Esoteric Bowl

One would think that after all this time, she would eventually stop coming. Still, despite the years, she continues to visit now and then. Last night she came once more, as I saw her vividly in my dream. I don’t mind that she continues to visit while I sleep. Actually, the dreams are always quite pleasant. The dreams are never sexual, not even particularly romantic. Instead, she is just there, and that in of itself provides a comfort. In the dreams, I see her face amongst the crowd and recognize her soft smile. She is always just as beautiful, her shining eyes just as captivating.

When I wake from these dreams, I always spend a few quiet moments thinking about her. I wonder how she is and what her life is like, wondering if she is happy. It dawned on me this morning that she is older now. I don’t know why I never considered all the passing years and how they may have changed her mentally, physically, and spiritually. In the dreams she remains forever young, always at the age that I last saw her.

It’s not like I’m sitting around dwelling about the past or constantly wondering about what might have been, so I’m unsure why she remains in these dreams of mine. I suppose it’s my own fault. One quiet evening while the two of us were lying in the darkness, she expressed her insecurities and concerns about my death. In our soft whispers, we agreed to my suggestion that when one of us died, our soul would return to the other. Little did I know at that time the many facets of death. Nor did I comprehend that when we later separated, a part of both of us would die.

On Saturday, I went to the theater to see Japanese Story. Surprisingly, there was a good sized crowd gathered to see the film. The crowd was an interesting mixture of Nisei couples, Japanese students from U of H, Sansei girlfriends, and a broad mixture of lone moviegoers like myself.

I hadn’t heard anything about the movie, but the trailer for the film intrigued me. While the plot of the story had potential, it seems to me the film missed on what exactly it wanted to say. The story touched on a number of issues, but never delved beyond the surface of those issues nor expanding character development to pull the viewer in. Even when tragedy strikes, there were no sniffles and fallen tears in the audience as the scene leaves the viewer with a feeling of separation without emotion. The film had tear-potential, but instead it left me with a disappointing numbness.

It’s true that Japanese Story is filmed in Australia and does have a principle character that is from Japan. But in my opinion, beyond the ethnicity of the character, the story shows very little as to why it is a Japanese story. The character could have been from any country outside of Australia, and the story would have changed very little.

I haven’t seen The Fog of War or The Dreamers, so I can’t offer a film critique of either. But as I was walking by the theatre, the two adjoining titles brought to mind our current political divide.

There was a time in my youth when I would wake up early on Sunday mornings to watch sports on television. Back in those days, there was always a game on by 8am. A brother of mine would also wake up early to watch tv, but it wasn’t sports that he wanted to see. Instead, he wanted watch the Shirley Temple movie that was broadcast each Sunday morning.

Because of an unwritten rule between my brothers and I, the person that turned the television on had control of what channel was watched. Because of this rule, I had to get up extra early to ensure my sports viewing. Sometimes it was sports that we watched, and othertimes it was Shirley. Thanks to my brother and Shirley, I know to this day that bon-bons play on the sunny beach of Peppermint Bay.

Dad would come out a little later, always wearing his white boxers and white t-shirt. He would make coffee, scratch and hack, and make other noises that only Dads produce so openly. Oftentimes he would decide to make breakfast for us all. Outside of barbeque and the occasional chili, Dad didn’t cook too often, but he did make some killer omelettes.

After cooking for my brothers and I, Dad would make breakfast in bed for Mom. He would always try to make her breakfast special, placing the plate on a covered tv tray, with a fresh picked flower from the backyard, along with the Sunday newspaper.

Later on in the morning, Mom would get up and begin her Sunday ritual of cleaning the house. This was a sign for the rest of us to make way. Dad would go downstairs and spend most of the day washing and waxing the cars. My brothers and I would go off to do whatever project or chore we had to do. Mom would turn on the record player, and vacuum, dust, and do the wash, while Johnny Mathis, Barbara Streisand, Dionne Warwick, Petula Clark, and others performed.

Sunday is much different now. I still wake early, but now it is I that walks about in boxers, scratching and making unusual sounds. I rarely turn on the tv for sports, instead I quietly have coffee and do the blog thing, and wait for Meet the Press to come on. Later, I will turn on some music and clean up around the house. I always include a few tunes of Johnny Mathis on the playlist, just to make it feel like home.

One year later. No Weapons of Mass Destruction have been found. No stockpile of chemical weapons, no uranium, no mobile biological weapons labs. No link between Saddam Hussein and the 9/11 attacks, nor link between Hussein and Osama bin Laden. No imminent threat, nor grave danger to the rest of the world. No gathering threat of a mushroom cloud.

How exactly does one commemorate the anniversary for the lies that we have been told? How does one properly honor all the lives that are needlessly lost when they are lost for an unjust war? How does one offer rememberance for the lost limbs of the crippled and scarred? How does one give ceremony for the billions of dollars spent on a needless war that is based on lies and deception?

Glenna was an elderly Hawaiian woman that lived two houses down from my childhood home. She was a kind and gentle woman with a million interesting stories about old Hawaii. Glenna once shared a story about the time she was pregnant with her first child. She was beyond her due date, and she and her husband were impatient for the child to be born. Her husband had the idea of taking a drive, so the two of them drove from Kaneohe to Kahaluu. Of course, as Glenna pointed out, back in those days the roads were all made of gravel, so the ride was rather bumpy. Shortly after they had returned home from the drive, Glenna went into labor and their first son was later born.

This story was of great interest to Julie and I. Not only was Julie pregnant, but it was on the eve of her due date that Glenna shared this story. Inquisitive me pondered the possibilities. I tried to remember where we might find a gravel road, but all the nearby roads that came to mind had long since been paved.

Not wanting to give up on the idea entirely, the two of us compromised. Since we didn’t have a gravel road, I suggested that we pretend to drive on one. Julie layed down on her back upon the living room carpet. I knelt down between her legs and cupped her hips with both of my hands. With eyes closed, I imagined the two of us driving to Kahaluu, gently moving and thrusting her hips with each turn and bump in the road that we might have hit along the drive. After about ten minutes of this, we both decided that we were being kind of silly.

After our pretend play, Julie went to take a shower. She was in the bathroom for about five minutes when she called out my name. She yelled in the shower that her water had broke, and silly me had thought she had somehow broken the shower. It took several more times of her saying to me that her water broke before I caught on to what she was actually telling me.

Mom drove us to the hospital. As Julie was getting checked by the nurses, I tried to convince myself that I was ready for this. The Lamaze classes had prepared me for the months of pregnancy and for the delivery itself, but nothing prepared me for the hours of waiting in the waiting room. From time to time I would check in on Julie, just long enough to see how the dilation was coming, to offer her comfort and support, and to do something stupid like offering to bring her a magazine to read.

Eventually it was time. Julie was wheeled into the delivery room, and I stood excitedly by her side. I coached her along, and she did wonderfully well. In all the time that we had been together, she was never more beautiful. And then baby arrived. It was a boy, a handsome baby boy. The doctor allowed me to cut the cord, and soon baby was cradled in his mother’s arms. One of the nurses told us that baby had been given the highest possible APGAR score, and we were proud of his first accomplishment. It was all quite emotional. As Julie and baby Steffen rested, my permanent smile caused my face to ache. I phoned the family to share the good news. I called friends, and friends of friends. I proudly told strangers in the hospital that my son had been born.

Five years later, Julie and Steffen would move away from the islands. But that’s another story for another time. As I look back on all my memories, that one day when I witnessed the birth of my son, it was undoubtedly the most joyful day of my life. It all began to happen eighteen years ago today.

I sat quietly at the table eating my lunch. A group of teenage girls in the booth next to mine were siping sodas, eating french fries, giggling, and talking loudly. In between my chewing and swallowing, I listened to their conversation.

They were discussing weddings, their own weddings that they invisioned would take place one day. Each girl described her ideal wedding day in great detail, with flowing gown, fancy lace, and massive amounts of flowers in a garden or church atmosphere. Some of the girls failed to mention a groom in the wedding, and those that did mention a partner seemed to add him in the picture only as an afterthought.

Soon the conversation moved to the house they would one day live in. Some of the girls described palace like structures, while others spoke of a home surrounded by a white picket fence with animals and children playing in the yard. They spoke in great detail as if they had thought and planned of such things long ago.

While the girls talked, I noticed the adults in the restaurant remained silent, they too were listening to what was being said. The adults were sharing a knowing glance with each other and shaking their heads as if they understood what the future held for these teenage girls. The adults looked like knowing butchers, understanding that these girls were the next generation of lambs destined towards the slaughterhouse of disappointment.

Suddenly, I wanted to get out of my booth and tell these girls how it is, to give them a good dose of reality. To explain to them that the fairytale seldom comes with a happily-ever-after ending. I wanted to tell them that education is their best bet for any kind of future. I wanted to speak to them about the realities of life, about all the things that schools fail to teach and parents seldom share. But no, I remained silent.  They wouldn’t have listened anyway.  I quietly paid the check and left a generous tip for the overworked waitress.