Archive for the SELF. Category
“Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight, gonna have some afternoon delight…”
Regardless of the generation, the lyrics to the song by the Starland Vocal Band inspire humming, memories, and sly grins. It’s a song that ‘sets the mood’ and gives permission for “some afternoon delight.”
This Labor Day presented Hawai’i with weather begging for a day at the beach. We declined two invitations, and were committed to a day of complete relaxation. A hearty local breakfast of Portuguese sausage, eggs and rice washed down with Pog juice, and a marathon of either CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit or America‘s Next Top Model.
While the others compromised, I chose, as I normally always do if it’s the television over the ‘net, to customize our different membership sites. It takes a lot of patience, and it’s not as simple of copying and pasting, especially with Wordpress. But, it’s the process of learning that keeps me compelled, otherwise I’d still be trapped on MySpace. The success of MySpace is phenomenal, however it has peaked for me and I’ve been scouring the ‘net for other options which I’ve successfully found, as you can see from our sidebar.
Focused intently on customizing our social network sites, my compulsive disorder demands that they all have uniformity. This is difficult when your options are limited or it’s not written so plainly and you have to actually understand acronyms such as FTP or API, challenges for me when I’ve only just begun to understand RSS and XML.
I also realized that due to time and not necessarily inspiration I have neglected my blogs which were begging for attention somewhere in my subconscious.
And then, as though my soul was being pulled by a magnet, I looked over my shoulder towards Lilinoe. As we most always do, we smiled at each other when our eyes met. Our connection was fierce, our minds in sync, I began humming, “Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight, gonna have some afternoon delight.” Bravery caused me to motion with my eyes to the right, and she nodded. Caution caused me to motion with my eyes to the left with a bit of a frown towards the kids, she shrugged it off. The song was now louder in my head, “Aaaaaaaa AFTERNOON DELIGHT!”
We both stood up at the same time, our smiles never ceased, took a few steps from the living room, and entered our ‘special room.’ I spoke only two words as I closed the door tightly, “What flavor?” She answered, “Macadamia nut.” And we enjoyed two hearty bowls of ice cream on a very hot Labor Day!
“Aaaaaa AFTERNOON DELIGHT!”
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Many of you will recall the popular television series, “The Bionic Woman” starring actress Lindsay Wagner whose character, Jaime Sommers, although mortal, possessed superhero like powers through medical implants. She had “amplified hearing, super strength in her right arm, and enhanced legs that allowed her to run faster than a speeding car”. “The Bionic Woman” was a spin-off of another popular series, “The Six Million Dollar Man,” starring Lee Majors who too possessed superhero like powers the same as Sommers, with the exception that instead of a bionic ear, he had a bionic eye.
On September 26, NBC will debut its new television series “Bionic Woman” starring, British thespian Michelle Ryan. All of this bionic buzz had me a bit nostalgic for the 70’s, and of course thinking of my dear Lilinoe and her own “bionic” left leg. But mostly it reminded me that I was raised by a Mother with a bionic nose
Now, our family was one centered around athletics, and so at one time or another one or all of the children were covered from head to toe in dirt from the Ala Wai baseball fields or soaked in sweat from an intense basketball practice at McKinley gym or just dirty from a good game of “Sky Inning” on Evelyn Lane against the “Yoshida’s.”
As I walked from the practice field toting my bag, feeling the gravel that had gotten into my shoes, I noticed that not only my cleats, but the exposed skin from my socks to the elastic on my softball pants were caked in dirt. And the sweat had only made it transform into a thin layer of mud.
I could see my Mom about 50 yards away in her “work clothes” chit chatting with the other parents waiting for their little athletes. She was smiling and laughing seeming to be engaged in her conversation, until I noticed the little crinkle in her nose, and then her right-hand on her hip with her weight shifting just slightly to her left leg. She didn’t break her conversation or her smile, but I knew that even though I was still a couple of dime yards away, my Mom, well she could “smell” me!
Her bionic nose detected spoiled food, although the refrigerator was shut; if the garbage man was late on the weekly pick up; and well our family Olympics of Flatulence! She even had “threat levels” but they weren’t as sophisticated as the Homeland Security’s color coded system, it was just the amount of crinkling and the question that followed.
“What’s that smell?” usually was a mild odor, nothing too threatening and disease free.
“Oh hauna!” was usually botulism and penicillin growing on the left-overs in the fridge.
“STINKO!” was usually my Dad or brother or me or whoever “claimed it.”
“HAUNA BAUNA” was the highest threat level that scorched the nose hairs. This meant all hands on deck, to clean the house from top to bottom, every bit of trash although it wasn’t trash prior to the threat level was disposed of, all laundry washed, dried, folded and put away.
Once on a trip to California we had planned on staying with family, and after taking the redeye from Honolulu we were all a bit exhausted, however when we walked into the house, “HAUNA BAUNA!”
Now that I think of it, I should apologize to my Mom for the torture I put her through during my “Miami Vice” fashion days! For those of you who weren’t raised on the pastel television show, their fashion required covered shoes with no socks!
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I am capable of charting a topographic map of her body, including footnotes of the cause and circumstance of every scar and imperfection. I could write a biography filled with intimate stories before our souls fused. I know all of her common favorites, likes and dislikes and win each time we play my self-invented trivia game, “How Well Do You Know Me?” In spite of all of this, I wonder, how well do you really know someone?
We’re all guilty of lying, to say you’re not is a lie itself. Scores have lusted at one time or another for someone other than their ‘significant other’, to deny this is to deny you’re human. Many of us are guilty of declaring our undying love for someone, only to change our minds soon after, probably after the lust has subsided. But, how well do you know the person laying next to you at the end of the day? How well do you know the person you share a joint checking account with? How well do you know the person you call your husband, wife, boyfriend, other half, your boo?
I would like to be bold and reassuring, arrogant even, but the truth is you never know. My motto was/is/was
“falling in love is easy, staying there is hard”. The future is unknown, and rightfully so can you imagine the chaos if we knew the expiration date of our relationships as soon as it began? It makes me shudder, sincerity would turn to obligation. There’s a reason we don’t know these specific dates and times, as humans we may literally become animals.
I know the recipe to have a relationship fail, I probably prepared it better than anyone else the last time I cooked it up. Therefore, I’ve concocted, peppered with a little bit of self-help books; seasoned with advice from others; marinated in “heartache and regret”; a recipe of conducting a successful relationship. I am no expert, I know me…so it’s tailored towards me, you need to develop your own recipe. But what I’ve realized is much of my recipe is reliant upon a huge helping of ‘faith’ because no matter how much of the details you know about someone, free will always trumps absolute.
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Hawaii is in dire need of a SuperFairy. I’m not referring to the controversial ALAKAI established to provide Hawaii residents and tourists alike the option to travel by ship between each island’s harbor ports. And, I’m not eluding to a Rupalesque Amazonian “tita” to be unleashed to set some people straight, although the thought has crossed my mind. I’m talking about an intervention, a spiritual one focused on change from the inside out. Whether you’re a believer of fairies, angels, chakras; it’s all the same, Hawaii just needs it and quickly.
Perhaps today’s turmoil is historical, perhaps, but regardless of the point of origin of this oppression, it exists. This blog is not to place blame, but to encourage each individual to make a conscious effort in searching themselves, identify ones strengths and weaknesses, and begin healing from within and capitalize on personal growth and development of their strengths.
The recent headlines and stories depict a Hawaii that I’m unfamiliar with causing me to ask myself, is this my home? Allegations of a father and son assaulting a couple over a fender bender; children being detained by law enforcement during a protest that witnessed adults verbally assaulting strangers and causing property damage; parents allegedly choosing to starve their child; a youth soccer coach admitting to sexual assault against his players; a teenager accused of murdering his neighbor to impress his friends; high school football players engaged in a school rivalry brawl; and I haven’t touched upon our community’s struggle with crystal meth or affordable housing woes. All of these are controversial and debatable, but to debate is to perpetuate the need for immediate intervention.
I am not naïve and understand that wrong and evil exists. But, we need a SuperFairy to touch all of the residents of the State of Hawaii to bring healing to every individual, families and communities.
Otherwise, someone might actually unleash the “other” Superfairy, you know the Rupalesque Amazonian “tita”, and if you’re from Hawaii you know, “no mess with mahus!”
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We all know this word in one form or the other. It’s number ten in the Ten Commandments, and Pope Gregory the Great identified it as the number two sin of the Seven Deadly Sins. According to history, ‘envy’ was listed as one of the deadly sins because to commit it would mean spiritual fatality. If this is true, then I’ll be coming back as a cockroach or worse yet, a Geico caveman.
My envy is for one particular thing, not multiple, no plurals, just one. But, as hard as I try I just cannot seem to rid myself of this envy. I’ve read self-help books, “The Power of Now“, and even “He’s Just Not That Into You” which by the way has nothing to do with my problem or my lifestyle, but I was willing to try anything! I’ve meditated, joined a yoga class, and burned incense to no avail. If there were a 12 Step Program, I’d become an anonymous member!
I’ve concluded that I need to confess my struggle, in hopes that others will identify and help in my healing.
Here goes:
“Hello my name is NEENZ (NEENZ) and I suffer from envy of people with high metabolism. It began when I was younger, I noticed I was different. It got worse with time. I don’t envy athletes or energetic children, it’s a bit more complicated. It’s those that can consume as much food as they want and not gain a pound. I’ve asked God and Buddha, well not Buddha, but God why can’t that be me? Why is it that when I go to a buffet I walk out $30 lighter in my wallet, but 30 lbs. heavier in the torso? And yet there are those who can consume the exact same portions, and they’ll belch every caloric carbohydrate right out of their mouths. Well, that’s my story thank you for listening.”
Does anyone else have a burning desire?
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For those of you hoping to discover a recipe for delicious kalibi sauce or marketing kim chee for the masses for large profits, I apologize in my first sentence.
Today is the start of the Hawaii International Film Festival’s K-Fest! If you’re either living in one of the states, countries or territories not listed on KOREANWIZ.ORG the K is for ‘Korean’, as in Korean Dramas. In my second paragraph I must apologize again to those of you hoping for a film review or a recount of a chance sighting of Bae Yong-joon or even a lock of hair from Oh Ji Ho, this isn’t your bowl of bulgogi. Rather, all of this talk of the K-Fest and calling my attendee mother between films to finalize our plans for tomorrow made me think of one thing, “YABO!” Now, for those of you familiar with local pidgin dialect you’re shaking your head sounding out y-o-b-o, and for those readers who grew up in the same home that I did you too are shaking your head, but for different reasons.
You see, my pure blooded Korean paternal grandfather, my Papa, pronounced it YAhBO! We were all yabos. My mother, her siblings, the grandchildren, the waitress at Hata’s Restaurant on South King Street, all of our pets, and possibly even the guys were called YABO at one time or another. And, to be called yabo was a term of endearment, more precious than the literal meaning which by the way casually translates to ‘sweetheart’.
(According to URBAN DICTIONARY there are six definitions of ‘yobo’, including my reference above, however I must add that this website allows for its users to add their own ‘urban’ words and definitions, with the option for someone viewing the page to vote a thumbs up or down .)
If you’ve ever met my Papa, all of his Koreanness was in his yabo. Otherwise, he was a typical local beach boy who kanikapila’d, married a Hawaiian girl, drank Primo and Oly beer, shuttled the grandchildren everywhere and anywhere we desired, drove a Chevy Nova, played the P-sheets during the football season, hosted friendly paiute card games during delayed televised Super Bowls, and was a stevedore at McCabe, Hamilton and Renny down at Honolulu harbor, although I don’t remember the Renny portion being in the name during his tenure.
If he did have the stereotypical Korean temper, I was never a witness, suspect or a victim to it, you’d have to ask the generations before the grandchildren.
I have many fond memories of my Papa which ironically centered mostly around food. Our typical Saturday would involve cutting the grass at my great-grandmother’s house in Palolo, driving to Chinatown to pick-up some dry aku for lunch, and then dropping me off in Pauoa at my grandmother’s hula studio.
My Papa passed away when I was 14 years old. I never did have another bite of dry aku purchased from Chinatown. But, I should have paid more attention in the kitchen when he cooked his kalbi because not only would I be able to verify the Korean in me, but I would have satisfied the interest of the readers who stumbled upon this hoping to find a recipe for delicious kalbi, if they’re still reading!
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Posted by: Infinity in SELF.
Back in elementary school I discovered that I loved the power of writing. A particular reader, I found it fascinating how I was able to transport myself into the plot of a fictional story or take on the emotional burden of a tragic news story or even salivate at the description of a tasty meal. I wanted this power, and I set my mind on harnessing it for my own.In middle school I registered for anything and everything I felt was media; yearbook, news writing, and well English was already mandatory; (we didn‘t have the options and opportunities available today). I attended every student media conference at the University of Hawaii, read everything that I could get my hands on, including my father’s old college text books which to be honest went right over my head, especially those from his women’s studies class or was it female anatomy?
I had a momentary lapse during my final year in middle school due to the bigotry of my yearbook teacher. She preferred her Japanese students, and as the token Polynesian I was delegated to performing the duties of cleaning up the classroom, filing her paperwork and once even had to clean the portable bathroom. Never mind that I had a passion, never mind that I was her nearest neighbor in Manoa than the other students, never mind that I had just as much Korean as I did Samoan! I did learn something that year, but it had nothing to do with writing.
Finally, I’m in high school and at the time the only public school to publish a daily newspaper, “The Daily Pinion.” The days of discouragement were literally swept away, and I was comfortable on campus as if it were my own backyard. Actually, it was. My father was a Varsity coach, and I was running ’round campus during football and basketball practices since the age of 7, most of the faculty and staff were ‘Aunty’ and ‘Uncle‘ rather than Mister or Miss. I had the same regimen, and eventually became co-editor during my senior year.
Fast forward to 2007. Next year will be 20 years since graduation, and I never did become a writer. Well, correction, I never had any of my writings published. As the years passed, I chose to take the longest road I could possibly find, back to my passion. One filled with many experiences in different places, and as I type this I wonder how in the hell I’m still here! But, with the innovation of technology and the acceptance of blogging, I am afforded the opportunity to point and click and voila, published or ‘posted to journal’, same smell different odor!
And so, here I am with the same passion, but suddenly a whole lot of anxiety. I conclude that with age comes passivity. The “no scade ‘em, go get ‘em” approach seems to fade when the brain reminds the soul of “remember the last time we did this?” Regardless, I approach this with a responsibility to myself. After traveling that long ass road, I owe me.
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Each morning I begin my day rising just as the sun peaks its broad forehead over the east horizon with one anticipation, to have the day’s fine mist greet me. I hurry out of bed, hair mussed, but not worrying because the fine mist does not judge me. Neglecting any footwear, my heart is pounding each thud so alarming that I hope it doesn’t wake anyone else. I want the fine mist all to myself, if only for a moment. I turn the corner of my doorway, and there she is…the fine mist in all her gentleness.
She is nourishment to the earth, generously giving herself to all. Each curve, each touch is healing, revitalizing, and quickly becomes a necessity. I have known this fine mist all of my life, and the connection I feel confirms that I’ve had an affinity for her in past lives. To know this fine mist is to know oneself. She is simple, inviting, a comfort. Disregard her, and she can turn into a thick fog, making your life’s path difficult to navigate.
Recalling my years lost in the fog makes my soul cringe. I was searching, yearning wondering if this fine mist I encountered was just a myth, a story I created in my mind. But, as time passed I found my way home and there she was, still the fine mist I remembered in all her gentleness. And now, although many know of her I can call her my own.
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