Last night I howled at the moon. Not the lonesome, wolfsome howl of empty mountain peaks, not the ecstasy of abandon, but something deeply female, hand in hand, the nine of us, the sound starting more as a vibration, rising long, sweet and deep, held in tone and power, bodies glowing in the moonscape, electric at the ocean's edge.
The moon blazes down like a midnight day, reef and coral perfect, palpable. The water blue as dreamscape, transluscent, foam fingers glowing, the beach white as snow. Never have I seen such colors at night. Never have I seen such a night.
The fire crackles, finally come to life after a smoldering search, ohia logs holding offerings--first harvest grasses woven into wreaths, rose petals, garlic, prayers and dreams. The logs hidden ahead of time in anticipation.It is one long moment, gateway open, nine breathe inside it, laughing, stunned, shivering, grateful, giddy.
The light has come.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I'm gonna beep you!
What I realized Kaikea is saying each time she races ahead of me, eyes afire, knowing she'll get there first....
Friday, May 15, 2009
Wednesday
My heart is beating fast, staring at the phone, hoping it will ring. A feeling I can't quite place. I am waiting for a woman to call me back, to see if I can afford to have her clean my house twice a month.
Mother's Day
The brightest light.
Not the bands of gold in aqua water on my Mother's Day wave, not the glare of Kona sun on white coral.
My daughter, driving by me in her daddy's truck, her body straining at her seat belt as she waves and smiles, an explosion of happy, the whole smile for me.
I surrender.
I am Mommy.
Not the bands of gold in aqua water on my Mother's Day wave, not the glare of Kona sun on white coral.
My daughter, driving by me in her daddy's truck, her body straining at her seat belt as she waves and smiles, an explosion of happy, the whole smile for me.
I surrender.
I am Mommy.
Friday, May 8, 2009
"Mommy, the look smaller..."
Three weeks after the Easter Bunny gave the milk to the chickens. No more boobs. Butt getting bigger. Where is justice.
Cinco De Mayo
Back on the street.
I spent all morning on the tour I stole from my one-day gig as concierge at the mothership resort. I have spent maybe 20 hours on email with these honeymooners, wobbling out at night when Kaikea has finally fallen asleep, since I don't have email at work. I take some pleasure in setting up the dream vacation, so have enjoyed it, but I have had to be careful to answer every question, type out detailed itineraries, anticipate any problems, so the guy who usually works that resort (and thinks he owns it, the smug little rodent) doesn't sniff out my antics. It turns out we're not allowed to bring tours with us when we leave the mothership, no matter how much work we've done. I didn't know, though I suppose I suspected, which is why I have worked so hard to keep him loyal to me. May 5 and he is my only tour, he's mine, mine, mine!
(Kaikea and I have been reading a new book, the Mine-o-saur, about a desperate looking little dinaosaur who snatches all the toys from the other dinosaurs and rants, "Mine, mine, mine!" until he discovers the other dinos, like the Whos in Who-ville, find joy in playing ring-around-the-rosy with only each other, no toys at all. The moral of the story, of course is that friends are the most important toy, and that to have them, we must share. I am teaching the greedy rodent how to share. I already know how.)
Anyway, the danger of not having people in front of you is surprises. Like finding out the groom is a strapping bear of a man, 6'4" and 285 pounds, and the honeymooners' Hawaiian dream of horseback riding has been squashed by our vendors' weight limit of 230. You would think that Hawaii, land of the mighty Polynesians, home of the 8-foot tall King Kamehameha (with, I assume, corresponding weight), where enormity is both beautiful and common, would have some mighty horses on staff, but perhaps real Hawaiians shy away from large land animals. Luckily my esteemed colleauge, the Class Act, was able to steer me to a company we do not contract wtih, perhaps run by Samoans, where the weight limit is a more civilized 300 pounds.
And even more luckily, the honeymooners did not want a helicopter ride.
So here I am, trying for number 2 for the month after blanking I don't know how many shifts in a row. I have exhausted the orthodox approaches, like helpful warm-up chat, asking leading questions of passersby ("Where are you viisiting from?" "What activites are you planning to do while you're here?" as opposed to "Hey guys, how you doing?" or "Can I help you?"), open body language, looking busy... I have even flashed a little leg. Nothing.
I am ignoring the monster-slayer in the next booth, a Barbie beauty with a killer close.
I have tried many spiritual paths in my life, and in the last seven months of this job I have revisited them all. Distilling dogma to action, I mix and match: supplication, visualization, chanting, begging, demanding, cajoling, creating, surrendering, loving, hating. I try them all now.
Twenty more minutes. Barbie walks by. She has 3 more tours.
Inner peace. "I am worthy." Sisterly love. "I am worthy." Bounty. "I am worthy."
The gods are with me. A Japanese couple cannot resist the luau. To do this I call the Japanese OPC and she does all the work. I get the credit.
Balance.
Now if only I knew what had worked.
I spent all morning on the tour I stole from my one-day gig as concierge at the mothership resort. I have spent maybe 20 hours on email with these honeymooners, wobbling out at night when Kaikea has finally fallen asleep, since I don't have email at work. I take some pleasure in setting up the dream vacation, so have enjoyed it, but I have had to be careful to answer every question, type out detailed itineraries, anticipate any problems, so the guy who usually works that resort (and thinks he owns it, the smug little rodent) doesn't sniff out my antics. It turns out we're not allowed to bring tours with us when we leave the mothership, no matter how much work we've done. I didn't know, though I suppose I suspected, which is why I have worked so hard to keep him loyal to me. May 5 and he is my only tour, he's mine, mine, mine!
(Kaikea and I have been reading a new book, the Mine-o-saur, about a desperate looking little dinaosaur who snatches all the toys from the other dinosaurs and rants, "Mine, mine, mine!" until he discovers the other dinos, like the Whos in Who-ville, find joy in playing ring-around-the-rosy with only each other, no toys at all. The moral of the story, of course is that friends are the most important toy, and that to have them, we must share. I am teaching the greedy rodent how to share. I already know how.)
Anyway, the danger of not having people in front of you is surprises. Like finding out the groom is a strapping bear of a man, 6'4" and 285 pounds, and the honeymooners' Hawaiian dream of horseback riding has been squashed by our vendors' weight limit of 230. You would think that Hawaii, land of the mighty Polynesians, home of the 8-foot tall King Kamehameha (with, I assume, corresponding weight), where enormity is both beautiful and common, would have some mighty horses on staff, but perhaps real Hawaiians shy away from large land animals. Luckily my esteemed colleauge, the Class Act, was able to steer me to a company we do not contract wtih, perhaps run by Samoans, where the weight limit is a more civilized 300 pounds.
And even more luckily, the honeymooners did not want a helicopter ride.
So here I am, trying for number 2 for the month after blanking I don't know how many shifts in a row. I have exhausted the orthodox approaches, like helpful warm-up chat, asking leading questions of passersby ("Where are you viisiting from?" "What activites are you planning to do while you're here?" as opposed to "Hey guys, how you doing?" or "Can I help you?"), open body language, looking busy... I have even flashed a little leg. Nothing.
I am ignoring the monster-slayer in the next booth, a Barbie beauty with a killer close.
I have tried many spiritual paths in my life, and in the last seven months of this job I have revisited them all. Distilling dogma to action, I mix and match: supplication, visualization, chanting, begging, demanding, cajoling, creating, surrendering, loving, hating. I try them all now.
Twenty more minutes. Barbie walks by. She has 3 more tours.
Inner peace. "I am worthy." Sisterly love. "I am worthy." Bounty. "I am worthy."
The gods are with me. A Japanese couple cannot resist the luau. To do this I call the Japanese OPC and she does all the work. I get the credit.
Balance.
Now if only I knew what had worked.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I don't know if anyone is out there...
I don't know if anyone is out there, but I have been writing blurbs at work then having to print them out since my laptop has died, then retype them when I can, if Kaikea is elsewhere or asleep, and I am not. I am askew on the dates, but chronologically they make sense...
Another day and I am back to Death of a Salesman.
Four days ago my world was full of promise. I had bonused. I bought a couch with all the money I had in the world, against the momentum of all sound financial advice, the existing couch being a patchwork of a stained frame, nautical sea cushion sliced to fit, back cushions pilfered from a hibiscus-print sofa of another time, and an almost all-you-can fit sofa cover that would never stay put. Also, it turns out those bugs I found in the upholstery a few months ago were termites. We meant to throw it out and just sit on the floor when we first found the bugs, after we put tape over them and they made their way past it, but somehow forgot about it. How did we forget? Maybe because the dump is 40 miles away and we would have to pay to take the couch there. Or the proximity to cockroaches and centipedes if we sit at floor level. Or no chance at replacing it. Anyhow, we forgot. Then the bonus came, money in the bank, I saw an ad, couches the same price as my bonus, not thinking too much, just that I will look. Bonus in hand, certain the money will keep flowing. I found it. I love it. Morning, noon and night I love it. So clean, so pretty, so grown up, the only piece of furniture I have ever loved and purchased, took me to 44. I hope I don't have to sleep on it on the beach if I can't book any more timeshare tours. I'll get plastic slipcovers to protect it and Sam and I will take turns sleeping on the lava.
Twenty one days in. Eleven tours. No one committing. The monster slayers taking them down all around me. I am too nice. Don't want to inconvenience anyone. Where is my killer instinct? The instinct to feed my child? Where is my close? Just yesterday I was flying high that I might really love sales, if only I could find something I really believed in, like, like...me? More pitches, no dice. Day ends. No tours. Blank. Walk out as the biker/dope dealer books a lay-down in the corner the minute he walks in the door.
Race to Kaiser before it closes to pick up a prescription for Ambien, maybe someday I will sleep, now that I am done nursing, if Kaikea will stop pushing me with her feet in the middle of the night and my throat will stop hurting from the vog or the latest preschool bug. Off to pick up my sweet girl, always my darling, in the background still an optimist, I will get 10 this week, always a joy to see my daughter. "Auntie, auntie, watch this!" Her little friends climb, jump, spin, slide, throw. (The other day a man in his 20s called me "auntie," the Hawaiian equivalent of "ma'am", but with more aloha, and the fact that I am called that as a haolie a sign of respect, but still means o-l-d. Only buoyed by how many tourists call me "young lady" during the day.) Lift my own little monkey onto the monkey bars, watch her swing to the second bar, "Mama, watch this! I am a BIG girl, I've been eating my vegetables!" Two bites of carrot a week, making progress.
Not sure when it started to fall apart, but by dinner, I am failing at everything. Doubting my ability to clean shrimp, frustrated that no one in my family will like the Thai curry shrimp, even if I made it from scratch, which I most certainly will not when Thai Kitchen will do it for me. Get the water started, attend to Kaikea's tantrum. Clean up the mess. Answer a question. Patience running out. Chop a carrot. Too distracted to remember I wanted to chop the carrots into matchsticks. Too big, these carrots, and bitter, with the skins, for Queen K. She tries a bite, yuck, spits it out. No growing today, I guess. Water boiling. Kaikea's water boiling separately, she won't eat curry. Her pasta, ironically, "crazy bugs," the girl who kisses worms. Set the timer, wash the ants off the frying pan. Where did they come from? The tropics. Put in the rice noodles. Answer a question for Kaikea. Saute the shrimp, so big these shrimp, heat too high. How long have the noodles been on? Pour out water without tasting. Shit, not done. More water. Throw them back in. They will be mushy.
Thinking I should have gotten Xanax instead of Ambien.
Snap at my family. To Sam, "If you ever want to eat dinner you better help Kaikea with whatever she's asking for." A bit later, to Kaikea, "if you ask me again for a juice before dinner you will have nothing." Doesn't help my mood. Or the dinner. Mushy noodles. Overcooked shrimp. Kaikea seems to like her crazy bugs. Sam is always grateful for food.
I am motivated this morning, though. I am pulling out all my psychic meditation tricks and I am ready for action. I am early. I am set up. But these assholes won't talk about timeshares. They want something for nothing. Like this bozo who just walked in wanting a map. I tell him he can get a good one at KTA and I know he means a free map. He wastes my time with questions about directions, then tells me he doesn't need them, he's been to this island eight times already. People suck. I need to get better at getting rid of people who cannot make me money. This morning I lured in two people who were do-it-yourselfers and spent forty minutes on them, meanwhile having to out myself as a timeshare peddler with the better prospects, another couple who hovered until they heard the word timeshare and were out the door, plumerias trailing from their hair as they fled.
A monster slayer comes in to borrow more invitations she is booking so many tours.
I am not sure this is who I should be when I grow up.
Another day and I am back to Death of a Salesman.
Four days ago my world was full of promise. I had bonused. I bought a couch with all the money I had in the world, against the momentum of all sound financial advice, the existing couch being a patchwork of a stained frame, nautical sea cushion sliced to fit, back cushions pilfered from a hibiscus-print sofa of another time, and an almost all-you-can fit sofa cover that would never stay put. Also, it turns out those bugs I found in the upholstery a few months ago were termites. We meant to throw it out and just sit on the floor when we first found the bugs, after we put tape over them and they made their way past it, but somehow forgot about it. How did we forget? Maybe because the dump is 40 miles away and we would have to pay to take the couch there. Or the proximity to cockroaches and centipedes if we sit at floor level. Or no chance at replacing it. Anyhow, we forgot. Then the bonus came, money in the bank, I saw an ad, couches the same price as my bonus, not thinking too much, just that I will look. Bonus in hand, certain the money will keep flowing. I found it. I love it. Morning, noon and night I love it. So clean, so pretty, so grown up, the only piece of furniture I have ever loved and purchased, took me to 44. I hope I don't have to sleep on it on the beach if I can't book any more timeshare tours. I'll get plastic slipcovers to protect it and Sam and I will take turns sleeping on the lava.
Twenty one days in. Eleven tours. No one committing. The monster slayers taking them down all around me. I am too nice. Don't want to inconvenience anyone. Where is my killer instinct? The instinct to feed my child? Where is my close? Just yesterday I was flying high that I might really love sales, if only I could find something I really believed in, like, like...me? More pitches, no dice. Day ends. No tours. Blank. Walk out as the biker/dope dealer books a lay-down in the corner the minute he walks in the door.
Race to Kaiser before it closes to pick up a prescription for Ambien, maybe someday I will sleep, now that I am done nursing, if Kaikea will stop pushing me with her feet in the middle of the night and my throat will stop hurting from the vog or the latest preschool bug. Off to pick up my sweet girl, always my darling, in the background still an optimist, I will get 10 this week, always a joy to see my daughter. "Auntie, auntie, watch this!" Her little friends climb, jump, spin, slide, throw. (The other day a man in his 20s called me "auntie," the Hawaiian equivalent of "ma'am", but with more aloha, and the fact that I am called that as a haolie a sign of respect, but still means o-l-d. Only buoyed by how many tourists call me "young lady" during the day.) Lift my own little monkey onto the monkey bars, watch her swing to the second bar, "Mama, watch this! I am a BIG girl, I've been eating my vegetables!" Two bites of carrot a week, making progress.
Not sure when it started to fall apart, but by dinner, I am failing at everything. Doubting my ability to clean shrimp, frustrated that no one in my family will like the Thai curry shrimp, even if I made it from scratch, which I most certainly will not when Thai Kitchen will do it for me. Get the water started, attend to Kaikea's tantrum. Clean up the mess. Answer a question. Patience running out. Chop a carrot. Too distracted to remember I wanted to chop the carrots into matchsticks. Too big, these carrots, and bitter, with the skins, for Queen K. She tries a bite, yuck, spits it out. No growing today, I guess. Water boiling. Kaikea's water boiling separately, she won't eat curry. Her pasta, ironically, "crazy bugs," the girl who kisses worms. Set the timer, wash the ants off the frying pan. Where did they come from? The tropics. Put in the rice noodles. Answer a question for Kaikea. Saute the shrimp, so big these shrimp, heat too high. How long have the noodles been on? Pour out water without tasting. Shit, not done. More water. Throw them back in. They will be mushy.
Thinking I should have gotten Xanax instead of Ambien.
Snap at my family. To Sam, "If you ever want to eat dinner you better help Kaikea with whatever she's asking for." A bit later, to Kaikea, "if you ask me again for a juice before dinner you will have nothing." Doesn't help my mood. Or the dinner. Mushy noodles. Overcooked shrimp. Kaikea seems to like her crazy bugs. Sam is always grateful for food.
I am motivated this morning, though. I am pulling out all my psychic meditation tricks and I am ready for action. I am early. I am set up. But these assholes won't talk about timeshares. They want something for nothing. Like this bozo who just walked in wanting a map. I tell him he can get a good one at KTA and I know he means a free map. He wastes my time with questions about directions, then tells me he doesn't need them, he's been to this island eight times already. People suck. I need to get better at getting rid of people who cannot make me money. This morning I lured in two people who were do-it-yourselfers and spent forty minutes on them, meanwhile having to out myself as a timeshare peddler with the better prospects, another couple who hovered until they heard the word timeshare and were out the door, plumerias trailing from their hair as they fled.
A monster slayer comes in to borrow more invitations she is booking so many tours.
I am not sure this is who I should be when I grow up.
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