Sunday, March 21, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Pork Day
They found a place in the orchard where high grasses were reaching up between trees. There was hardly a breeze. The oranges they smashed on the ground glistened in the soft light, and leaked the sweet smell of ferment, of rich decay. Kai folded his hands together in prayer, and M noticed him and sauntered away, pushing a red shell in to the empty shotgun chamber.
Mort had handed him the gun earlier and told him to be careful. "I like that gun," he said, "Don't do anything like John Wayne." But it was obvious to M he didn't like the gun enough. It was an antique machine, a large piece of metal, stamped with Smith and Wesson, and fringed with rust. The barrel was wallpapered inside with cobwebs.
In the bushes, he held it across his lap, safety lever in place. Kai squatted about fifteen feet away, knife open in his palm. It was sharpened that morning, and ready to plunge into a thick throat. They waited shirtless in the still air not speaking.
But fate has a funny way of yielding its prize only when its not asked for. They thought about the hordes of boars and sows shuffling underfoot when they were high in the trees, crushing fallen fruit in their jaws. Now they waited before the rank juice shrine, but only heard the grass rustling.
It's amazing how loud the forest speaks to one willing to listen. Their ears twitched at the sound of a thousand swishing gowns, the high elephant grass dancing in the wind. But for an hour no hoofbeats came.
Then they saw the children. Tiny pairs of black feet were clearly touching the ground. They approached the fruit lure in a soft chorus of grunts. M's fingers tightened around the stock, and he tilted his head back and forth, looking for a black mass in the bushes. The sow was close behind. Kai stiffened his back and pointed with index finger to a stand of grass in motion. The children munched at the red fruit eagerly. But the sow stayed back with pricked ears. M had the gun pointed at its forehead, but it was not moving closer.
The box of shells seemed like it had been resting on a closet shelf. The cardboard was weak and M was skeptical when handling the faded red plastic. Double O buckshot would not kill a board farther than fifteen feet, and the sow seemed to understand this.
The animals took the bait and scampered away. Kai's back slackened and M laid the gun down. They crouched in waiting for fifteen more minutes in the heavy humid air. The light slowly faded, and rain began teasing the backs of the boys' necks.
M stood up suddenly and walked away, the gun dangling at his side. "I'm losing patience," he said, "I'm just going to stalk one." Kai stared at him in silence and shrugged.
Sometimes good things only come to the inexpectant. Fifty feet away, in another row of trees, he saw the ridged black back moving. It was a large male, grunting carelessly and sniffing the ground for oranges. M tiptoed towards him, but surely he felt as foolish as a child sneaking towards Santa on Christmas. The boar shuffled slowly, but was in no hurry to leave him.
He stood completely still with the gunstock connected to his shoulder. He imagined the boar only saw him as a small tree with on branch. It seemed to agree, and shuffled slowly towards a fallen orange between them. He moved his long black forehead into a line with the shell in waiting.
A peal of thunder licked the orchard. The boar fell instantly. His legs were kicking the air and he flattened the grass beneath him. M slid the chamber open, stepped forwards and pushed anew shell in at once. He pointed it at the squirming boar's head and let a second wave of shot wash him in the eye.
Kai approached him from behind, the knife open in his palm. "Should I do this?" he asked. "No," M said, "He'll be dead in a second." The pig kicked on more time, and was still. Its head lay in a puddle of blood. The boys looked at it in silence.
They never thought of the carry until they were facing the animal. They each grabbed a fistful of hooves and walked uphill, the gun dangling in M's right hand. In less than a minute they set it down, sweat on their foreheads. "Must be eighty pounds," Kai said. "Yeah," said M, and they started justifying the kill, praising fate. It took another half hour to drag the carcass to the top of the field. They dropped it at the dirt road, and Kai ran to call the boys, asking them to bring the truck. The boar was wearing a coat of dry grass on top of his blood.
Mort had handed him the gun earlier and told him to be careful. "I like that gun," he said, "Don't do anything like John Wayne." But it was obvious to M he didn't like the gun enough. It was an antique machine, a large piece of metal, stamped with Smith and Wesson, and fringed with rust. The barrel was wallpapered inside with cobwebs.
In the bushes, he held it across his lap, safety lever in place. Kai squatted about fifteen feet away, knife open in his palm. It was sharpened that morning, and ready to plunge into a thick throat. They waited shirtless in the still air not speaking.
But fate has a funny way of yielding its prize only when its not asked for. They thought about the hordes of boars and sows shuffling underfoot when they were high in the trees, crushing fallen fruit in their jaws. Now they waited before the rank juice shrine, but only heard the grass rustling.
It's amazing how loud the forest speaks to one willing to listen. Their ears twitched at the sound of a thousand swishing gowns, the high elephant grass dancing in the wind. But for an hour no hoofbeats came.
Then they saw the children. Tiny pairs of black feet were clearly touching the ground. They approached the fruit lure in a soft chorus of grunts. M's fingers tightened around the stock, and he tilted his head back and forth, looking for a black mass in the bushes. The sow was close behind. Kai stiffened his back and pointed with index finger to a stand of grass in motion. The children munched at the red fruit eagerly. But the sow stayed back with pricked ears. M had the gun pointed at its forehead, but it was not moving closer.
The box of shells seemed like it had been resting on a closet shelf. The cardboard was weak and M was skeptical when handling the faded red plastic. Double O buckshot would not kill a board farther than fifteen feet, and the sow seemed to understand this.
The animals took the bait and scampered away. Kai's back slackened and M laid the gun down. They crouched in waiting for fifteen more minutes in the heavy humid air. The light slowly faded, and rain began teasing the backs of the boys' necks.
M stood up suddenly and walked away, the gun dangling at his side. "I'm losing patience," he said, "I'm just going to stalk one." Kai stared at him in silence and shrugged.
Sometimes good things only come to the inexpectant. Fifty feet away, in another row of trees, he saw the ridged black back moving. It was a large male, grunting carelessly and sniffing the ground for oranges. M tiptoed towards him, but surely he felt as foolish as a child sneaking towards Santa on Christmas. The boar shuffled slowly, but was in no hurry to leave him.
He stood completely still with the gunstock connected to his shoulder. He imagined the boar only saw him as a small tree with on branch. It seemed to agree, and shuffled slowly towards a fallen orange between them. He moved his long black forehead into a line with the shell in waiting.
A peal of thunder licked the orchard. The boar fell instantly. His legs were kicking the air and he flattened the grass beneath him. M slid the chamber open, stepped forwards and pushed anew shell in at once. He pointed it at the squirming boar's head and let a second wave of shot wash him in the eye.
Kai approached him from behind, the knife open in his palm. "Should I do this?" he asked. "No," M said, "He'll be dead in a second." The pig kicked on more time, and was still. Its head lay in a puddle of blood. The boys looked at it in silence.
They never thought of the carry until they were facing the animal. They each grabbed a fistful of hooves and walked uphill, the gun dangling in M's right hand. In less than a minute they set it down, sweat on their foreheads. "Must be eighty pounds," Kai said. "Yeah," said M, and they started justifying the kill, praising fate. It took another half hour to drag the carcass to the top of the field. They dropped it at the dirt road, and Kai ran to call the boys, asking them to bring the truck. The boar was wearing a coat of dry grass on top of his blood.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
A poem
There will always be
something in a Southern Winter
that makes me lonely.
Certain smells
light old tunnels in my brain,
and certain sounds forever
echo in old caverns,
and this Southern feeling has
its own empty room.
There is a body barely breathing
Inside the room,
with a face with no features.
There is no silver lining
when I stand in the
high hallways of bare brown trees.
The wind walks through like a
cloaked stranger, eyes turned to the ground,
and does not carry news but
brushes by me in silence.
And no one cares.
And that is the lever that pries my cap off, and
turns off all the lights.
something in a Southern Winter
that makes me lonely.
Certain smells
light old tunnels in my brain,
and certain sounds forever
echo in old caverns,
and this Southern feeling has
its own empty room.
There is a body barely breathing
Inside the room,
with a face with no features.
There is no silver lining
when I stand in the
high hallways of bare brown trees.
The wind walks through like a
cloaked stranger, eyes turned to the ground,
and does not carry news but
brushes by me in silence.
And no one cares.
And that is the lever that pries my cap off, and
turns off all the lights.
Walking
The road between the palace and the big house was a narrow tunnel of greedy trees, bending towards one another in an arc above the road in a desperate attempt to touch. It was the only road in and out, and really the only pavement at all in a large swath of trees. The boys walked on it to work in the morning, and they walked on it to bed in the evening. They always walked on the left side of the road, so as to be clearly visible to any traffic, and to wait for the face of a pretty woman behind a windshield.
The walk was quiet, and the boys kept the ritual of silence. It was half a mile of meditation, ten minutes of four brains saying prayers so close to one another, yet completely oblivious in its own way. Sometimes M would pick up Macadamia nuts fallen from a certain tree they passed. He would hold the three brown shells in a palm, and roll around one another with a soft tapping. They were soft and spherical, like three planets of his own.
The walk was quiet, and the boys kept the ritual of silence. It was half a mile of meditation, ten minutes of four brains saying prayers so close to one another, yet completely oblivious in its own way. Sometimes M would pick up Macadamia nuts fallen from a certain tree they passed. He would hold the three brown shells in a palm, and roll around one another with a soft tapping. They were soft and spherical, like three planets of his own.
3/6/10
We are not free from the laws of nature, and we live like earthquakes and forests. The world is not in fact a delicate system, ticking like a rhythmic watch. The second is our regular measurement, a vibrating quartz crystal, a costume of neatness for a world in disarray. Big things don't happen often, so we've always forgotten the first surprise by the time of the second. The party quest waits until we're asleep to walk through the door again.
Kenny returned after a week's regular disappearance, and an irregular trial by centipede poison on the West coast. Taft bought orchids from a local farm and in the transaction was given a sleek, full body of a recently dead rooster. Kai returned from Kona with a friend with pink hair. A quiet new worker came from Wyoming, and a couple, with a screaming child, from the Western mainland. Fate seems to have just remembered this lonely little corner of the world and shined a light in for a moment, only to blind me again. I sometimes think that California is the filter that holds the sanity within the Western edge of the country, and everyone who has reached Hawaii was crazy enough to pass through it.
Kenny returned after a week's regular disappearance, and an irregular trial by centipede poison on the West coast. Taft bought orchids from a local farm and in the transaction was given a sleek, full body of a recently dead rooster. Kai returned from Kona with a friend with pink hair. A quiet new worker came from Wyoming, and a couple, with a screaming child, from the Western mainland. Fate seems to have just remembered this lonely little corner of the world and shined a light in for a moment, only to blind me again. I sometimes think that California is the filter that holds the sanity within the Western edge of the country, and everyone who has reached Hawaii was crazy enough to pass through it.
3/3/10
I had forgotten about orange faces and quiet campfires, I had forgotten about the land without mirrors, without grades, and I had forgotten about having dirty feet. I had forgotten about all this at college. I was measuring my life with a system other people had given to me. No one in particular was responsible for calibrating my mind, just a nebulous majority called 'good life.' It had no mention of exile, poverty and thoughtful silence.
It was a giant tumbling machine, and even the people who proclaimed to resist it helped push it out of ditches when it was stuck. To resist the machine is to give traction to its treads. My parents and teachers are apart of it too, gearing onward to an invisible horizon over a sea of money.
But friends have shown me a new system, a new measurement set. Taft, the twenty two year old butcher, fourteen year old GED recipient, veteran traveler, is neither wealthy nor glamorous. But he found a detour to the place called happiness, which the giant machine passed long ago, tumbling instead on a blind convoluted route across deserts, towards the same goal. There are many questions we only feel comfortable feeding the machine before thinking over ourselves, but I realized that with patience, there is no knot we ourselves cannot untie.
It was a giant tumbling machine, and even the people who proclaimed to resist it helped push it out of ditches when it was stuck. To resist the machine is to give traction to its treads. My parents and teachers are apart of it too, gearing onward to an invisible horizon over a sea of money.
But friends have shown me a new system, a new measurement set. Taft, the twenty two year old butcher, fourteen year old GED recipient, veteran traveler, is neither wealthy nor glamorous. But he found a detour to the place called happiness, which the giant machine passed long ago, tumbling instead on a blind convoluted route across deserts, towards the same goal. There are many questions we only feel comfortable feeding the machine before thinking over ourselves, but I realized that with patience, there is no knot we ourselves cannot untie.
3/1/10
The arrival of the third month has ushered the arrival of new questions. The first one is Zen. Occasionally a word will knock at my mind from more than one entry, spoken from the lips of more than one person, and that is my message from fate to begin thinking. I'm reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance right now, which is a scope of form and function, artists and engineers. Yesterday my mystic friend Jimbo told me that Zen was a study originated by a monk who traveled to see the Buddha lecture, but instead, saw him in a transfixed state, holding a flower in silence, for many hours. Today in the Tangelo trees Christopher asked me if I studied zen. I told him that I call my beliefs by no name, I just think a lot.
Taft and Christopher brought home roadside skeletons this evening. We fashioned a candle holder out of a boar's jaw, which radiates a quaint pagan touch. Now with our living space glowing with the white bones and teeth of ancient critters, and glinting with the skins of large lizards and insects, I'm sure guests will wonder what sort of heathens haunt this place.
Taft and Christopher brought home roadside skeletons this evening. We fashioned a candle holder out of a boar's jaw, which radiates a quaint pagan touch. Now with our living space glowing with the white bones and teeth of ancient critters, and glinting with the skins of large lizards and insects, I'm sure guests will wonder what sort of heathens haunt this place.
2/29/10
I always turned my eyes from racism. I had a clean, white ticket of passage through the South, and I figured race issues were something other people could solve when I was sound asleep or far away. I was almost bored with the whole tedious talk- talks in artwork, in school, on streets and stores. I was one of those apathetic civilians on the fringe of an old battlefield. People loved to make panic for themselves, but I knew the war would never come.
And now in Hawaii I see the flipside of the coin. I am on the battlefield now, and whether I want to care or not, others watch me with heedful eyes. I am the same color as the colonists who shackled this land and domesticated its people like pets, the same color as the sugar can chieftans of so many families away, and I am the color that others now love to hate. 'Haole' is the Hawaiian word for white person, no different from 'nigger.'
Today I rode to the ancient coastline at Honau'pu, where picnic areas and fire pits littered with beer cans overlook crumbling stone piers and white coral sands. A crowd of Hawaiians watched me pass, behind folded arms and smug grins. i did not look them in the eyes and I did not say anything, and I felt what the black people I had casually ignored must have felt. I felt the generations of hate being unearthed and loaded on my back.
And now in Hawaii I see the flipside of the coin. I am on the battlefield now, and whether I want to care or not, others watch me with heedful eyes. I am the same color as the colonists who shackled this land and domesticated its people like pets, the same color as the sugar can chieftans of so many families away, and I am the color that others now love to hate. 'Haole' is the Hawaiian word for white person, no different from 'nigger.'
Today I rode to the ancient coastline at Honau'pu, where picnic areas and fire pits littered with beer cans overlook crumbling stone piers and white coral sands. A crowd of Hawaiians watched me pass, behind folded arms and smug grins. i did not look them in the eyes and I did not say anything, and I felt what the black people I had casually ignored must have felt. I felt the generations of hate being unearthed and loaded on my back.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
2/18/10: High Ground
Sirens sounded through the Hawaiian hills this morning, screaming the note that warms fear beneath a person's navel. We ate breakfast in silence, moving slowly, listening to the words on our only radio station, somewhere between static. The regular sound of ukuleles and silly falsetto had been commandeered by officials speaking about the tsunami. Then the emergency broadcast signal began, droning about something deep and fast many miles away.
Well, I had all intentions of hitting the beach that morning, well before the tsunami forecast hit. But from the scattered panic on the radio waves, it was clear all low roads had been seized and shut down. Only the sky was still bright and quiet, and nothing had changed with the air. Only the forecast of something two hours away lingered. I thought I would cleverly escape to a glorious overlook. I piloted through roads and through town on my bicycle, climbing the high road that winds through green cattle fields. I climbed past the cemetery and past the last buildings, up the slope and past the trees, until I was alone on a thinning road, high above the shore.
The road was built by the old sugar can corporation that ruled this land long ago. It was the intended overland route, skirting city and coast. From the top one can see a panoramic coastline, three quarters of a full horizon, and white surf on the deep blue water like icing. I brought a book, and read until the forecasted apocalypse.
Soon cars began pulling to the side of the road, above and below me. Passengers poured out, and with crossed arms and sunglasses on turned to the same coastline, leaning against their cars and casually waiting for the ocean to spill. Some had video cameras that they swung across the line of sight. The time of arrival- 11:04AM- came, and we squinted harder at the ebbing shore. Minutes passed in eager silence. Sometimes a person though he or she saw dark water, then said nevermind. After half an hour, some folks climbed back into cars, closing hungry video cameras. I knew the wave would not hit, and got back on my bike, riding past people with crestfallen faces, to another day in paradise.
Well, I had all intentions of hitting the beach that morning, well before the tsunami forecast hit. But from the scattered panic on the radio waves, it was clear all low roads had been seized and shut down. Only the sky was still bright and quiet, and nothing had changed with the air. Only the forecast of something two hours away lingered. I thought I would cleverly escape to a glorious overlook. I piloted through roads and through town on my bicycle, climbing the high road that winds through green cattle fields. I climbed past the cemetery and past the last buildings, up the slope and past the trees, until I was alone on a thinning road, high above the shore.
The road was built by the old sugar can corporation that ruled this land long ago. It was the intended overland route, skirting city and coast. From the top one can see a panoramic coastline, three quarters of a full horizon, and white surf on the deep blue water like icing. I brought a book, and read until the forecasted apocalypse.
Soon cars began pulling to the side of the road, above and below me. Passengers poured out, and with crossed arms and sunglasses on turned to the same coastline, leaning against their cars and casually waiting for the ocean to spill. Some had video cameras that they swung across the line of sight. The time of arrival- 11:04AM- came, and we squinted harder at the ebbing shore. Minutes passed in eager silence. Sometimes a person though he or she saw dark water, then said nevermind. After half an hour, some folks climbed back into cars, closing hungry video cameras. I knew the wave would not hit, and got back on my bike, riding past people with crestfallen faces, to another day in paradise.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
2/27/10: Shifting Ground
Today I went to Kailua, the teeming tropical resort city. I went pursuing illusions of grandeur and shapeless visions of happiness and beautiful faces. But I found streets of pale and ungainly white people, shielding themselves from the sun. There were not rows of shadowy bungalows, but rather strips of shopping malls. It is nearsighted though, to look at the trip as a failure, since I did not find what I wanted. From every experience we can extract wisdom, and even if I have to wince through hours, I carry the antidote through the future forever. I wanted something so badly simply because it was what I was not, it was the glistening grass on the other side of the fence, it was the illusion of happiness we all pursue. Truly, I am learning that what makes us happy is what we cannot have. Here I am in paradise looking for something greater.
Anyways, when the crew and I returned from Kailua, all four of us, we found the two new workers waiting at the hostel. As delighted as I was to make two more friends, all night I could not suppress my feelings of insecurity. What if they eat all the food? What if they use my shower stall? What trivial things to worry about, I know. The abrupt shock of two new bodies in this space shook the ground beneath me, I realized, because it is a fifty percent growth in our population. After crawling so deep inside myself, the call of only two others draws me back to the surface.
Anyways, when the crew and I returned from Kailua, all four of us, we found the two new workers waiting at the hostel. As delighted as I was to make two more friends, all night I could not suppress my feelings of insecurity. What if they eat all the food? What if they use my shower stall? What trivial things to worry about, I know. The abrupt shock of two new bodies in this space shook the ground beneath me, I realized, because it is a fifty percent growth in our population. After crawling so deep inside myself, the call of only two others draws me back to the surface.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
