A Drop of Rain for Then

About once a year I realize I am not in Hawaii. This lasts a few days: a time filled with memories, splendidly intoxicating.

Hilo, where the sky fell each night like a warm blanket you could run naked beneath and never catch a chill. Where the ground lay soft on bare feet, except in places colonist species had yet to till. The crusty remnants of what bled hot beyond a molten heart.

This is a place where trees dance in ways that humans can’t. Even tender shrubs animate upon a person’s touch. If you’ve only visited you don’t understand, what it means to fall in love with ka ʻĀina. You have to have lived it.

I won’t pretend that I know what it feels like to be married to the earth, but I’ve certainly seen it in others. My Uncle in South Dakota. My friends who settled in Naʻālehu. Some are born tied to the land, others just happen to one day discover the certain place the smell, the people they were looking for.

Her hand in mine we walked beneath the jungle’s columns, behind UH, near the agricultural department. In any other place it would have been just another path, but here it was the edge of Eden, at least for a time. They say an angel guards it with a fiery sword that burns straight through the soul…

But all must try, at least once, to enter the garden. I could have stayed, but left. It was then I began to feel a burn. Was I a fool for wanting to change the world? For knowing there was more to life than to enjoy it? Or do I sit, the fool, alone on a couch in a mobile home park, in the California desert. Would he envy me? Do I envy him? You can’t leave heaven for something else and expect to be the happier for it. Experience, wisdom, resilience, you may find beyond the garden. But happiness; that is one wave you will never ride again.

 

-Windword

Inhabitants of the Blair Wedding Cup

(For Holly, my first Instagram follower. Brock, I love you too.)

The thick cotton sack of coins looked up at me from the floor of the passenger side as if to gasp -“Finish me…”. I’ve been collecting these coins ever since I finally had my own counters to start collecting coins on. At first there were only a few pilgrims. They migrated ever so often, from one counter to the next. Seemed they had a hard time making their minds where to settle down. After a few months they formed a colony, inhabiting the Blair Wedding Cup, one of five cups I have emotional ties to, and now perhaps the only one remaining. I was not deliberate in sparing this particular cup from destruction with the others, however it proved to be the best qualified at doing its job during the time I needed it most, the same quality that I find in a good friend. It was transparent, accessible, practical. We started drinking together after work. Blair Wedding Cup had a handle on life, and it was eager to internalize little things that were important to me. Things I valued enough not to let go of, but couldn’t seem to fit into the chaos which at that time characterized my life.

Then the settlements became one big city, packed and brimming over with coins from all over the country.  Blair Wedding Cup was prime real estate. Pennies from New York, pushed their way into any gaps they could find. Their brazen hue clashed with the shiny new Californian’s; though some of them intermingled making little semi-shiny Pennies. They might not have been as bright, but those old country Pennies were the real deal. Copper through and through. Then there were the Nickels, far less common. I assume many died out simply from being overlooked; dropped through metal grates, ignored by mathematically disinclined children. They did, however silly as it may seem to us humans, pride themselves at pulling the weight of five Pennies. Nickels just don’t fit in very well with the rest, that’s another reason they’re so scarce. An odd bunch really, although Quarters and Pennies are odd too in their own way. Nickels tend to get lost on busy streets and in dark crevices of bars and bowling alleys. I would say they’re a Dime a dozen, but that would be incorrect.

Oh yes, and the Dimes, only slightly more prevalent than the Nickels, but of excellent stock! You could tell they had a class to them, high society type of coin. Many had passed through perfumed purses, slipping in and out of leather coin cases, or at least they gave that impression with their even stride. The world, it seems, “turns on a Dime”. They are the most flamboyant of coins. I think they made the Quarters feel self conscious. And my where there a lot of Quarters! Enough to bring the grand total up to 67 dollars when they had each passed through the Coin-Star machine this afternoon! All but a few made it to the other side without being rejected, to traverse the electronic purchases of men and women who are unaware of their history. A few will inevitably be sent back to settle more exotic places.

The bag is empty. Now to find something else to fill it with…
-Windword

Levels of Hell

It was just an ordinary afternoon. Avoiding laundry. Dishes. And the vacuum cleaner. Eating a carrot to neutralize the damage of a lunch high in cholesterol and, believe it or not, for the taste.

My phone rang even as I’d begun writing my daily blog post. -The City. “Perhaps it is my friend who works in the water district”, I thought hopefully.

It wasn’t.

It was The City’s water billing department informing me that the mail, which hadn’t been checked for a few weeks, contained a letter captioned “make checks payable to”.
A letter I did not receive; and therefore, a letter I did not respond to.

Wrong move. I recalled the last wrong move approximately 6 months ago.

I made my way to the drawer, the one where I keep the folder, the one I use for these kinds of situations.

I dialed the number on the page. And waited…

For the automated insanity to begin!

———————LEVEL 1———————

A woman’s voice, -“Press one to continue in English. Para continuar en Español oprima dos.”

“I shouldn’t have to press one to continue in English”, my mind reasoned.

“America’s been continuing in English ever since half my ancestors put up their German for the sake of unity.

“One.

Now what?”

“Please enter your eight digit account number followed by the pound sign.”

“OK, I remember this.

Pound sign. What, are we British now?

Make up your mind.”

My fingers pressed in the numbers

“You have dialed…”, her voice, tinged with the sound of nervous tension characteristic of government employees, droning out their monotonous duties for the sake of safety and structure in a world of me’s that doesn’t care.

Only,

Instead of reading the numbers right, she repeated one of them. Three extra times!!!

“Press one to submit. Press two to re-enter your account number.”

“Huh? ? Must’ve been a glitch.”, I resumed my task, pressing one for submit. -Wrong move.

“The number you entered is not correct. Press two to re-enter.”

“OK. I’ll just do it again.”

Same thing.

I decided, the third time, to eliminate the three zero’s I had started with in hopes that it would balance out with the three extra zero’s she had added last time. To my amazement, this time, she refrained from mentioning any of the overzealous zero’s.

“This is getting ridiculous!”, I thought.

Far from it! The ridiculousness was just beginning…

By attempt number nine I had entered my account number various ways. At times eliminating several numbers from my account, as I observed she occasionally threw in a few extra non-zero numbers as well. It seemed every logical conclusion I might draw from this experience produced nothing more than a mockery of the order I commanded with my pointer finger. -“I’m a political science major”, I thought. “Why must the government deal most harshly with it’s own kind! Have they no mercy, no respect for my endeavors to be a good citizen?” (At this point I was exaggerating; I am a mediocre member of the public at best)

“Let’s try it again!”

I realized at this point that a bit of broken skin remained from a callous well on its way to Nirvana. It may have sent just enough electrical current to cause the device to misread.

I quickly switched to my metrosexually immaculate pinky, which I rarely use for anything these days given my newly intellectual occupation.

Still incorrect, but better. This time I was only one number off!

I sucked cold air through my bared teeth as I watched the automated train roll on without me once again.

“Ok, this is it. I NEED it this time!”

Sure enough, my determination had paid off.

———————LEVEL 2———————

“Please enter the 5 digit area code of your billing address.”

“Area code. Area code… well, I moved. I think I changed my billing address. But obviously The City doesn’t know that, or they’d have sent it here. In the numbers went! Graceful and true. Where the mighty index failed, the humble pinky charged on!

Noooo! Again. Defeat. Followed by two more skirmishes and a return to LEVEL 1.

TIME PASSED…

———————LEVEL 3———————

About 40 minutes after I’d begun the “simple” process of paying a bill over the phone (The Government, save certain branches of the military, prefers to exist years behind civilization), I finally managed to get to the part where I entered my payment information. “This is gonna be fun. Now for the credit card, expiration date, and cvc numbers! If I pass this, I’ll let myself not vacuum tonight…”

I listened as she read back my numbers with the gradually forming smile of a lottery winner, as he hears them say what his frontal cortex longs to hear.

I’m glad to say that as I finish writing this text I walk a dog. Birds chirp, the sun sets and, as I promised myself, the vacuum remains in it’s closet, a golden fleece for another day.

But why are dogs always so eager to tug the leash when I need both arms to open the doggie bag?

-Windword

Progress

Some people say technology is the end; Machines replace reality with something even more potent. I do not believe in that future. Not for a second! A tool. That’s what they’ve always been. Wielded properly they bring peace, happiness, order to a crumbling world. Of course, in the hands of an idiot they’re incredibly dangerous. Which is why we can be thankful that idiots tend to snuff themselves out, much like misshapen candles. machines have made it easier for idiots to migrate into dense communities where life now becomes a constant game of avoid the idiot. It’s frustrating because they are everywhere! Waiting in long lines to pay $5 for the bitter water of boiled beans. Bantering endlessly about the costume they are going to wear for a holiday that forces polite intellectuals to cater candy to groups of little idiots. And then there’s the idiots that drive! All around us. Every day. Passing on the right, turning in front of us. It seems the only safe place left is inside with windows closed doors locked and lights out, so none of the idiots can find you….

And, it is at that moment.

In your pristine sanctuary.

As far removed from the insanity as you can possibly be.

That you, too.

Have become .

An idiot…

…this is the end.

-Windword

Education

I was trying to watch something educational, but it seems they let anyone into TED Talks these days. Luckily found a 9 minute video of Johnny Depp’s career and life. Thus concludes a day preceded by 90 of restlessness, my Sabbath; relaxation I postponed to make my childhood home rentable. -A homeowner’s job is never done, which is why I’m happy to say I have returned to renting; an unwise financial investment which frees up a great deal of time. Money can be won, but hours I’m afraid ever slip away. Some might say I wasted it…

…Making this stylus! -All thanks to an Indian boy’s youtube video. Why wasn’t he an American boy? Our school system apparently disregards everything productive. They make students who are happy about who they are instead of what they do… I suppose ignorance is bliss.

-Windword

Gaps

5AM twice this week. I’m on a roll! A month ago I resolved to become more like Bob, the 60 something Olympian of a man, with whom I have the privilege of meeting weekly. The guy wakes up at 4 every morning to pray for people, with the tender heart of Andy Griffith and the determination of Whitey Bulger from “Black Mass”. Most of my heroes are old. Several of them are dead. I guess that makes now the perfect time to begin filling in the gaps they left behind. Happy father’s day.

-Windword

Cowboy

I also like not smiling. Especially when the sun’s about 4:00 in the sky and my stubble’s in. I like to make myself a cowboy. Even if it’s just for a few seconds. One of mom’s folks was a cowboy. South Dakota to Texas. That’s a long way. He probably wouldn’t even recognize me if we stood in the same room. I look more like an Indian. But Indians can be cowboys too right? Same wind chapped frown. Same calloused stare glaring back at the sun.

I’d wished to be a cowboy. Look a coward in the eyes with a face that says -“you can have my pity but you’ll never have my respect…”

The radio turns to Pink Floyd’s, Another Brick in the Wall. My dad said, “this is what I used to listen to!”. Pink Floyd and Chuck Swindoll. That’s my dad. And something about  George Müller waiting for God to provide food for the orphans. The way I see it, God always provides; either food for the orphans or sanity to make it through another day of starvation. I like being hungry myself. Keeps me focused. My best work happens when I’m hungry. I think hungry people may even live longer…

If they don’t die of starvation first.

 

-Windword

Mint Chocolate Chip (the snack that fueled this post)

I like wearing nice clothes. Nice hair too. I don’t even mind shaving if that’s what it takes to get a little respect around here. Funny thing about people. They don’t know why you do what you do, and most of them don’t really care to find out as long as you do what THEY think you should do. That’s the best way to keep life smooth and easy; if that’s the life you choose. I always liked my peanut butter chunky.

Time to go see what’s in the fridge…

-Windword

Stone

Grab a stone while you can. There may be none where you’re headed.

Carefully I planned: color, logo, potential for revenue. As much as I wish to win on first strike, I’ve come to realize my greatest strength and weakness: perfectionism. To be frank, PERFECT NEVER HAPPENS!

For two decades, I put off my career, seeking what I already had: a plan far from perfect, as formidable as any blunt force weapon. The humble stone always wins against the royal head. What held me back!?

“Refinement”.

Ambitions put to sleep minutes from birth; Splendid and powerful, they would have been.

This is Windword…

This is me.

Seller’s Remorse

I remember my first experience as a capitalist. I’m about 7 years old. My mom and I plan to have a garage sale, eliminating excess clutter from the bedroom. Me: eager to display my treasures, let the cul de sac covet my possessions. Mom: ready to make her son’s room easier to clean.

Ecstatic at the thought of being made the center of attention on my block, I hastily set up shop, showcasing only the best of the best: Snoopy Figurine, Epic Green Suburban, Horse on a Stick, Super Soaker. That’s all I remember. So yeah Gregory shows up and buys the truck. I think he pays a quarter. Having no concept of money, I’m just stoked to exchange a toy for currency. It feels great. Adrenaline rushed through my body. I’m now a man, a businessman. Avery, a kind Mormon kid never makes it out in time to buy anything. He’s big enough that he’d probably try to stop me, protect me from myself. Too late. Mom’s on the phone or in the shower, somewhere else. Now a few more kids. Gregory’s back, bored with the truck. Now my pocket holds a nickel as well. He has my horse. I think my Gramma gave me that horse. My gut starts to twist as he drags it’s wooden handle on the ground, scraping off chips of wood from the broomstick it’s head is mounted to.

She was a beauty. My beauty. Now she belonged to Gregory. For a handful of silver coins. I watched like Judas. Started to wish I had waited for mom. She’s God in this picture, the voice of reason. Wisdom. Wrath. Love. You name it. I was alone and dumb.

Uh oh, here she comes! Not good. I hear my heart pounding inside my ears. Face, getting hot. Eyes, blinking excessively, fighting tears. Back of throat raises tight against what feels like the roof of my mouth. Nose, feels like peppers.

First memory: I’m at a table, mom, dad, and a shiny green pepper. I reach for it. Dad hands it to me. Finally someone respects my free will. I take a big bite. Sensory overload. End of memory.

I can make out the faint sound of my mother’s voice over the ruckus of my eardrums as my jaw adjusts between gasps. – “ you should have waited for me.”

She tries to win them back, but some things just can’t be undone. I run to the room, unable to cope with my foolishness. I grab my blanket, one of the precious items I had forgotten to sell. Gramma made it for me. It smells like her, and Grampa, and The Farm.

First Christmas memory: Pkeew! pkeew! I gotcha! Nathan points his neon space gun toward me. “You’re dead.”

“No. I dodged it. you’re dead!”, I roll out of the line of fire.

I’m tired.

I lay back listening to The Song. Gramma sends a plastic cylindrical rendition of a human down an unnaturally large slide coming out of a building that plays music. What a trip! Jani’s just a baby and seems to like it. Of course she would. Why wouldn’t she? She, her brother and I are cousins. Cousins celebrating the single biggest event in our lives. Christmas on The Farm with our family.

The high ceiling glistens, seemingly miles above us. I don’t know who’s idea it was to place glitter on the textured surface, but they’re brilliant. Probly Grampa. Since he’s the kind of guy that just does stuff if he wants to. And it looks like the type of thing he wanted, or maybe Gramma.

“Hey, I shot you!”

…This guy doesn’t know when to quit.

I throw a blanket over myself.

“Invisible laser shield!”

(I have no idea what lasers are, but figure a laser gun can’t do squat versus a laser shield.)

Nathan seems convinced, and the obnoxious arcadian sound of simulated gunfire comes to a halt.

The year of life experience I have beyond him finally pays off. My logic against his sweet trust.

“And Dawn, I made these blankets”, I hear Gramma say as she removes my invisibility shield to display her handiwork.

…Drat! I’m exposed.

Back to the battlefield, another evasive roll. This time a summersault, very much needing improvement, as I’ve yet to enter gymnastics.

That was the blanket. Turquoise green, with black and white spotted sheep. That was the blanket I cried hot tears into until they turned cold.

-Windword