Nov 14, 2005 | Uncategorized
Even a construction site looks lovely in this city! I don't know what they're doing here, but this site is in front of the Royal Hawaiian hotel (also known as the Pink Palace) and it sits on the main street through Waikiki.
Last Sunday, when we were wanderering through Waikiki, I decided to snap something other than the typical beach and palm trees. Here is the only revolving restaurant in Honolulu. I've never eaten there, but they claim to have a fantabulous view. I'm sure they do. It's hard to have a bad view when you're several stories up and only a block from the beach.
But my favorite experience of the day was the Catholic church. Mike, Mark, and I were walking along when I decided to veer off and go into the church. Why not? In Europe, churches (cathedrals, really) are always open and the public is welcome to wander in (unless there's a service). Indeed, people expect to see a group of camera wielding tourists pointing and standing with their heads tilted back at unnatural angles.
I entered the gate, then walked back toward the glass doors of the church. A lady was coming from inside, but she didn't blink when I opened the door (after peeking inside first). The worst that could happen, I figured, was I'd feel uncomfortable, like I was intruding, and then I'd turn around and leave.
But, no, I felt a sense of calm the instant I walked inside. One man sat in a pew, about a third of the way up, and the sunlight shone rainbow bright through the stained glass. The ceiling soared, up and up and up, like an inverted ship's keel; I'm not sure, but it looked as if it were lined with small strips of teak or bamboo.
I sat on a pew in the very back and gazed at the light-drenched church. Amazingly, though busy Waikiki is right outside, and the ocean is across the street, no sound penetrated the interior. No cars, no people, no crashing surf. I didn't take a picture of it, but all along both sides of the church are ornate, almost porthole looking circles in the walls. And the circles have cutouts to the outside, no screens, no glass that I could discern, and still there was no sound from the outside.
In spite of the simple beauty of this church, it hits me that I miss the cathedrals of Europe. Entering one of them is like walking inside a treasure chest. You never know what you'll find: the ornate tombs of saints, the sculptures and frescoes of Michelangelo (or his tomb), the soaring ceilings ringed with angels and cherubs and saints, intricate wooden altars, golden altars, vials or boxes of saint's blood or hair or bones, a robe of Christ (Trier), intricate stained glass windows, an organ that Mozart or Bach or Beethoven once played, medieval crypts, and a million other things I can't even begin to list. The tiniest church in the smallest village can house a masterpiece of Renaissance art. The big churches take your breath away with their soaring vaults and chilly air and intricate altars.
In contrast, and I know it's not fair, American churches are often plain in comparison. Once, while visiting my inlaws in Florida, Mike and I had occasion to drive to Ocala. We passed this gigantic, sprawling complex of modern looking buildings. I only realized it was a church by the presence of a cross on one of the buildings. In fact, it turned out to be one of those churches that broadcasts its Sunday service on television. You know the ones: huge auditorium structures that look like they'd be just as capable of hosting a Shriner's convention as a religious gathering.
Maybe they're spending all that dough on nice cars and Rolexes, or mascara as the case may be, but is it too much to ask to funnel a little bit of money toward some nice frescoes, a medieval crypt or two? 😉
After I pondered the delicious irony of an Episcopal priest videotaping inside the Catholic church (it's a long way from the Reformation, yeah?), we headed out to the street once more. I kept thinking about the church, however, about how quiet it was. I told myself I would come to Waikiki during the week and I would go to the church and sit inside for as long as I wanted.
But I won't do it, just like I won't do many of the things I think I will during the week, like go to Waikiki with my Neo and sit in the Honolulu Coffee Company and write. Why? Because I start to think about the traffic, when's the best time to go downtown, what time do I have to leave to avoid the afternoon rush, and where will I park that won't cost a lot. That takes all the fun and romanticism out of the idea.
And really, when the sun is shining right outside my window, and the beach is a short car ride away, do I need to go to Waikiki? It's just another day in paradise, where yesterday was like today and tomorrow holds the promise of more sun and sea breezes. In fact, though I might miss the majesty of European cathedrals, the true majesty is right here every time I walk outside: soaring lush mountains, lapis lazuli skies, white waterfalls, and a turquoise sea. Even Michelangelo can't compete with that.
Nov 12, 2005 | Uncategorized |
Hire someone. Yep, you heard me, hire someone. Someone good, with a reputation, like DreamForge Media or Waxcreative Design. I have no affiliation with either of these companies, but I admire the websites in their portfolios. Gorgeous work. One day, I'll pay someone to design a site for me. Until then, I do the best I can with the tools at my disposal.
Yep, you guessed it, been updating my website and griping the whole way. First, the stupid toolbar won't let me add a button and link it to a page outside my website. Even though the Help says I can do it, my dialogue box isn't the same as the one they show in the screenshot. That's what I get for using a free program.
I had fun putting it all together at first, and I still have fun tinkering, but I'm no web artist, that's for sure. One day, honest, I want a beautiful website and I want my blog on the same site. Beggars, however, can't be choosers. 🙂 Until I sell something, Mike is going to say no. Rightfully so since I get to stay home and write already.
Which brings me to my second point. Scrapbooking. Who the hell has time for this? When I go into a store, doesn't matter which (okay, maybe not the commissary), I see scrapbooking supplies. And I'm drawn to the suckers. Drawn to little stickers, cute cutouts of Santa Claus (just today), little packets of themed cutouts: military uniforms, tiny Eiffel towers, schoolbuses, wine bottles, etc. It just doesn't end! Pretty papers, special scissors, ribbons, wax, tools for making your own stickers, and on and on.
But where do you start? And how on God's green earth do you say enough is enough, this page looks good? Or, even better, I have turned into a mad-scrapbooking-woman and I need a 12 step program to stop myself?
I have thought of taking a class before. And then reality sets in and sanity returns. I can't find enough time now to do all the things I need to do, nor can I manage to throw out all the junk I need to throw out, so do I really need to commit myself to a project that will only add more stuff to my already bulging house?
I think that's the lure of making a website, really, at least for me. It's scrapbooking in cyberspace. No cute little accoutrements to buy, no finding space for the myriad ribbons and papers and scissors, not to mention the fat scrapbooks themselves. Nope, my scrapbooking is limited to the Net. And, as successful as I've been with it so far, I think God is telling me something. He's telling me to leave the website designing to the pros and the scrapbooking to the people who have more time and room than I do. God says write, girl. And isn't that enough? I'll build pretty pages with words. But dang it, can't I have one of those packets of adorable themed cutouts? I'm sure I'll find something to do with it someday….
Nov 9, 2005 | Uncategorized
Saturday night, Mike and I attended a taping at the Atherton Studio for the Performing Arts in Honolulu. The program is Aloha Shorts and it airs at 5PM every Monday evening. My friend and fellow Aloha Chapter member, Michael Little (see link at right), was reading from his story “Mango Lessons,” along with three other members of the Bamboo Ridge Writers.
We found the radio station, found parking at the Daiei across the street, and even bought an eggroll at one of the many little fast food joints to make it legitimate. Mike devoured the eggroll and we crossed the street, illegally of course. The radio station was smaller than I expected, the tiny lobby deserted. Voices came from somewhere deeper inside. We heard Michael laugh and followed the sound to the studio around the corner.
A lady smiled and waved like she knew me when we entered. Mike said, “Who's that?”
“I think Michael brought her to the luncheon last year but I can't remember her name.”
We later learned that she's Joy and she's the Managing Editor of the Bamboo Ridge Press. She remembered us from the luncheon and knew our names because we were on tonight's guest list. We had a wonderful conversation, even laughing about us forgetting her name. I knew I'd met her, but Mike had forgotten even that, so we teased him all night long, introducing him to Joy again every time we'd talk to her.
Michael had promised wine and pupus. The pupus weren't great–sushi, chips, dip, veggies–but the wine was fabulous. I was struck by how writers are borderline alcoholics really (tongue in cheek, but only just). The wine selection was amazing, like everyone there was a closet sommelier. Bordeaux, merlot, shiraz, shiraz-cabernet, cabernet sauvignon, chardonnay. I chose a Spanish shiraz called Mad Dogs Englishman. It was quite good. The cups were plastic, but it was a small price to pay.
We sipped and munched, talking in clusters. Michael told me I should join Bamboo Ridge, but I don't write local stories (yet) and these writers do. Michael is a haole, but he's lived here 25 years and writes stories full of local color and dialect. And his wife is local Japanese. Hawaii, in many respects, is like another country. Until I know its rhythms better, I don't feel confident enough to write authentic Hawaiian life.
The taping was supposed to start at 8PM, but didn't begin until about a quarter after. A gentleman, whose name I've already forgotten, coached the readers in their duties.
“If you mess up a line, go back to the beginning of the sentence and read it over again, yeah.”
He had a copy of each story and followed along, marking places where the readers flubbed and didn't catch it. At the end of each reading, he had them reread the places he'd marked.
The first lady to read was a small, local woman. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse, and though she wore platform wedges, she still was shorter than the music stand with the microphone hovering over it. She read her story confidently, only messing up a couple of times, until she reached a part that made her emotional. She'd written a story close to home, based on her father's death from cancer, but what made her cry was the part about her parents divorcing. She got back on track pretty quick, though. The prose was lovely, and she read it with deep feeling.
Next up was a Navy wife. Her prose was also gorgeous, and her reading was full of character, but the story felt like something I'd heard before. It's probably because I too have the military background and the theme is a common one in this world: husband goes to Iraq and gets killed. What made her story different was that Navy men aren't supposed to be in the thick of things. They deploy on ships and stay there. Her character had been assigned to shore duty and gotten killed in the performance of a routine job. At the end of her reading, she too was emotional, though only slightly so. Her husband sat in the audience, in his Navy uniform, the same rank as the character who died, the same physical description even, and I imagined she was thinking, like we all do when we hear something like this, what if it was my husband?
A poem followed. A young woman stood before us, arranged her papers, and began to speak. Mike and I looked at each other, eyes wide. She sounded like Minnie Mouse. At first it was grating, but then it got cute. I don't know why my perception changed, but I think I must have needed a moment to get used to it. I wonder what she'll sound like on the radio.
I learned more about Micronesians than I ever knew as she read her poem. I imagine there'll be some editing, however, because she used one of the 7 words you can't say on television. It was sort of funny hearing the f-bomb in that high-pitched little girl voice.
Finally, Michael got up to read. His story is based on his own life, on an incident that happened when he was newly married and it was time to pick the mangos from the giant tree in the yard. Grandpa climbs the tree while everyone else looks on. The more Grandma tells him to come down, the higher he climbs. And the unnamed narrator, the tall haole man, wields the bamboo pole with its basket that contains the precious cargo. His arms ache from the strain, but he can't fail Grandpa, even when the rest of the family abandons them both for lunch.
Except it isn't the story so much as the performance of it. Michael performed like it was something he did every day. His reading and inflection were perfect, even of the local dialect, and he brought down the house. After the first two stories, we needed to laugh.
What struck me most, however, was just how much reading aloud is an art. As an undergrad, I once took a class from a man whose PhD was in the performance of literature. I will never forget e.e. cummings's Buffalo Bill thanks to that man. When I read a line from it recently, in Joan Didion's memoir, I knew where it came from instantly. She took a day or so to find it after the line popped into her head, but to me that line is like any of the various Shakespeare quotes running through my head: instantly identifiable and unforgettable. And all due to one man's rousing performance.
Already, the stories and poem I heard on Saturday night are in my head, more memorable because they were told to me. Not the words, necessarily, so much as the feeling and plot. And another feeling too: the world is full of talented writers. Here, on this island, I've met so many. It could be discouraging, I suppose, but mostly it fills me with a desire to create my own stories. I too want to share my work with an audience, though I can't imagine reading my story while a tape rolls and a group of people watch me, waiting for the laugh or the chill or the tears I might bring.
Michael was jazzed after the reading, and since Mike and I hadn't eaten yet (pupus notwithstanding), we three decided to go to Compadre's. It was nearly 10 at night, but all I'd had all day was breakfast, so I figured I could handle Mexican food.
We'd finished eating when we noticed that Michael's attention had strayed. Mike and I both turned around. In the restaurant next door, we could see people in costumes dancing. A gold-clad woman stood out, her headdress a gigantic concoction with beads and gold discs that looked like something a Thai goddess would wear. She danced on a table, her body lean and lithe with the kind of grace that comes from being a performer.
“It's a guy,” Mike said.
“No, it's a woman,” I said.
“It's a drag queen,” he insisted.
“She's got boobs,” I said. “They're small, but they're there.”
“You think it's a guy?” Michael asked.
“Yep.” and “No.”
So then we asked the waitress what was going on. She had no clue.
People
dancing are amusing, especially when they think they know how to dance and don't. The gold-clad person did, the sweaty guys in ties didn't. We began to see other costumes, one of which was definitely a guy in drag, and my favorite, a bare-chested man with a tie (the chest was nicely muscled, tanned, and oiled).
Mike couldn't leave it. He had to know what was going on, so he asked another waitress.
“Oh, it's the Iona Dance Company fundraiser.”
Ah, now that made sense. We never did find out if it was a man or a woman in the gold costume, but I think it was a ballerina-thin woman.
Michael's earlier performance was every bit as good. The art of reading aloud may not require flashy costumes, but it's demanding in its very own way. How about a fundraiser for writers who read aloud? We can hold it in a restaurant and everyone can wear costumes. But no dancing, I beg you.
Nov 3, 2005 | Uncategorized
Sunday afternoon, the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz sailed into Pearl Harbor. Monday, I got a tour. It was waaaaay too darned cool. I have tons of pics, but not enough time to upload more than a couple.
This has been a busy week for me. I was elected President of the Aloha Chapter of the Romance Writers of America, we had our annual luncheon last weekend, I had a newsletter to get out this week (not the chapter's), met with my friend Michael for lunch and a discussion of the chapter's Strong Currents 2 anthology (which will be out in time for Valentine's Day), met with my writers' group last night, and I'm in the process of starting a readers' group–actually, it was someone else's idea, but I'm trying to drum up interest in it with people I know. Whew!
Tomorrow night is the Iz tribute at the Blaisdell, and Mike and I are planning to go. Saturday is the HPR event. So, I shan't be around too much over the next few days. Hopefully, I'll have time to catch up next week.
I leave you with a picture of me on the flight deck of the Nimitz, standing in front of an F-18 (I think). I sorely regretted wearing jeans, let me tell you. It was hot, hot, hot up there. At least I had on my slippahs, though I learned later that I wasn't supposed to wear them. Mike failed to inform me of that before I left the house. I'm glad no one realized I wasn't wearing shoes and made me stay on the dock. I'd have been seriously ticked off. 🙂
Even a construction site looks lovely in this city! I don't know what they're doing here, but this site is in front of the Royal Hawaiian hotel (also known as the Pink Palace) and it sits on the main street through Waikiki.
