but people do that anyway).
oh yeah, i also talked to my state house representative, val okimoto. she told me that she too used to be a special education teacher, up until about 2010. we commiserated about stuff like ieps and such... she seemed particularly interested in the aquaponics setup i had (i leave the garage open all day so that the plants get access to sunlight)... if only she weren't a republican, i'd vote for her in a heartbeat.
he is frank about this. i noticed that he oscillated between talking as a writer, and expressing how he "found the ending" to a story that had been about psychics and such; and between talking as someone, perhaps, consumed by guilt, but not wanting to fully acknowledge that. he spent a full 18 minutes on this class, and much of it was dominated by a near soliloquy in which he- well, i already said it- how he sort of went back and forth. it sort of seemed like he intended to "go to this place" because there was a writing lesson in it, but in going to this place, he was immediately incriminated by what it revealed about him...
i wrote a story called taishokuten about my sister. while i never "shut a door in my sister's face," and while she is still alive, the story itself was my attempt to write about a similar desire to cut someone out of my life. in the story, the protagonist (myself) has seemingly attempted to commit suicide by putting his hand in the waste disposal unit... the story then goes backwards and forwards in time, in an attempt to explain the reasoning behind this thoughtless act. a lot of it basically ties in to my sister, and these feelings of guilt associated with her... guilt related to an abortion that never happened... guilt related to teaching my sister how to lie... things like that. there is a part where i visit my sister in jail, and i am tempted to tell her how she needs to make a clean cut of her life, that is, cut away all the bad things in her life, including all of her ties to the losers in jail... but it is just as i'm about to say this that i learn that she's pregnant with a second child...
(this actually happened, by the way. it wasn't the second child, but the third, at the time. i recall that moment well, when my mother talked with my sister, and i built up these words to say to her, as i stared at my hands... and then i eavesdropped and learned the truth. i remember how the words just dissipated within me, and how i felt so incredibly- i don't know- full of despair.)
... the end of that story is my figurative "door in her face." i basically wake up, with my hand intact, saying that it was all some sort of bad dream... a dream in which i HAD a sister, a sister whom i loved very much...
*****
today was a sort of non-day. i did a few errands, and by a few, i mean, less than three. i took my son to his summer fun meeting (he's going to be a junior leader again), and then picked him up (filling up the tank and buying a couple of hardware things on the way). oh yes, at about 1:30, my mom and i went to go look at ag-land in kunia. it was somewhat depressing. we saw one 1 acre strip that couldn't really be accessed, because the owners of the neighboring lot had dumped a bunch of dirt and gravel over what would have been the driveway. anyway, it wasn't much to look at. it wasn't flat land. it sort of occupied this narrow strip within a little sloping gorge. there was a fence on one side (the border of the next lot), and some banana trees on the other (the other border). the lot went "up to that tree," which was basically the end of that gorge... it was going for (no joke) $120,000. the realtor warned that if we bought this, we might be part of a lawsuit involving the illegal houses built in the area (technically as this area is zoned for ag, and only has potable water, and no utilities, it is illegal to build and live in a house... but people do that anyway).
oh yeah, i also talked to my state house representative, val okimoto. she told me that she too used to be a special education teacher, up until about 2010. we commiserated about stuff like ieps and such... she seemed particularly interested in the aquaponics setup i had (i leave the garage open all day so that the plants get access to sunlight)... if only she weren't a republican, i'd vote for her in a heartbeat.
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