September 27, 2009

Between Time, Before Space (part of a full-length novel idea)

Medanit Ubenna looked left. Looked right. Sighed. He was lost. The thick Book of Every Other Thing jeered at him from around his right shoulder, waving its yellowed pages with a shuffling guffaw. He slammed it back onto the shelf.

He had been the Library's Guardian for eons now and he still got lost. It was a major blow on his immortal ego. With a lopsided bowl cut, the left side rebelliously short and the right side droopingly long, eccentric is the closest word the English language has envisioned when it comes to Medanit Senna Ubenna. He hardly laughed, but when he did, it was a high-pitched raspy giggle. Like a school girl with a sore throat. When he smiled, a row of razor-sharp teeth, meticulously kept, invited you a bit closer.

However, he was a peaceful man; he couldn't be the Library's Guardian otherwise. Before he had been granted the title of Librarian of the Cosmos, and thus made immortal, he was a farmer on the Human Outer Ring colony Andrios, located in the southwest edge of the Milky Way. With no skills besides growing organic soy beans and potatoes, he was the last person who would be the sole keeper and protector of all knowledge in the universe.

His pale gray eyes caught something in the back corner of the room, which resembled a high school locker room, except all the lockers would have books crammed into it. There was a flower pot on one of the lockers. Not a very magnificent flower, and his allergies warned him from getting too close, but it was modest, white, and bell-shaped. It reminded him of Flaxis Rat tail; except, the flower-shaped ligament exuded a very powerful stench when the Flazis Rat felt threatened. This pale, drooping counterpart stood still, leaning a little to the left.

In all of the countless decades Medanit had not seen any sign of life besides himself and the bewitched items that clinked, shuffled, and howled throughout the Library, presents left over from the previous Librarian who had dabbled in the magick books in the cellar. Medanit had the north stairs blocked off by giant, flying gargoyles because the suits of armor had almost dissevered both of his arms last millenia. The age-long battle was still in its prime, rocking the north side of the Library with occasional earthquakes.

It was very pleasant to encounter something living that didn't want to kill him for a change. Inspecting one of the petals, curved into a small S like a little organic ladle. The stem was thin at the bud, which is why it drooped, but thick at the base, all the stems merging into one green clump, wedged in dirt.

Dirt. He had not seen, smelled, or touched dirt since he was mortal. The sand in the sun room did not count, mainly because it counted the remaining lifespan of mortal lives across the universe.

Yes, even Dr. Death kept his knowledge here.

Suddenly, the locker started to shake, dislodging the dirt that clung around the rim of the flower pot. The bells swung to and fro, and Medanit imagined a small jingling sound as the flowers slapped together. A light, bright and sizzling, burst from the cracks of the locker and the man, millenias old, jumped back with the nimbleness of a young boy.

Thud. Crack. Slam!

Enter Rodney, the future Librarian and soon-to-be ruffian Apprentice. From Earth.

September 25, 2009

Que Sera Sera

On the bend by the waterfall, just past sight, stood a young man in puke-green waders casting his line out and reeling it back with an occasional jerk of the hand. He was using a spinner today, silver and feathered, glittering in the summer sun like a little minnow. That's why they work so well, he explained when he was teaching me how to fish. The artificial bait was separated into two parts, double-jointed and able to spin when being pulled through the water. Both were metal, shiny, and scale-patterned. You could feel the spinner working as you reeled your line back, it was a steady tug and vibrating motion.

"You pull the bail back, see?" He wedged his forefinger in between the silver half-ring and the fishing pole, pulling it back until it clicked into place. He had nimble hands and a lop-sided grin, enthusiastic to share his trade knowledge with someone curious.

"You give a man a fish and feed him for a day. But you teach a man to fish and--"

"Yes, I know." I interjected with an impatient cast of my line. "You've told me before--God dammit!"

My line snagged on a hidden log. Without hesitation, he took the pole from me and walked away from me, bending his body in half so he wouldn't hit the bottom of the bridge. With a patient, rhythmic tugging of the pole, he managed to free it, reeling it in and inspecting the spinner with meticulous eyes. It was bent, he told me, and straightened out the joint so the two parts could spin once again.

Known by local fishermen as Cold Creek, the place he fishes is just behind Margaritaville in Sandusky, OH. The water is always around sixty-degrees or so, even in the winter. Too cold to swim, but perfect for trout.

"My mom loves trout," He said with a wide grin, "Whenever I catch one, I grill it and give my mom a taste."

"You can cook fish?"

He gives me a quizzical look, one that says, "Duh." Then he sits down, rests his pole against the rocks, and waits. He can wait for hours at a time. The fisherman becomes great through understanding, intensive study, and patience. Ask him a question about migration patterns of King Salmon, and he'll say they are found in the Huron River when fall comes around. Ask him what kind of bait is good for catching catfish, and he'll say live bait, crawl worms. They eat about anything, but they like the smell of blood.

"Why did you drop out of college?" I ask. I want to know. He seems so bright and passionate, why wasn't he pursuing his dream of becoming a Geologist?

His eyes cloud over. The creek melts behind him and he is remembering the anarchy of his younger days. The depression he felt. The apathy.

"I don't really want to talk about it." He says, returning to the present and adjusting the length of his line so the spinner could spin against the current of the creek. He set his pole down and didn't talk for a while.

He was a handsome man who had his fair share of women. His light brown hair fell haphazard around his head, the protest of young age, and he draped a black leather jacket around him, sagging pockets with loose change, bait, and his wallet. His face was smooth and cream-colored, most definitely half-Spanish. He had hazel eyes, though a brown, gray, green hazel, the color of some undiscovered stone. His body was lithe from an active lifestyle of fishing, running, and biking, but his manner, the way he walked and talked, was calm and sometimes nervous. He parted his lips, showing crooked, alcohol-stained teeth and said, almost a whisper,

"I made some mistakes and I regret it to this day."

I set my pole down by my side and rested my hand on his back, urging him to continue. He sighed and relaxed, looking up at the low bridge. His eyes were a foot away from cement but reflected the college freshman year where he had no friends, the sophomore year where he didn't pay attention to studies and goofed off by drinking and pursuing women or porn. Then the painful ending during his junior year, when he just didn't care anymore and didn't fill out the right paperwork in time. So, his scholarship was revoked and he was forced to leave school. His mom, who loved trout, was now stuck with paying the $14,000 loan that she had planned to pay for a year later. A loan he would have been delighted to help her with.

But he had no job now. Just fishing.

"Don't worry." I said, kissing him on the cheek, "You'll find a job and pay off your bills someday. I know it. You're too smart and handsome to be a bum!"

I was teasing, trying to make him feel better. He gave me a weak smile, then faded away again. I sighed and let my hand slip from his back, picking up my pole again. A thick, depressed mood had settled over us. We were both worrying about something too big and distant to face right now, but the thought of eventually having to face it was so terrifying that we couldn't help but dwell on it for a while. It was mental preparation.

Then, I felt a jerk on my line and I instinctively pulled back. Mine. But then it danced away and took my line with it. A fish! I was speechless when I turned to tell him the miracle, so I just handed the pole over to him and let him feel it. He shot up and skimmed his head against the bridge, hastily moving over to my left side, he had been sitting on my right.

"Holy hell! This is a trout! See how it's fighting and tugging. Look!"

I saw the line jerk to the left, and then to the right. I heard the whine of friction as the fishing line spun off the reel, crazy with the euphoria of catching a fish. He was smiling and laughing, the worry gone. He was here, in this moment, and he was about to catch a trout. Pulling back the pole, he set the hook firmly and then let the fish run a little.

"Tire it out and it won't fight as hard when you reel it in."

I nodded, fascinated at the miracle one man could do. He could catch his own food, cook his own meal, and if all technology was erased from the world he would be one of the survivors, shrugging it off and walking down to Cold Creek with his Ugly Stick and tackle box.

With a final tug, he steadily reeled the fish in, asking me to hand him his stringer from his fishing bag. It was a red string with a small metal ring at one end and a sharp metal rod at the other. Puncturing the fish's mouth and threading the rod through the loop, he tightened it and wedged the metal rod between two large boulders. Looking over the edge, I saw a grayish fish with a vibrant red strip across it's sides. It was about fourteen inches long and fat.

"A rainbow trout." He laughed and grabbed my by the shoulders, kissing me, "You caught your first fish. You did it!"

"You helped me."

He pushed my comment away with a wave of his hand, "You caught it though. Now, I'm going to catch a couple more and we can head back, okay?"

I smiled, still flushed with excitement. The fish, helpless, was my captured prey, and I knelt over it, staring at it while he put on his waders and trudged over to the waterfall around the bend, out of sight. A water snake came by, twisting it's black body through the creek. It was going for the fish. I quickly grabbed the stringer and moved it to the other side of the bridge. The fish tried to get free, thrashing about wildly, but I kept a firm grip on it. Me against the fish. Him against himself. Us against the world.

Me, him, and us will come out victorious. Yo sé.


I sign my name "Kimani Nakamura Y." Why?

Y. = Yoshiko, the name of my diceased grandmother.

Y. = Why did she have to die? I was only three.

Y. = Yoshiko translates into "good girl" or "lucky girl"

Y. = The Japanese in me that isn't passed down from my father, but the spirit. I hope my grandma is proud of me.

Y. = YKIMANI, my personalized licence plate that my mom gave to me after I bought my old Jeep with the bond money my grandma left after she died. The last bond dated a few days before my third birthday.

Y. = The question I ask myself whenever I'm alone. No family, no grandmother, hardly any money.

Y. = Me. Curious. Nervous. Sad. But always asking the question, "Why?"

Y. = When I am publishing books, will the Y. be there?

September 22, 2009

Translate 'Peace'

Why do I want to be a translator? Most people look at me, anti-social English Major, and they assume I'm going to graduate school to become a writer or a professor. Nope, not even close.

Translating, different from interpreting, requires the knowledge of a native language (English for me) and fluency in at least one other, called a passive language. Interpreting requires this too, but interpreting is verbally, whereas translating involves text-to-text, as in translating books, magazines, and websites. In reality, native English-speakers have the best chance at being successful translators. English is the most common language throughout the world, often being called the "universal tongue". Not very many native English-speakers are translators or interpreters, unfortunately.

It's the thrill of a challenge that attracts me. How many languages can I learn before I'm senile? I don't know, and I can't wait to find out! The greatest thing about translating/interpreting is that it never stops. You can never know everything about a language, not even your native one (I should know, English grammar is a bitch!). You can keep learning, and get paid for it. Then, when I can't learn anymore, I can sit back and retire to watch my children grow into multi-lingual influences of the modern world (because I will pass down this knowledge, it would be a waste otherwise).

In addition, it allows you the option to travel. 旅行したい!(I want to travel) Travel = LOTS of good food. Yes, I love food. Trying different dishes that are prepared in awesome, and sometimes strange, ways is my dream! Meeting new people is second. It's always good to make connections, even more so for a translator. You never know when a good friend who happens to run a grocery store in Japan will call you up and offer you a job translating their advertisements into English.

According to the Occupation Outlook Handbook, 22-percent of translators are self-employed. Yes, a way to free myself of bureaucracy, politics, and minimum wage in a single career! I'll tell you this now, my best job has been delivering newspapers to twenty-six people during the week and forty people on Sunday. Even though I only got $60 a week, I was my own boss. Translating allows you to pick and choose assignments, creating your own schedule around other duties of personal or serious nature.

It can be part-time. If I do choose to be a professor, or a writer, sometime in the future, I can still translate on the side. You can travel and submit a manuscript through e-mail. Online is the future. In result, one can hold two jobs much more easily.

So, why go through all the trouble with getting an English Major before learning other languages? Because I want to translate books, full-length novels. Translating novels is different from translating pamphlets or advertisements, or anything of the informational sort. It requires both creativity, ingenuity, and understanding beyond the two languages involved. Literary devices like voice, sentence length, "flow", point-of-view, all have to be transcribed, or in some cases rewritten. To make a good book that is written in Japanese into a good book written in English, one must know how to write a good English book. It's very difficult. Most often, a translator has to meet with the original author many times before they can agree on what approach to take. Not everything will be verbatim. You might have to add background information so that Americans can understand the setting and the characters more. In the end, you might end up with a book that is twice as large and very unique from the original. However, translators, the good ones, always try to keep the original intent of the author intact. Or else they won't get paid.

It's a fascinating career, and I hope to be one of the best. Right now, I am beginning with Japanese, and's up to fate. Languages often take one by surprise. I got a glimpse of Arabic for the first time last year, and it's absolutely beautiful. That's what catches my fancy; the beauty of the words. On the other hand, the sounds of languages, if they are hard, gutteral, or nasaly, dissuades me. I don't want to learn German or French. I'm sorry. They are wonderful and intricate in their own way, but not what I would study for four years. Chinese, Hawaiian, Spanish, Japanese, and Arabic are intriguing. Of those, I will probably learn only two before I run out of time.

Or maybe not.

We are often 'called' to do something. A nun is called to serve and preach God, a professor to teach, and a writer to write. I thought I was called to write, I thought I was called to teach, but I have found, through grueling English courses and numerous instances where children are enigmas to me, that I am called to translate.

Language, the Tower of Babel. Do I dare undo what God did? We were separated, according to the Bible, because we attempted to build a tower to the Heavens, not in praise for the Lord, but to challenge Him. Then, our one language became many and we were scattered about the Earth to dwell in eternal confusion.

I do not want to be confused anymore. My biggest pet peeve is when I'm watching a show or movie and the whole plot unravels from a miscommunication of some sort. George thought Henrietta said Louise got drunk that night, but she really said LUIS got drunk that night. Then George gets mad because he thought Louise was home sick, and wondered why she didn't just tell him she didn't want to go out with him... Blah blah. Unnecessary drama. All of it could be avoided if they understood each other.


That's it. I want to translate books so that Americans can read something other than dead English writers. Something other than the modern American Movement, or the past civil-rights movement. Something new, and something foreign. Too long America has been reputed for being ignorant, ignorant of others, and even ignorant of ourselves. We need to learn to look beyond and understand that the world does not center on us. In fact, we soon will be shoved out of the limelight. Learning through others and acknowledging that we are, essentially, all human, is the biggest step towards world peace.

Yes, world peace. Something lost now in this cyclical warring world. However, soon the world will be Internet. Soon the world will be global, if it's not already happened. Soon, translators and interpreters will be needed to translate your songs, your stories, and your heart into words other people from different walks of life, different ends of the Earth, can understand. Understanding. Forgiving. Peace. An abstract ideology, but mine.

September 20, 2009

Elvira Moore: Act I, Scene One, Orientation

Elvira is standing alone. She is nervous and out-of-place wearing a sweater, long skirt, and backpack. A voice off-stage says, in an official manner,

Off-stage Voice: "Now, when the ball is passed to you, please state your name, where you come from, and what you look forward to the most now that you're in college."

A beach ball is thrown on-stage and Elvira catches it with a surprised cry.

Elvira: "O-oh, me?"

Off-stage Voice (a little annoyed): "Yes, you. Come on, come on. Don't be shy."

Elvira looks around and takes a deep breath.

Elvira (still nervous): Hi. Hey. Hello...What's uuup? (with hang-loose hand signal) Well, my name's Elvira Moore... Aaand, um... (pauses) I'm sorry what else am I supposed to say?

Off-stage Voice (now very annoyed): Where are you from and what do you look forward to the most. Hurry up, we don't have all day (in a whisper: "House" is on in ten minutes, geeze!)

Elvira: Oh yah! Sorry, sorry. Yah. My name's Elvira aaaand I'm from Middleton. What I look forward to the most... (thinks about it) Well, I guess I just want to make friends. And...(lights fade behind her and spotlight is the only light) find out who I really am.

Que opening song. Trash can is pushed into the center-right of the stage as everyone sings and appears onstage from both sides, acting like it's the first day of school. People greet each other, hug, and ignore each other. Christian is surrounded by fellow soccer players, including Omar, kicking a soccer ball around. Sarah and Michelle from Beta Omega Omega Beta are passing out their first issue of Kissa on the right of the stage, which is being immediately discarded in the trash can as people walk across. Elvira enters from the right, carrying books and backpack, is handed a magazine, and stares at it in curiosity, singing. She walks to center stage and sings a solo. Tony rides a bike from the left, carrying a notebook and pencil, wearing loose cargo pants and a t-shirt. Sara enters from the right, skipping, wearing lab goggles over her eyes, a stained lap coat, and yellow cleaning gloves. Tony crashes into Elvira and they both fall. Elvira drops the books and Tony drops his notebook and pencil. Everyone around them stops singing and freezes. Spotlight is on Elvira, Tony, and Sara. Sara starts picking up the books, watching Tony and Elvira speak.

Elvira: Ow! Geeze! Are you all right?

Tony (leaves his bike and frantically searches for his notebook and pencil): Yah, well, I was (frustrated). I've got to get to class, and... Dammit! (Sara hands him his notebook, it's sopping wet) Of course! (shakes fists at the sky) God, why do you hate me?!

Elvira (standing up and rushing over to his side over-enthusiastically): I'm so sorry! If there's anything I can do just tell me I would give you one of my notebooks but I haven't bought them yet but I can help you find your pencil what class are you--

Tony (holding his hand up and pushing Elvira away: Whoa, whoa, whoa! (pauses dramatically, dusting himself off) Woah! Geeze! Don't be so...happy. What is it with freshmen and being happy all the time? They always think college is an adventure...(picks up his bike and gets on. Elvira walks closer to him)

Elvira: But it is an adventure! So many people to meet and so many things to learn. And everyone wants the same thing I want, to find who they are!

Tony (looking over at her in skepticism and disbelief): What the fuck are you talking about? (Elvira is shocked at his swearing) Nobody gives a shit about that. They just want to pass class, get drunk, and have sex with the hottest person in school. (light shines on BOOB, and they nod their heads enthusiastically and agree, Theresa yells "Hell ya!" and takes a drag of her cigarette) Look, take my advice. If you want to survive until you graduate (looks her up and down and laughs) you better change your clothes. (rides off-stage) To Sara: That goes for you too, blondie.

Tony exits. Everyone else continues what they're doing while Elvira and Sara pick up the rest of the books. They stand up and Sara gives the rest of the books to Elvira.

Sara (while Elvira is eying her nervously): Don't listen to him, he's a square. (looks up with a quizzical look) What's that Michael Myers? You want to kill him? Yes, by all means. Just don't get blood on the carpet.

Elvira takes a step back.

Elvira: Who are you talking to?

Sara (smiling): Oh, that's my imaginary uncle. He likes to stalk and kill people. Haven't you ever seen Halloween?

Elvira shakes her head and cluthes her books tighter, shuffling a little more away.

Sara: No matter! You will soon know everything about him. We are, after all, roommates.

Elvira: What?! How do you know?

Sara (points at one of her books): Your name's written in there, and in my housing letter it said my roommate is Elvira Moore. There isn't two of you is there?

Elvira: I hope so.

The bell for first period rings and everyone rushes off-stage.

Sara (not hearing what Elvira said): Uh oh! I have to hurry, I can't be late for my first Chemistry class! See ya later, Beep Beep! (impersonates the road runner)

Sara runs off-stage. Elvira looks at the audience and does a monologue (but I'm too lazy to put it here)

Birth of Elvira Moore

I'm going to break away from my fiction/creative nonfiction, and try to write down an outline for a musical that sprung into my head while I was walking to work a few days ago. Quick, before it leaves.

Title: Something with "Elvira Moore" in it, i.e. Elvira Moore: Surviving Freshmen Year

Gen. Setting: College (random college name)

Topics within Play: Long-distant relationships, personal identity (including coming out and being actively gay), career-finding, love-what is it?, role of family (or lack there of), diverse lifestyles, the reality of multi-tasking, and most importantly- SURVIVAL!

Main Characters (so far):

Elvira Moore, 18, Freshman- Looks like America Ferrera from "Ugly Betty," because that show is AWESOME!!! Maybe. A geeky college freshman, booknerd, very shy, but waiting to find her own place in the word. Going for something maybe in the Humanities?

Sara LeDuc, 18, Freshman (Elvira's Roommate)- Elvira's foil (of course!) Blonde and dangerous. Knows random Internet knowledge, and quotes everything from pop culture. She's in with the "oddball" crowd, and wants Elvira to join the darkside of college cliques. Wants to be a doctor.

Tony Vasquez, 20, Sophmore- Was held back a grade in senior year because he got caught trying to steal the high school principal's car for a senior prank (Hey, it was a Mercedes). His mother died when he was nine, and he doesn't know who his father is, but he lives with Professor Borris (below). A tall Mexican, who knows Spanish as a second language, he is the clown of his class and respected amongst the no-gooders. And he develops a crush can probably guess. Struggles with every class except Creative Writing, Spanish, and gym (which he is Christian's rival).

Christian Roberts, 19, Sophmore- Star goalie of the soccer team, he has an over-blown ego with muscles to compliment (yay cliche!) Brown-hair, blue-eyed, he is the "Hottest Single Sophmore," voted by Beta Omega Omega Beta in their weekly magazine "Kissa" (of which they are the only subscribers). Half-way through the year, he finds out girls are really crazy...and turns gay. Gotta love those gay guys!

Omar Mahmed, 18, Sophmore- member of the soccer team, Roberts right-hand man. He's very bright, majoring in Mathematics and planning to pursue graduate school. Very self-motivated, he admires Christian for his honesty and leadership skills (and his good body). Actively gay, he is also the president and founder of Quad-Alliance (also known as LGBT Alliance).

Sarah Anderson, 18, Freshman, Michelle Vanderbrook, 19, Sophmore, and Theresa Biggs, 21, Senior- Main members of Beta Omega Omega Beta.

Sarah (with an h) joins the "Christian Roberts Fan Club" after attending the first soccer practice. She likes boybands and has always admired soccer, secretly playing it in her rich parents backyard. However, she knows her parents would never allow her to play any sport, let alone soccer, and confines herself to her flute and violin, but loves to watch the games with the other two members of BOOB.

Michelle Vanderbrook has two classes with Christian, and loves to rub it in the others' faces. She wants to be an actor in a musical (irony), constantly practicing her lines and singing in the shower, in the living, while she cooks, and even while she's going to the bathroom (much to Theresa's, also her roommate, annoyance). Her "love" for Christian stems from Freshman Orientation where they were picked to be partners in a skit during Intro to Drama. It was Romeo and Juliet. Very romantic, Michelle studies French and works in a nearby cafe. (should I have her turn lesbian? Maybe.)

Theresa Biggs is the leader of BOOB, and the most obsessed. A smoker and a heavy drinker, she loves to party. Because of many previous relationships failing, she lost faith in her graduating class, and looked for someone younger to start another relationship with. Enter Christian Roberts. Her major is accounting (wtf), and she strangely likes it, especially when she has a few bottles of vodka in her stomach.

Professor Derek Borris, age unknown- Professor of Humanities, and as you've probably guessed from the name, the most boring professor in the entire college. (Not to be mean to my professors) Scenes with him are done in the style of Charlie Brown's teacher. Very classic. However, though Dr. Borris seems very opaque, he is Tony's foster-father, and may be hiding a secret passion for dance.

Dr. Laura (last name unknown, 34)- Sara and Elvira's advisor. She is very patient, and has been single for nine years now. She is also a professor of Psychology, and doubles as the two girls' on-campus psychiatrist. Curly hair and dynamic personality, she is very passionate (especially about men).


Professor Ludwig, 38- Chemistry professor and Sara's rolemodel. He likes to take long walks between classes and stare into space. With a crazy hairstyle, which is always a different shade of color each appearance, he is the person whom Dr. Laura eventually ends up with (after nine long years).

Mr. Moore and Mrs. Moore- Elvira's parents, always willing to help and give her advice. Mrs. Moore is a very hard-core Catholic, and questions Elvira's tastes in friends and activities, but she loves her daughter very much. Mr. Moore is a dentist now, but he used to be a world-class surfer (go figure), and has kept the Australian accent from his upbringing. He is more understanding of the two, and sends letters to his daughter secretly, so they can talk about things "Mrs. Moore" wouldn't want to hear.

Dr. Gurth- President of the college. He's always finding out what's new and hip, a very radical doctor with PhDs in History and Sociology. He sends surveys to each student throughout the year, often with crazy and very-personal questions. He pops up randomly, wearing outrageous clothing and is the modern, realistic version of Dumbledore.

P.S. This is by no means final, and is subject to change. Also, if you want to put in your opinions, feel free to leave a comment. Thanks!

September 11, 2009

Human Emotion: Frustration

Dear Diary,

I hate being an English Major. Half of my classes are too easy that they're boring, and the other half loads me with piles of reading and writing assignments, so much that I feel I'm about to denounce Shakespeare as a raving lunatic and land myself in a cushy county jail equipped with a TV in my cell, a gym, and a reading lounge. No bills and assignments for me!

Now, if my professors could realize that their class isn't the only class I have, then we would be getting somewhere. I would be reading the things I want to read, not the things I have to read, and through misunderstandings and social grievances, we would arrive at a very Austin-esque happy ending. But no, everything has to be so so with those English Professors. Not one of them thinks alike individually, but in assigning homework they all follow the same code, unwritten and unproclaimed, but the same none the less. Give them enough so that they can understand the concept!

Now I don't know about you, diary, but understanding something doesn't get any easier if I have so many things to read my eyes bleed. All I do is read the words but don't have time to read for meaning, the underlying message, heck, sometimes I don't even have time to finish reading! Like today, for instance, I thought a few readings for my Creative Nonfiction class would be easy, only three pieces. I could get that done in an hour and a half. No. I couldn't. Apparently I don't read as fast as everyone else, and I barely got through the second one before I had to pack my shit up and leave for my class. Then, I don't have enough time to print off my literary journalism piece, so the hour I committed to writing that was wasted. I still emailed it to him, mind, but I won't get any credit, even if it's a measly ten points.

You see, diary? What's the use of doing these writing assignments when they A) cost only ten points, and B) are a waste of time when in the long run I'll probably be late to class, forget to print it out, and have to hear my professor say, "Unfortunately, I can't except late work."

There's a screwed up sense of priorities and logic when one enters the literary realm. Creativity is important, they say, but only if you can turn it in on time. When you're sick, you should stay home, but attending class is important enough that we'll denote your grade a half-letter every absence over the allotted three. We love you, we hate you. Your works good, but it needs a little improvement.

Creative Nonfiction...I think someone said that all that creative nonfiction amounts to is the ability to tell a really good lie, good enough to be belived. But maybe that was me.

September 06, 2009

Human Emotion: Fear


The static and his cold make his voice crackle like the messages in horror movies, right before the girl says, "seven days." Your throat tightens and you whisper, "Hello." There is no one awake in the whole house; you am utterly alone. Creeeak. Your heart leaps into your esophagus, clinging onto the inner walls of your neck like a shocked cat. Save me.

"I heard..." your voice is drowned out by the pumping blood in your veins, the release of adrenaline that makes the hairs on your neck stand and your breath to come faster and faster until it is one breath, and it is saying "save me."

He sighs and clears his throat, hacking and coughing, but through his fit he replies, "it was a bad dream."

"No." You stop. You hear a noise of footsteps. It is right outside your door. Now, every scene in every horror movie you watched up until this point flashes into your mind, and the door knob turns, and there is a black figure staring at you with eyes as dark as the night. Or maybe they're red. Maybe, against the cinematic hallway that is too dark for having windows that look out onto a major street, the killer slowly pulls out a knife, and your scream dies in your throat because your heart is clogging up the airway. Your thoughts fizz out into white noise as every sense is tuned into the footsteps the figure takes, closer and closer to the edge of your bed. The face is unclear, but as he pulls his hand higher you pray to God for the first time in months.

"I can't sleep!" You whine, tears streaming down your face as you turn away from the door. You don't want to see it open.

"It's okay. It's probably one of your roommates going to bed. Please, I need to sleep, you need to sleep. Everything is going to be fine."

"No. No. No. No..." You trail off and you can't remember if you had locked the door behind you when you had returned from school earlier that day. It was all fuzzy, white noise.

"Look. Just sleep with the light on."

"Yeah, but the light is all the way across the room, and I'll have to run back to my bed in the dark!"

At the word 'dark,' your bones quake and you think you hear footsteps again, not as close, but like someone is lurking. They're waiting for you to get off the phone. Then you will be alone. Alone.


You cry again, and you bury your face in the pillow. A car rolls by, and through the blinds the headlights throw a strip of light that floats across your wall. Like a ghost. It disappears and you shiver. You are afraid of ghosts too.

"It's not a ghost." He says after you tell him your hypothesis, "Hey, I gotta go to sleep. I am sick. You're imagining things. It's all in your head."

"But..." It was waiting. It knew that within moments you would hang up. Then the doorknob would turn, and black figure camouflaged against the eerily dark hallway would take out a knife, and out of the four other rooms, walk into this one, and the knife would be over your body, your last breath would be prayer, then...

You hang up. Without a goodbye, without even thinking really. That shadow must be as confused as you are right now, but you know that calling a sick person at two-thirty in the morning is a jerk-ass thing to do. So come what may.

The only sounds are crickets and cars. The little buggers laughing in their little scratchy voices,

Ha ha...ha ha...

Human Emotion: Happiness

Mahalo, I whisper as you welcome me to your door, regardless of the history we shared.

'Ohana. Against my breast, the warmth of your smile spreads through me like freshly-born magma, the child of Pele.

Aloha, you whisper back, your eyes glowing with the edges of the moon.

Aloha, and my hands clasp yours.

We dance, in the speed born of our ancestors, our hips swinging with the rhythm of the ocean. Puka shells scatter into the depths of time, buried in the overflowing sand. Your hand spreads out in the gesture of the land, and I smile. Our land, my hands say in reply. Lani, Lani, the brush of palm leaves cry into the night. Kauhale, the stars reply, their leader shining bright, like the open sea. Hōkūleʻa.

We sing,

`Ôpae ê
`Ôpae ho`i
Ua hele mai au, ua hele mai au
Na kuahine
`Ai iâ wai
`Ai iâ puhi
Nui `o puhi, a li`ili`i au
`A`ole loa

In search for our sisters, we unite the land. Hawai'i is forever in our hearts, and will never be forgotten. The sovereign land of our ancestors. The night glows with the heat of the day and our song concludes, Kêlâ puhi. Our skirts fall silent and our hands still. The sun peaks out from behind the mountains of Ni'ihau and says, Aloha.

We reply, Aloha.

September 03, 2009

Human Emotion: Loneliness

[23:34] (kissdagurl) yo yo, she wrote with a small smile. Poorboy was on, and he was her best online friend 3vah!

[23:34] (poorboy246) whats up

[23:35] (kissdagurl) nothing much...I just got done with class. I got an 86 on my Calc test

[23:35] (poorboy246) congrats! I hated my calc class...too many numbers @_@ couldn't get it all

[23:35] (kissdagurl) yah, ditto. But now I'm done with class and I'm free to do whatever

[23:35] (poorboy246) cool

[23:39] (kissdagurl) watcha doin' now?

[23:40] (poorboy246) nothing. I've got a nasty cold, so my mom's making me rest. She wants me off the computer, but I can stay on for a little while

[23:40] (kissdagurl) Oh ok

She looked at the empty chat list. It was only him, and if he left she would be alone in an invisible chat room, waiting pathetically for someone to show up. If they ever did she'll write a fake enthusiastic "hey it's so-and-so, what's up??," but her eyes wouldn't reflect the happiness her words expressed.

[23:44] (poorboy246) OMG! Check out this vid!

[23:47] (kissdagurl) lol, but her voice wasn't heard in the small dorm room she had crammed all her useless possessions of her life. As boring and drab as her life had been up until she found the internet. There people could und3r574nd j00. She didn't have to worry about fitting in, she just typed what she wanted to feel and other people assumed it was real. That way, lying was easier.

[23:47] (kissdagurl) have you seen the Family Guy version?

[23:48] (poorboy246) hell ya! that's where i got it from!

[23:48] (kissdagurl) lol, yah. FG's pretty funny. She didn't really think so; Family Guy was a bit too...wild for her taste. Some episodes were funny, like the Peanut Butter Jelly Time one, but not a majority of them. Like the Peanut Butter one, the cool ones were always stealing ideas from somewhere else. What made it "hilarious" was that the only person in Family Guy with common sense, besides the power-hungry toddler, was humiliating himself by appearing randomly in a banana suit and maraca-looking things, shouting "IT'S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME!" That's it.

[23:52] (poorboy246) Oh man, my mom is being a real BIOTCH! She's yelling at me to get off. Oh well, gtg! b4 my mom killz meh...sorry!

[23:53] (kissdagurl) yah, np, take care.

[23:53] (poorboy246) u2, peace out!

[23:54] poorboy246 quits Teenchat (quit: crazy mom ATTACK! sorry Kate!)

September 02, 2009

Making of a Name

Something interesting...

Disfiguria--sounds like a disease
Creativity, like Brevity--but not unique
Unique--definitely not unique
Euqinu--unique backwards? Does that mean it's normal?
Keynew--sound of unique backwards
U-nik--very techy, I'm not very techy
Üníkk--now that's unique! Plus I like languages...