...even here in so-called paradise.
[ photo taken by my bro when he went to Kahoolawe a month ago ]

That is what the sign says at the end of the trail, a peak overlooking Okihilolo Valley, where the US Army conducts warfare training exercises. Mark comments wryly on how disturbing it is to find the sign on the ground, blown off its hinges like that. (Okihilolo in Hawaiian means, appropriately, "scrambled brains.") The view from the peak is equal parts paradise and devastation: the forest canopy of the cliffside and sedimentary lands below as seen from way above. Clusters of the pale green of kiawe, the olive of evergreen and koa in the upper elevations, and below, where the cliff meets the valley floor, swathes of bamboo made neon yellowgreen by the light angling in from the west...

But in the valley of rolling grasslands of lauhala and fern, from our vantage point on high, we can see the targets: rectangular mounds of earth and concrete, perhaps made to appear like tanks in the sights of a distant howitzer. And, like the echelons in my brother-in-law's dress blues: on the valley's far shoulders lie the blasted ravines, scarred red, deep and raw by the combined effects of wind, water, and smart bombs from F16s. In time, even this island will become an atoll. But the wounds inflicted on its body, in this place, will remain for a very, very long time indeed.

We stand there in the waning afternoon, at once appalled and awed, the air on the ridge redolent with ripe guava drifting from below. Later, we are back where we had started the hike; I am sitting on the beach watching the surf attack the shore and notice how the backwash out towards the open ocean is equally powerful and how, when an incoming wave meets the outgoing surge, a sudden standing wave is formed, which can easily separate a careless surfer from his board. I watch Mark bodysurfing on the shorebreak and am captivated at the way the setting sun shines clear through the lens of a breaking wave and diffracts light onto the surface of sand... until my friend's body comes surging along the face of the wave, further shattering the light, like scattering marbles, like exploding ordnance.

On the day I am to leave this place, I will be awoken by the crowing of many roosters, from nearby and, echoed in counterpoint, from afar. It will start sometime at the setting of the half-moon, around 4 a.m., and will not stop until well after sunrise. I will awake to listen to this cacophonous music, convinced I am a young boy once again, in some southeast Asian town far, far away...

Last week I watched my nephew listening to the Byodo-In Buddha, a twenty-foot apparition in gilded bronze and gold, the whole haloed by thirteen smaller buddhas in various poses of understanding and enlightenment. Then I listened to JJ then talk to Buddha, the temple's massive bell sounding in the yard outside and, in his casual banter, became certain that, even though he is growing up without a father, my nephew will somehow be fine. How can he not be... growing up in this place blessed with rapturous roosters, carp so plentiful you can walk across their pond's surface, perfect sunsets over the ocean, and people you love and who love you in return?

dusk, 6 p.m.

The great, 127-year old banyan tree that is the spiritual center of Old Lahaina bursts into a veritable hosanna of sound, as thousands of birds come home to roost. It is dusk, the sun has vanished beyond Lanai Island, the sky a dull silverblue with patches of pink, puce and gray where clouds are gathered, just above the horizon.

Today, I must have spent hours underwater on two different reefs, one on the north (Honolua Bay, pic below) the other on the west side of the island, considering a world alien to me. I floated, in water alternately warm (in shallow reef) or cool, over deeper areas where the reef became an undersea cliff, plunging into velvet darkblue-ness. I looked and looked, scarcely believing that I've missed this world for all the time that I've been here in the islands, drinking in colors and motion and textures of such intensity as I've rarely seen elsewhere. With my nifty plastic fish-guide card in hand, I saw and identified many species of reef fish: wrasses, tangs, parrotfish, butterflyfish, angelfish, surgeonfishes, puffers, trumpetfishes. Many more I didn't quite ID. One day soon, I'll be able to name them on sight to myself, as I continue to encounter them, as they're always there... I just haven't seen much of them, before.

Am falling asleep writing this... will take a nap posthaste, and continue this later.

very much later, almost midnight...

Well, I did wake up a couple hours later, much refreshed, and ravenous. Ate my lunch leftovers, which was a bunch of fattening, cholesterol-laden Filipino food from Imelda's, a local Pinoy (Flip) restaurant I've taken to for their culinary authenticity, and the positively eerie certainty that each item on their menu will fling me back decades, along a dizzying path of gustatory nostalgia. Anyway, I didn't feel like continuing to write when I awoke, and just fed my face, plopped down in front of the tube and popped in Part I of the classic Lawrence of Arabia video. At 'intermission,' (yes, there's such a thing, with orchestral music even, just like in the original movie presentation) I logged on to see who was online and lo and behold, hardly anyone was there! Well, it WAS around midnight CA time, but only Ozzie was up and about, so he told me all about his drunken binge at this party his parents dragged him to. HAHAHA. Just kidding, guy. ;-) I guess people are now catching up on their sleep, huh? Or else getting ill, like poor Sparky. Hope you feel better soon, kiddo. And try not to pass that flu around either; specifically, don't cough on Kass as she drives you back and forth to Golfland this weekend, if that's happening at all. She has big plans for the 26th, as we know... ^_^

Speaking of "26" related matters, why, I shall toot Quad's horn here, as he certainly won't do it himself, being the modest fellow he is: he was ranked #1 in his UC Berkeley Computer Science (Scheme) course this fall semester! Look no further than here, for the quantitative proof. Oh, you're not that impressed? Well, get this. In a typically humongous Berkeley undergrad course of about 500 students -- the vast majority being regular Cal freshmen or sophomores -- Quad, a mere high school senior, was the top-ranked student. You're still not that impressed? Well, here's the kicker. Quad slept through the entire course, and still aced it! HAHAHAHA j/k ;-). If you're wondering how a high school senior can take freshman courses at Berkeley, well, there's this program called the High School Honors Program (open to juniors in certain East Bay high schools) in which successful applicants get guaranteed admission to Cal-Berkeley a year later after they graduate, and during their senior year in high school may take college freshman courses. One of my TAs from TIC last summer, Maris Jones, also from El Cerrito HS like Quad, got accepted into Cal via the HSHP. Incidentally, Maris e-mailed me recently to say she got accepted at Stanford as well! So we shall see if she chooses to take... the RED PILL, or the BLUE PILL. *snicker* Good luck, and congratulations, Maris!

[ Oh hey Quad, I didn't know your middle name was EDWARD. How quaint. ;-) Now, how about divulging your Chinese name, hmm? ]

Okay, so this is what Quad was really like in Prof. Garcia's class: hyper-alert, and ever-vigilant to the ebb and flow of programming schema. *chuckle* I, on the other hand, tended to snooze in that class when I visited. For real. It has been a long time (measurable in decades--even if 1, but decades nevertheless) since I've been a regular lecture attendee. And Dan Garcia was always entertaining, too. I picked up a few things from his dynamic lecture style, but doubt I can do that myself in TIC/AIC. The guy's a born entertainer, and witty as heck.

{ net.casting }
^