Come Again

I've said this to many, that dusk is my favorite time of day.
The sky from orange to deep blue--everything is alive!
Diurnals settling in for bed, nocturnals waking to begin their hunt
Noise, sound, music--the distinctions blur with nature's buzz.

Humans are different at dusk, too.
It seems a whirlwind of unwinding, hunger, and industry all at once.
The silver lining seldom makes its way to us at this time,
the weekday dusk.

The weekend dusk is concrete peace,
Whistling is pleasant now, even the trees seem to sway in harmony--
I wait for the next move with one thing in mind,
breathe. Keep breathing.

Living a Life

Today, one my favorite titanic and fragile wordsmiths, Mary Oliver, gifted me my sooth and purpose in "Red Bird":

Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

The fleeting act of hearts meeting seems to have graced the last two months with terrific celerity. My soul has been dragged from damaged depths--a boot camp of terrible misappropriations--to stand at full attention at the wake of a prodigious, vivid, and intriguing love for another.

With astonishment, I watch as dark and light wander through her eyes in a delicate dance, perception like pointillism, tinkering with all paths and choosing the best with ease. She fills our lives with acts of intention, connection, and altruism. This love is grand.

Though inferred, "tell about it" seems to be a request for declaration: my vagrant spirit seems to have found its companion.

I want to save the children.

An excerpt from Sherman Alexie's Blasphemy:

And we laughed, you know, because sometimes that's all two people have in common. "So," I asked her. "What's my latest prognosis?" "Well," she said. "It comes down to this. You're dying." "Not again," I said. "Yup, Jimmy, you're still dying." And we laughed, you know, because sometimes you'd rather cry.

I combed over this for awhile, re-reading, re-feeling, mostly. The soft edges around the hole in my heart shivered a single tear from my eye. Then I laughed lightly, with Jimmy & his doctor, and I thought to today's lunch hour:

I briskly left the skyscraper for some alone time--lunch in the Loop of Chicago. Famous joints filled to the brim shoved suit-and-tied lines out of the waiting areas and into the lightly falling snow. I came to the corner fervently tapping away at Yelp's poor mapping app trying to get to the place that looked about a block and half away; spinning and holding my phone high in the air, aligning satellites so my blue circle might align with the corner streets signs.

As I spun in the city, a homeless man asked me something through my stress, and I replied the standard, "No, I don't have any cash on me." My mind slowly cleared as he asked me again--still inaudible--but this time with a look of earnest need on his face. I tapped into my subconscious, hunting for what he could have possibly said, greeted by fog. I walked closer, and repeated myself, this time with an apology, "Sorry, I don't have any cash." My chest heaved high in a condescending fashion.

He replied, "Where are you trying to go?". I shamefully uttered the address to him as he recited perfect directions to my $40 sushi bill, I thanked him and walked away thinking of Jimmy. I laughed, because sometimes I'd rather cry.

My work day resumed and ended quickly--I scrambled toward the drugstore for some semblance of capitalist sanity. I wanted to comb the aisles to find something to repay that man, who I knew I wouldn't find later. I would keep what I bought as a bandage to the wound of injustice I'd earned at lunch. That's what buying stuff feels like after all, like a Band-Aid.

Just outside the door, a woman stopped me in the street to compliment my haircut. She was raising money for children in need of everything: the commitment was 90 cents a day for a lifetime. Did I mention she loved my haircut? I took the bait, I was already feeling weak from earlier. It's better than a product from the drugstore.

The thing about those working for a cause is you pitch it old-school. None of the flashy marketing wrought with some greedy man's fingerprints we see all day. They do the opposite of being yelled at by the corner newspaper boy, straightforward, shallow, he's heard, but not listened to. These people are more like the well-meaning cousin who's selling extra papers because poppop's in the hospital and he's too young to work a real job. Either route, you want the paper.

I want to save the children.

After her personal story, my replies ended with a list of all the projects I'd already funded this year and for my lifetime and a, "hey, I'll look into it. What's your website?"

Well, here it is, folks:
https://www.children.org/

She delivered the address and I thought, to afford a domain name like that--they don't need my money. I walked away thinking of Jimmy and I laughed, because sometimes I'd rather cry.

Letters of Gratitude, No. 5

Kaitlin,

Hawaiinei has been on my mind a lot lately, so I thought I'd kick off my friend-not-family letters with one to you. My favorite, we-can-literally-do-anything-together-and-have-an-incredible-time, BFF. If anyone else reading this has any doubts, ready-set-GO!

Orange and Green go good together
 
Hilo nights

Slytherins & Gryffindors CAN get along

Haircut time! May she rest in peace. :(

Am I naked?

Sleepless in Seattle

Cried like a little baby when I graduated. Love it.

We rock 4-miles like bosses

Tan for hours

Remember how many times we lipsynced 5:19 by Matt Wertz? I do. This session:


The funniest thing about our friendship is that we go to such remote places we hardly ever bring a camera for fear of damaging it. I've never had anyone in my life that's so easy to open up to, to hear from, and most importantly, to be absolutely ridiculous with.

Exhibit A:

I know we never talk when we're far away from each other (which is the majority of the time), but there's something to be said having a friendship that takes no maintenance, and picks up exactly where it left off every time.

I'm so proud to have you in my life and know that I rave about you all the time to my friends back East. I love you sistafrand, see you so. freaking. soon!

Let's go surf and hike and get all buss while I'm on Oahu,
Leina`ala

Letters of Gratitude, No. 4

Isaac,

My biggest brother, always tall and wise beyond your years. My childhood memories of you are slim, six years my senior--I remember vividly a protector, a quiet and present conscience and most importantly, a role model.

I don't know if I've ever said this to you out loud, but I look up to you in some many ways. I remember Dad saying that you came home from winning the gold medal at the national Academic Decathalon competition in writing, and I went to school the next day and bragged to all of my friends that you were the best writer in the whole country.

I kept a photo of you in my wallet after that, for some reason. I'd show you around middle school and say, he's smart and handsome! Well, not always:



But really, the best writer in ALL OF AMERICA. What a guy! It shows, I still read back through some of your well-put-together email chain arguments with the uncles when I'm tempted to send something in all caps instead. It always grounds me.

That's the thing, Dad, Eli and I all share a fairly fiery temper and a loud mouth. Those two combined can make a tough conversation tougher. So sometimes I think about your calm, generally collected, meticulously logical format of analysis and it takes the flame down to some more useful and long-lasting charcoals. The way you approach a problem is always impressive. I also have a memory of flying back to Hawaii and the pilot announced a competition:

Who could calculate how long the rest of the flight would take given the wind speeds, mileage left and average pace? The person who could get the closest got some sweet prize. You and several other passengers (including myself, who got lost drawing trains and point A to point B and trying to scramble for my Algebra) went to work. I think you won a bottle of wine which you graciously passed to Mom and Dad. I thought for you, oh darn! He didn't get a prize.

But then you looked at me with that huge, almost maniacally proud grin on your face, and I knew that you just wanted to win. The triumph of being the best on that whole damn plane was enough. A Robinson, no matter how you swing it. :) Kind of like this I think:


Anyway. In the last year I got to spend more than two incredible holidays and many incredible moments with you, two of my favorites being the speech you gave at Eli's wedding and watching you get prepped for your own wedding in Thailand. Both of which are pictured here:


The speech made me cry, bud. It was probably the first time I had ever heard you speak publicly about the major health issues you got through a while back, and you talked about how grateful you were that Eli had come to support you in that time. Two pretty emotional things happened in me at that moment. The first was that perhaps for the first time, I realized my biggest brother wasn't invulnerable. I mean, I've known all my life that your health has always been both an obstacle and an incredible accomplishment--but something about hearing it that day really hit it home for me. The second thing I took away was that I haven't gotten to know you in the ways I wish I could have. It was a bit like listening to a speech from someone I've known forever but I haven't really ever sat down with and had a heart-to-heart with. Really--I've known you my entire life.

Anyway, your wedding in Thailand was life-changing. For a couple of reasons. 1. You look so dapper in eyeliner. 2. You can't just lie about knowing four languages to the people at the third gate. Your bride was at stake!

All joking aside, I couldn't have been more grateful for the life experience that trip gave me, and for a momentous occasion! I couldn't even feel the stress on you and Oy, though I'm sure there was plenty!

I can't wait to get to know you more,  brother, and I love you so very much. Thank you for always being an inspiration, a shoulder to lean on, and helping lock Eli out of the house when he was being a jerk.

Love,
Leina`ala

Letters of Gratitude, No. 3

Eli,

You know what's coming--I laugh hardest and easiest with you. The closest image I have of our relationship is this:

Remember when you were pregnant and smoking a cig that one time? I loved those overalls. On a serious note--you give me cojones so big in the workplace I can't fit them in my damn overalls anymore. When I ask for a raise I always think about you. You have always been so confident in pursuing what you want to be doing, and forgetting everything else. When you aren't challenged or stimulated, you're not interested--and I inherited that trait from you.

That doesn't only hold true for work, you're like that about most things in life. Dad, you and I all have an adrenaline craving like a bad habit. Remember going segway-ing and you and Dad were fooling around during the instructional period in the beginning and Dad busted ass? If only you had had your GoPro on, I still remember him taking out most of the bicycle stand, landing on his butt and you hysterically laughing behind him.

Your laughter is so contagious, and you have one of the best smiles out there. Exhibit A:

And you know you are the connoisseur of the best facial expressions on the planet.

The "I have a turkey and WILL NOT give it to you, you bitch."

\

The "I 'm crying at my wife's wedding vows because I have a heart of gold."

The Napoleon Dynamite. "Shia LA BEOUF"

The "I have a sandwich and WILL NOT give it to you, you bitch. I also hear voices."

The "old japanese man."

The "oh my gawdddd soooo many hottiez all around me. HALP!"

The fishbowl. Similar to soooo many hottiez but warped.

Alright, embarrassed yet? NO! Of course not. You're a significant soul my friend, one that I've seen transform and be moved in so many ways through our lives. I wouldn't be your little sister if I didn't acknowledge just how awful you made my childhood. I have some thick, thick, emotional skin brother--and I'm grateful for it.

Remember that video of the Easter egg hunt? I was probably two, had just started doing that adorable toddler run/walk thing. I was in my pink lacy Easter dress and Mom & Dad had put out some "easy eggs" in the middle of the yard so I could find some with my two-year-old-undeveloped-brain. Dad said, " 1, 2, 3, GO!", You and Isaac sprinted off into the yard, Dad stayed behind to tell me to look for eggs. I waddled off the back porch, onto the grass, two steps from my first Easter egg, basket too-big-for-me-to-carry in tow, and you ran in front, grabbed the egg, threw it in your basket and ran off. Isaac says something to you in the video and you came back and put it in my basket.

Once, there was a huge wolf spider in Dad's truck, and it ran under the seat in front of me. You switched spots with me for the rest of the ride and put your arm around me.

More than once, you pinned me to the ground and dribbled a disgusting spit wad over my face precariously, letting it come within a quarter inch of my nose. Then, you dropped it. Huge, mucous membrane--all over my face. I cried and took a shower.

You came to visit me in Harrisonburg and we went to a Jell-O wrestling party and had the time of our freaking lives--both of us being awesome wrestlers made it so easy, whatever the medium. You came to the gay club with us and despite being groped by a million attractive men, didn't make a move on any of them ONCE. I still never understood--they were so good looking. :) We danced so hard and it was amazing.

Anyway, thank you for being a blast--24/7. For being kind (most of the time), determined, and an incredible big brother.

I love you,

Leina`ala

Letters of Gratitude: No. 2

Dad,

I'm sure you are aware that you are the second person I ever met--thus letter number 2. You are my rock, my confidant, my inspiration and, sometimes--can really push my buttons. To put it shortly, every tough decision I've made in my life, I've called you to get some wisdom on. When you weren't available, there was some ethereal you floating in my head, delving out level-headed-both-sides-of-the-story devil's advocate kind of advice.

I remember the moment I realized this fact. I was going through a tough decision at work and was talking it over with Katie and she said, "Call your Dad--you always do." It's kind of a beautiful thing, when someone who knows you so well knows who your person is before you have the chance to voice it to yourself. That's you, pop: my person. You have read the newspaper and drank two cups of tea every day for my entire life. Do you know who reads the newspaper? People who care about the planet, who analyze the world around them with such meticulous and balanced evaluation that the tightrope we all precariously march across becomes a bit wider for them. Do you know who drinks tea? The British.

You age with grace, power (think of all your cool powerful Hilo connections. Mayor? Yup. Supreme Chancellor of the University? Yup. The Hawaiian community? Yup.) and perhaps my favorite, an I-don't-give-a-shit-anymore kind of attitude. Now--I can already hear you replying in your head to me "I don't give a 'shit', what is that supposed to mean Lei?". That's you pushing my buttons. What I mean, dear father, is that you're entering the realm of retirement with a renewed sense of self--I think. You crack more ridiculous jokes:

You are letting your goatee and your hair grow out to a hippie length, going to the doctor more often (thank you, by the way--that always worried me about you) and call me spontaneously to get some daddy-daughter time.

I remember going to the fair with you when I was in high school and I totally played that old 50s trick--"Daddy, that giant fuzzy bear is SOOO cute!!" I won. Without a thought, you shelled out a twenty and won me that damn bear like a boss. You still hold my hand in public and I think it's the best. You and I can rock more than a few margaritas while you play hooky from work and have a great time speculating about the state of the universe for hours.

You're such a mountain man. Remember when you took me to work on the mountain? We'd leave the truck behind when we couldn't drive in any further, hike in and encounter a herd of wild cattle and you'd say something surreptitiously cautious about how wild bulls are extremely aggressive--then proceed to the hill ahead (upwind of course) and do this ridiculous bull call that would immediately clear the herd from where we were walking. You tell stories of being chased by every large ungulate out there and blow vuvuzelas at bull elephants with your helpless daughter at the wheel of our escape vehicle.

Can't wait to make more memories with you, Daddy. I love you, and always appreciate being your favorite daughter!

Leina`ala

P.S. Us in Polokwane for the World Cup with our infamous vuvuzelas:

Letters of Gratitude: No. 1

Mama,

It seems fitting that my first letter in the series be aimed at the first person I ever met. The throws of your womb at the time only my subconscious is gracious for--but nearly 25 years later, the cognizant Leina`ala sits straining for your warm embrace more frequently than the reality.

I will never forget what Jim said after a heated debate over the Robinson Thanksgiving dinner in 2012; "Leina`ala, there are two people in this family that are the smartest people I have ever met. Your cousin Cathy, and your mother. You are already lucky enough to look just like her, work towards a brain like hers." It caught me off guard, as I had never heard you pick apart the state of the union with the family, and in my understanding of Dad's family; that's the only way to prove yourself.

I know it to be true. I remember you re-teaching yourself trigonometry for a few hours out of my textbook in high school, only to help me with my homework, not by helping me through the problem I was stuck on, but by posing a simple question: "why are you stuck?". When I said, "I don't understand the purpose of knowing all of this. Sine, cosine, tangent--I've never heard any adult use those outside of school." You smiled warmly and replied, "nothing is useless."

Nothing is useless. Mom, you are the living, breathing image of practicing what you preach. You recycle everything. Materials, feelings, thoughts, and my favorite, generosity.

If you're reading this and have ever met my mother, there is a 98% chance that you have received a gift or ten from her. A physical, in hand gift, with a small note about how she thought of you when she bought, made, saved, clipped or scrounged it up for you.

Mom, you leave macadamia nuts for servers at every table we eat out at. Every roommate I've ever had received an awesome Christmas present or two. Friends I don't even remember from high school received handmade graduation presents from you, and you have presents picked out for my birthday (12/16) in March.

You are the most positive person I have ever met. I left my purse at work the other day, and $50 was stolen out of it. The next day, as I asked around trying to figure out what happened--someone suggested the cleaning people may have taken it, since no one else was in the building later than me. My immediate thought was "I hope it went somewhere good. Put dinner on the table, or clothing on bodies."  That attitude was born and raised from you, Phyllis Lei Robinson.

You cry at everything and nothing. You cry in movies, commercials and when you've heard terrible/amazing news. You don't cry when life gets really hard. You are calm, cool, collected, and tourniquet the bleed with the prowess of a medical professional; literally and figuratively. You laugh at everything and nothing. Dad and I were talking on the phone last week and he said he hasn't heard you laugh like this in so many years, that you're so lighthearted these days. Nothing makes me more happy than hearing your laugh.

I love you, and can't wait to see you this Christmas!
Leina`ala

P.S. Us in Paris, me--exhausted of travelling. You? Boning up on some local South African fiction to get a better idea of what the country we're visiting is going to be like.

Lose myself

I have a tendency to lose myself in things. It's an interesting phrase, "lose myself". It has a happy connotation--losing yourself in a good book, a conversation with an artist, a fire, perhaps Eminem's "moment", a top-down car ride through the desert. Yet... when re-phrased, say... "I lost myself." can be exceedingly sad.

I digress. I have a habit of losing myself. Depending on what it is, it could be anywhere from 10 minutes to several years:

On Friday, I left work to head to happy hour with a few coworkers. From there, three or four followed us to our home neighborhood--Fell's Point. After a night out on the square, I fell asleep to the never-gentle, always-abrupt slumber courtesy of several shots of tequila and more than enough beer. Saturday, I woke up the next morning to an iPhone reminder that today I was floating down with two awesome friends for the Annapolis Arts, Crafts and... you guessed it, Wine Festival. The wine was good, but the art was spectacular. We spent the entire afternoon shifting booth to booth, talking to the artists about their mediums, inspiration, logistics and all-around dirty work to put together these beautiful displays and pieces. I met Mulinde from Uganda, who was selling photographs of beautiful dances from his home-country. He was also selling some art he had picked up while at home, I bought a bowl and a bracelet, pictured below.

After the arts festival, we watched the US/Nigeria friendly and animatedly discussed the state of marriage equality in the country. A friend who had come out the night before wanted me to meet his girlfriend's daughters, so I headed over to their place for drinks, games, and falling asleep to the lull of two small voices asking their mom if I were dead.

Sunday, I was treated to breakfast at Eggspectation, with two cuties in tow, and ended up coming home that afternoon. My roommate had some friends over, so we sat out on the stoop and shared some beer with our neighbor. My first time getting to know the guy, and what a guy he was! A life story of interest, a computer geek for the marines (handsome, at that) and well-versed in cultural relativity, human rights, and that the Jazz Festival is happening in Federal Hill right now. Alas, I accepted his invitation to bike over graciously, we met up with his lawyer friend and ate, drank and danced the night away. A late night water and a plate of hash browns graced my Sunday (or should I say Monday?) to a close. It was quite a nomadic weekend for one that was totally unplanned.

The interesting thing about losing yourself for such long periods of time, is that you aren't yourself that whole time. Faced with an "other" that seems to take over your conscience, whether that be a book, old friends, or otherwise, one can really traipse through life unawares. It does seem a bit melancholic though, if I phrase it like that.

I think this what I fear most. That perhaps I am afraid to be inactive, focused on nothing, not on a phone, nor in a book, nor in conversation, nor perceiving and reacting 100% of the time, because being totally alone is really scary.

The last time I remember allowing myself to be totally alone for any long period of time was the summer after my sophomore year of college. No friends had been left in town, and I was working a job aimed at complete solitude: watching an empty computer lab. I made dinner by myself each night, and would eat at the table, and just be. Sometimes I'd walk out on the porch and sit to feel the breeze in the hot summer night air. I'd lie on the floor in the living room and watch the fan go by. I'd get up and go on runs past cornfields, the sounds of small insects and my feet on the pavement. I'd come home and pretend I was a triathlete; jumping right onto my bike and ending the ride at the empty pool. I'd throw my shirt, socks and sneakers off and swim a few laps in my sports bra and shorts.

Since then, I've filled my life. Filled it to the brim. I'm far less at ease than I once was, more stressed, more beer, more negativity.  I think Abraham Lincoln once said something like "the best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time."

I think, perhaps, my future, or tomorrow, will be different.

Goodnight, Baltimore. Dream sweetly, internet.

I've been avoiding Thank You cards...

From graduation. Yes, hundreds of dollars sent from all ends of the planet to my doorstep in support of what we Sociology majors like to call "the post-college destiny": unemployment. But what they didn't understand as they jotted their notes of congratulations was that their money would end up in the silly spiral of adulthood.

I like to think (when I send money--though these days, who my age is doing that?) that those who receive it spend it celebrating. Drinking with friends or buying themselves a new something they've always wanted. In fact, as proof, my very own parents forked over a couple hundred dollars toward the DSLR Nikon D60 I've been wanting since my freshman year, and declared I could spend it on nothing else.

Well when push comes to shove--I shoved myself right off the edge of leisure into the world of "fixed expenses" as soon as I walked across the stage and gave the dean a hug. Sorry Mom & Dad, but security deposits, rent, utilities, gas and food are the only things anybody's money went to.

So here is my thank you note to all of you:

Dear Friend,

I call you my friend because of the note I am writing you, perhaps you'll want to sever any permanent family ties with me and just call me a friend. You sent money for my graduation which in short means only one thing at the moment to me: "You are an island of reality in an ocean of diarrhea."

That diarrhea is the economy, in globalization and colonization. In internet excavation and totally fucked up taxation. In the putrid fumes of America shitting on everyone else, we have no where left to shit but on ourselves. We tried and are still trying the deserts of the Middle East, but let's be real. All of that religious sand up our asses is really not something we were/are/will be prepared for. I sit here thinking, thank all that is good we are the 99%, perhaps NOW we will have our first meaningful conversation about class in this country since class was founded here much earlier then 1787.

The island. The island is you, the over 20-somethings. Remember just 10 years ago when buying a new bicycle to put under the tree wasn't something you needed to consult with the budget for? Or perhaps if you did consult the budget, it was because you had just bought the new Honda Odyssey Minivan? Now the newest mini-van is actually a hybrid mini-SUV. If you answered yes to any of those questions--you'd probably qualify as the middle class back then. Now, you're not so sure are you? Does that meaningful, well-planned retirement to travel the world look so concrete? Island, oh island, don't you know? Haven't you known all this time that your American brothers and sisters in the city and beyond the suburbs have been living with your nervousness since their great ancestors immigrated here many generations ago?

I ask you, island, keeping me afloat so graciously to recognize the solidarity in yours and my experience. In our anxiety. In our hope. In our power to change.

What am I doing now that I have a degree, you ask? I work in a beautiful Wine Cellar. With clients that are so wonderfully nice. They are also very wealthy. No, not wealthy. They are rich beyond belief my friend. Their Aston Martins pull into the parking lot unworried that their doors will get dinged by the Porsche and Lamborghini beside them. "Deliver it to my compound later in the week, will you Jimmy?" they ask the gentleman that for 20 years has worked tirelessly hauling cases of wine here and there because they cannot fit them in their tiny sports cars. The tips are sweet, Jimmy defends, sometimes they offer me food off the grill. Sometimes they're not there at all... he remarks thoughtfully.

That is what it has begun to feel like, hasn't it? That the rich are not there at all unless you look very carefully for them. Perhaps it's because there are very few so fortunate. They can barricade, isolate and treat themselves from the hardships of the friends and family they once knew. We are those friends and family, island.

I keep calling you island. But perhaps that is the wrong geographical feature, you are more like the ocean aren't you? And the island of diarrhea seems rather small--in comparison to an ocean, don't you think?

WE are an ocean of reality around their island of diarrhea,
Lei

P.S. Thank you.

harness what you shouldn't

tonight i'm thinking on dreaming. a friend and i had dinner today at el charros and we had a conversation on surreality versus reality.

from preschool to now i've been told i need a reality check. to all of you have told me that, i say the hell with it. why focus on what we've got when we can work with what we don't have? how can we create something better if it's made of different kinds of materials?

i will continue to live and die wanting a world where we are given promotions based on the content of our character. i want a world where fostering expression, creativity and being different are given more attention than the standardized SAT/GRE robots we continue to churn out. For goodness sakes, how many more math/chem/phys/bio majors do we need to figure out that the world is churning out more problems for them than they can fix?

beautiful beautiful beautiful, love love love, thank you thank you thank you. what other words does our Earth really need?

love is never deciduous

I want to commit relentless acts of non-violence.
I want to be outdoors all the time so that I will appreciate fruits and vegetables and all the other living things I consume.
I want to play sports and games until I'm coated with sweat and the love of friendly competition.
I want to laugh with friends and beers so that we echo onto nature with the coming of dusk.
I want positivity to wash over my relationships, new, old and undiscovered.
I want to have so few belongings that my home can be determined by the goodness of people and my work ethic.

There is so little time to love the world I have and give to it what I can contribute, I must continue beginning today. Tomorrow isn't going to wait for me.

every day is the start of a new year.

in fact, my only reasons for celebrating the worship of the annus (the latin one, not the butthole) on the 1st of january are similar to why i exchanged gifts on the 25th of December: i'm always up for celebration.

after choosing kwanzaa over christmas this year, it's become clear to me that baby jeez--if he was the guy that many say he was--probably would prefer kwanzaa over his birthday party. i'm going to share with you the seven days of kwanzaa because it is truly a wondrous holiday, perhaps you can celebrate it in your own way, as i did.

day 1, Umoja. directly translated to the word for unity, Umoja commemorates the effort we all put in to maintain togetherness in the many communities to which we belong.

us eating christmas dinner leftovers, unity absolutely necessary to get rid of them.

day 2, Kujichagulia. a much tougher translation into english, most commonly you can read about it as the acknowledgement of self-determination, our abilities to create from within and share those creations with the rest of the world.

photograph obviously not by me. this is actually my self-determination to be as naked as possible at all times.

day 3, Ujima. also known as responsibility to the people and places that have raised and shaped our individualities.

grandma joined the ranks of the octogenarians, i can only hope to be as lively as she is at 80.

day 4, Ujamaa. building a self-sustaining environment. i take special effort to avoid the word economy.

what's more self-sustaining than chickens, eating chicken?

day 5, Nia. briefly put, nia is purpose, whether it be predetermined or self-determined.

day 6, Kuumba. gratitude for creativity, to the arts, to the aesthetic.

photographing these guys at the North Shore was awe-inspiring. he asked me to email him this one, i was flattered.

day 7, Imani. the meaning is faith, not necessarily for a higher power, but faith in others. the stretch for righteousness, whatever that might mean to you.

something i no longer have faith in: my brothers ever taking a nice picture with me.

in all seriousness though, i couldn't be more grateful for the people that have been gifted to me by the fates. and in this new year, i can only hope to learn more deeply of those already in my life as well as those not yet in it.

my sense of humor...

has not transformed in the slightest.

baby lei apparently gave her mother cute things like this:

note the presence of an expiration date in the bottom right corner.

a prayer request slip i filled out at the christmas eve service last night:

fresh kicks... to the nuts.

i know i know, it's 2:25AM, and you need to be up to cook for brunch tomorrow at Asifa's.

i'm not making excuses. sleep is one of my truest loves. from what i've gathered in my short twenty years, love requires reciprocation in all senses. sleep has reciprocated in wonderful ways lately, my dreams have spun silky outlines of good company: the kind with bright eyes.

as i packed my wallet with fresh birthday money to endure holiday shopping, i fully immersed myself in the consumerdom (and i mean that in the exact way kingdom connotes totalitarian rule by the king) that makes the US of Armadillos' armor so tough.

whilst roaming through Ross, watching lines pile behind the cash register back to the dressing rooms with the overstocked knickknacks and great deals (that for some reason are much more popular in Hilo than anywhere else i've been), i sat down on the shoe bench. in my lap sat a pair of Nike high tops, glittering with outrageous colors, size 7-and-a-half. and as my well-practiced middle class fingers fumbled for the price tag, i knew that no matter what it said, they were going to be cheap enough.

cheap enough to come home and tell mom about how excited i was they were so cheap and wonder if she needed anything from Ross so she'd throw them on the conveyor belt with her stuff?

yes.

cheap enough.

it slapped me in the face all of a sudden. i am a thief. not of my mother's generosity, not of my pride, not of my own bank account, but of the concept of need. i have taken need hostage and disguised it as want in virtually all aspects of what i buy. my personal wants have become needs, thus trampling over my poor mother's needs too.

and what do most say? what makes us human, what makes all of the diversity within our species come together? our needs. need for food, shelter, and love. and here i am, hijacking the beautiful ties that bind us for these nike high tops.

perhaps this is where we should really evaluate what type of free market we are not only a product of, but are creating in our lives.

something to checkout if you think any of it's interesting:

Reverend Billy and the Church of Life After Shopping

or more so... the movement called culture jamming.

a day of gratitude

more like days of gratitude. why we only have one holiday to celebrate thankfulness, i have no idea. we need it at least once a month, don't you think? i digress.

once upon an august day, i met someone that changed my life. i've been waiting until this assumed day of gratitude, secretly, to post this.

it's easy to argue that someone has changed your life, since in the grand scheme of things, life is about the relationships you make and break. maintenance is i suppose a component of all that, but the truth is, they come and go, often times going more quickly than they've entered.

college for me isn't and won't ever be about getting my degree. college is a four-year crash course in relationship building and breaking. so to me, with so little time to absorb the individuals i meet, it's become like a strategic vacuum of the beautiful pieces of people that i've had to run all over the place.

no one really plugged that vacuum until i let you into my heart. time has slowed with you in my life, and i suppose i can't really be more grateful. i've been a place for so long where i can't get past the fact that college really is just about the selfishness of getting what you can out of it and then leaving it with a mortarboard toss and a picture of you and a dean you never knew. on the contrary, you have changed that feeling for me. i don't feel rushed to discover and retain when i'm around you. i don't dream further than the future in which we both seemingly find trivial, when the dream is here, in this moment, ready to envelop us if we let it. i'm incredulous at your ability to meet someone and have them welcome you below their surface in literally one conversation. to know so many so intimately, i couldn't really guess what it really feels like to know someone in your heart. but i can guess that i've become one of those people you know, or it sure feels like it.

flaw (n.) : a mark, fault or imperfection that mars a substance or object.

you've given me this: that the only faux pas one can commit is the inability to embrace the flaws in oneself and others. i suppose the concept of the flaw that you've redesigned in me is that it is simply something to be appreciated over an asset.

this is Rachel. she's kinda boy crazy, too flirty all the time, too sexual when inebriated, and consumes way too much diet coke. but she's one of the most phenomenal human beings i've ever met.

you're Beautiful, don't let anyone or anything (including yourself) lose sight of that. So it goes, I don't feel a need to fill the silence, to withhold my thoughts, to hesitate in asking for what i need, to be anything other than what should be forgiven by default: human, while in your company Miss Drummond.

details in the fabric

where threads of me weave their way through the ins and outs of their perception, i become a fabric within your eyes. eyes that may never see every facet, but without hesitation accept the entire cloth.

meet me in the space behind your heart where light can't find us. i know that then you will say we should get to know each other, for real this time. disregarding all of the places we've been and where we will be, the moment is caught with a butterfly's net, bent on devouring us creating. we will speak words that free not only us but that which inhibits us.

i prefer your heart over anyone's so far, it only pumps four letters through the networks of people that surround it.

l for lefties and their growth in a right-handed existence. for being forced out of what's natural to become something they aren't because their numbers are less. for the oppressed.

o for the offer. the offering to the holy trinity: compassion, curiosity and cultivation. to offer the benefit of the doubt for those seemingly undeserving, to ask the questions necessary to do so and to cultivate the gifts found in others to assist them in their hammering out a sense of self-worth.

v for vicariously living, unabashedly through others' experiences that you may never achieve or understand, but fully enjoy the palette of emotions and lessons learned through the relationships you believe in.

e for elves. ever hard-working, not for the man, but the concept of keeping magic alive. miracles can happen is what they preach each and every day, and that without them, we really would be here for nothing.

pumppumppump. if only i could hear your love all day, the air would be too full to inhale all of its wonderful smells of hopes and dreams and exhale the similar elements.

what good do loops and corkscrews worth of emotional roller coasters do for those trying to push through the already apparent sandpaper of being human? we all wonder if the gift of self-awareness is indeed one that we ever wanted in the first place. perhaps ignorance of ourselves would have saved the planet, or perhaps saved her soul from what it is now.

bruised, beaten, but never surrendering to the hand she was dealt, when given no choice but to become the player in a game of high stakes. it was seemingly too much money at risk for someone who didn't know how to add yet, in present tense, can we really ask her to grow up now?

this is about both of you, and neither of you. it's about the people. the abolishment of the person. the destruction of the singular and the building of the we. you are not alone as you pump all of that love. let me be alive within you.

overwhelmingly-so, the light in me honors the light in you.

namaste.

Today I am grateful for...

My parents.

For being people who let me choose my way.

They let me:

Quit.

Try.

Dress real weird.

Talk to strangers.

Eat Kraft macaroni and cheese and Lipton chicken noodle soup every day for three years.

Through them, I know that:

I am loved.

The world is a tough place.

I want to explore the world.

I am beautiful and intelligent.

I will always believe that people are good.

I can talk to them without fear of judgment.

I will love with my whole heart, unashamed.

They believe with the utmost confidence that I'm ready.

They are not embarrassed by any part of me and never have been.

Being honest is admirable, no matter how long it takes someone else to understand that.

Keeping my word when I make a commitment is one of the most important things I can uphold.

I have too many friends who don't know those things, and too many parents who don't care about that fact.

Thank you for my life. This will always be my most precious gift, and I can only hope to give you something as equally powerful some day.

An exciting announcement! (For me anyway)

Beginning my birthday this year, I will be embarking on a Journey with a capital "J". The capital J is there to represent one of my best friends, Jennifer, who gifted me the book This Book Will Change Your Life.

On my 20th birthday this year, I will start in day 1 of the book and continue until my 21st birthday, December 16th, 2010. I will be blogging each day of that year about my Journey through each page in a separate blog on this account.

The reason I have not started yet is unbeknownst to me. But, the time to decide on a launch date has arrived.

P.S. Lei will most likely be studying abroad this summer.

P.P.S. For those of you who are anxious to know what can be found within the book, I flipped to a random page and read as follows: "Day 330 Today kiss someone where they have never been kissed before".

For you.

You commented that my blog doesn't get sentimental enough. "Who wants to read who Lei already is: open for all the world to see on the surface? What really cranks below the surface very few have witnessed." Well, perhaps that's not somewhere you'd like to go.

A piece for you, my critic:

My darling Lei,

You spoke quietly into the stars to no particular direction that you will never need someone to love. I stood next to you trying to silently agree, though all I wanted to shout at the light that flew over in the shower was that I wished it was me you needed.

In comparison, knowing you intimately is like falling through a dream and landing on a bed of feathers instead of the pit of conscious fear that jars me awake when I make a dispassionate attempt of love to anyone else. That the places in which I most want to dwell are between the layers of spirit and skin.

You have the same effect on my focus that seafoam green does. What perplexes me is how you don't see this. When our days shared come to mind, I know I should leave those days to themselves, let them appreciate their own beauty. Instead, my mind always chooses the sadistic path of recounting every glance.

I have become a storyteller that can produce the kinds of fairytales that have no ending, just an infinite sphere of my world without you in it.

Truly Yours,

Lei