Texas Hold ’em is a good metaphor for life. It’s not a coincidence that the same people are always at the final table because it’s a skill game. You hold two cards, but you’re still subject to a flop, a turn, and that oh-so-deep river. Assess what you have–do the math. If it’s right, look at the flop, hope for the best when you make the turn, and pray the river doesn’t drown you. That’s about the best you can do.
Commas are dumb
The difficulty in learning a language. A new way of saying things involve a new way of thinking. A new way of seeing. For me, perhaps, remembering. There are duolingos to guide you. Cuanto cuesta? How much do you want for that? They donʻt mean the same thing word for word. This is why it is so important to remember. There is a phrase in English that comes to mind as I feel sometimes, when I listen to manaleo. “I donʻt have a word for this.” Is it my lack of capacity for the moment or are there no words? I often feel that way translating my thoughts into Hawaiian. There must exist those words. I can not be the first Hawaiian feeling this way. And, so, I look for more words.
Kahoa
Brah, kahoa (ke hoa in songs) in Hawaiian. When I was that age, I knew EVERYTHING. No one could tell me shit. I read every book already. I knew you had the quote wrong. I snorted every line already. I took every shot already. I put my dick into every place they would take it. The realization comes more slowly. What feels good in the moment doesnʻt always feel good on Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. And although that wasnʻt on purpose, it makes a good point. Tuesday is always less than seven days away. You are an asshole. And you fucked up your only real job, evolutionarily speaking. Your kids should love you. It’s weird how patterns become patterns. I donʻt like my father. It feels like a burden to go beyond small talk. I look at posts here speaking about a father, what it means to be a man. My son does not like me. Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat,
Close your eyes
Lives change lives. Lives beget lives. Lives are lost. You can promise on your life with a straight look on your face and lie. Love makes the potential for that lie infinitely larger and smaller. But when you promise on love and mean it, you transcend the promise.
Everyone gets sad. Sadness is part of the human condition. Happiness as a goal is actually a very recent concept for people. Survival trumped happiness for most of our existence. Losing something hurts. And that’s always been around. Of course, there is a very large spectrum of pain defined by the person and the loss. But losing that transcendence is not just sad. It’s a loss of self.
Watching a life erode: if it’s your life, whether you choose to recognize it or not is self-chosen, and sooner or later, you figure out what’s coming and fix it, or self-destruct. When love erodes, it’s not just up to you, and it reveals beauty and terror. It’s mostly sad.
Eyes opening are a blessing, and eyes closing are fear. And the final closing most likely means oblivion. This is a metaphor.
Dr. Dre and Shakespeare
I thought I wouldn’t make it without stealing. When I was walking down the hill. And I was thinking to myself that Dr. Dre was a genius. He rapped over a tuba. That doesn’t seem important. It’s literally seven notes over and over. Then he gets Eminem when he was still manic and high to say fuck god and scream and scream and lose his mind. And those seven notes make sense. Bah. Bah bah. Bah bah. Bah bah. (Whatʻs the difference between me and you? Go listen to it). But, I digress.
So, I’m walking down the hill. I feel fibrillation. The subtle vibrations of pre-seizure. My fingers cramp, my hamstrings buzz. They shake, but only I know they’re shaking. I think about Shakespeare and soliloquies, and I repeat in my mind just walk, just walk, just walk. My veins get pronounced. And walking takes a kind of tactile acuity with my toes. Fall and quickly stand. I turn my head behind the bus stop wall and vomit in the trash can quickly so no one notices. I clench, so I don’t shit my pants.
I walk across the parking lot to the gas station with a Baskin-Robbins, and I buy ice cream (pralines and cream) to try to look and smell normal. I buy a razor and shave in the porta-potty to look younger.
The auditory hallucinations become scary. They go from noises to songs to voices. I try to sleep when I finally close my eyes. Just try. The voices say worse things. They are equally unhelpful. Her voice plays on repeat.
This is fiction, but everything actually happened. I may have a few details wrong. I can tell you the color of the vomit. It was oily and almost yellow, and some of it came out of my nose. Its viscosity made me consider my condition. Opaque mucous means slow down, but stop at your discretion. Green-yellow is the rot on a scab. Be aware of it. Take action if it turns black.
Iʻm still who I was
You don’t know me like I was. The me when I was corporate. It’s why I was always welcome and always rehired through my myriad proclivities. You never understood my value, and it’s why you wrongfully think that I do not have any, that I have no ambition. I am loyal. I am political. I know how to get what I want. In that world, I only knew resilience and survival. I ate people I didn’t like or who I thought were unhelpful. I would sabotage your metaphorical bungee cord and return your smile when you jumped. I’m much, much softer now, but there are still teeth in my mouth and bile in my gut.
Summer Program for the Enhancement of Basic Education
I went to SPEBE at UH and they treated us like college kids. Probably the wrong thing to do. I kept Strawberry Hill in my room refrigerator. This is 1986. My cousin came and we binge watched before that was a thing. We saw Top Gun. I feel the need. The need for speed. Then we watched Karate Kid 2 two times in a row. Peter Cetera. And it was filmed by my house in Kahaluʻu. Then I drank two bottles of that Strawberry Hill. Then I puked. Like really puked. Like the first time you drink puked. Like Linda Blair puked. And then Tūtū died that weekend. And the day I got back, I got 100 on my exam. The next highest was 96. So I’m at least four better than everyone else. I don’t feel four better.
Last week, I was reading People Español at Supercuts. And I was reading it for 10 minutes before I realized it was in Spanish. It took those minutes before I was puzzled by a word. Then i remembered slang. Ya me voy. I’m going.
I met one person this week. One new person. I told her the Spanish story. She said that’s peculiar, I like peculiar people. I felt guilty. Because she liked me.
Moo
You asked me what I was afraid of and I couldn’t articulate it at the time. This is that. That moment when you wake up to pee and she’s warm and asleep and beautiful. Not coincidentally her mouth is closed. And you look at her and think, “Fuck, if this doesn’t work then maybe nothing will.” How do two stupid apes rub against each other and still not tell you about the time, “I did this and no one else can know?” How can we call each other the worst words we can think of for years? How can we be happy when those words actually work? How do I look at you in all your warm beauty knowing you don’t see I’m warm and beautiful too? That you’re here because we have this unspoken agreement. That if either one of us were strong enough we’d say maybe this hurts too much. Then I go quiet and think about my life without you. Wonderful, terrible you. And that pang makes me dial. And pick up when you call.
I don’t know why cows say moo. They just do.
The system is broken
This system is broken but not because we can’t see the symptoms; those are remarkably obvious. We ask the wrong questions. We’re so busy asking what words to use that we forget to ask, “Why write?”
Words are what makes us different from the other apes. Chimpanzees can drink ants through makeshift draws. They masturbate and cheat on their chimpanzee girlfriends and wives. The similarities. Modern humans are more eloquent, not quite refined; we have commandeered the larynx. Guttural groans eventually became poetry. But Shakespeare is not possible without the first caterwauls. The noises that sprang forth from that almost human. Cautiously translated to, “That one is mine.” Or, “I fuck her, not you.”
And now we go to the moon and fear death.
Pā mai nei ka lā ma koʻu ili
I am fucking consumed with optimism, ambition, and a sense of purpose. And anger. I went to the heiau again, and the sun was drowning me in yellow rays of hope. Pā mai nei ka lā ma koʻu ʻili. Whatever isn’t forbidden is compulsory. Heads will roll, and storms will follow. But in this moment, I rule myself, and the world lies before me. And what I do next has to make a difference. Because until this moment, I have pissed on what was given to me. I make the same mistake over and over again. I know the wall is hard, but I can put my hard head through it this time. I miss my kids, and I love every single person I have ever loved. Aloha for me is not something that goes away. Not with betrayal. Not with lies. Certainly not with disappointment. Aloha means love among many other things. You don’t need to know ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi to know what it means. It’s that feeling in your chest when you pick up your daughter after her first day of kindergarten. It’s the smile that beams when you buy an unhoused kupuna a sandwich. I’m rambling, but my point is it’s all connected. Hewa in the right hand becomes hewa in the left. Aloha spreads the same way. You can’t keep it until you freely give it away.