Ramblin Christian Gypsy
Literary whimsy. Dedicated poetic observer.
Misti Dawn Akemi Traya
Misti Dawn Akemi Traya
I remember being fifteen and pregnant
and overhearing my least favorite cousin talking about me
before I burst in with a tray of lemonade.
I tend to live my life as the star of a Mexican soap opera,
or the pitiable yet plucky subject of a Tom Waits song.
“Well let’s face it, she’s ruined her life.”
Said Miss Judgey Judgerton with a giggle of glee.
What I learned that day is that
we are not the sum total of our stumbling steps.
Rather,
we are the walking obligation to the perfection of our dreams.
Was back in Honolulu recently.
Lots of bargains and whispered agreements were struck
under a Hawaiian sky and a certain teenage Mother.
Sitting underneath it was like connecting with an old friend
and business partner
when everyone has been keeping their end of the bargain.
Happiness, affection and mutual respect.
Well Done All.
I always hear Madonna’s “Cherish” when I think of her.
How once when trying to get her to remember people from long ago
I actually said…
“Remember, when WE were little.”
“Mama, why did you name you Misti?
(It gets worse. It’s actually, “Misti Dawn.”)
“Oh Honey, I was fifteen,
you’re lucky your name’s not Hello Kitty.”
Harlan
It’s eighty-five steps between my sister’s house and my Moms,
One for every memory that keeps me forever tethered to this mid-western town
where I have never lived,
but where I magically know the language, the shorthand and the shortcuts
that traverse across my soul
and say “Welcome Home.”
The Mortification Of Countess SPF 50.
This sun is wreaking havoc on my nineteenth century, consumptive poetess’ complexion.
Only way to solve this is with a parasol.
Problem is, Scarlett wants to hold it for me.
Everywhere we go.
She will not be thwarted.
Which is just great.
I cannot even tell you
how I’ve always longed
to arrive everywhere
looking like King Julian and Mort.
Sigh.
End Of An Era. Desperate Housewives.
Because in the end
aren’t we all just
walking wounded imperfections
looking for love?
Making every last one of us
to a certain degree,
Desperate Housewives.
Thank you for letting me take such a “Look-at-me” turn on such a grand stage.
The Old Pali Road
Growing up in Hawaii, much of my childhood’s entertainment was spent knee deep in a stream behind our house catching fish with a net and putting them in a bucket to feed live to my Oscar fish at home.
I would every so often catch sight of a mongoose who would’ve loved nothing more than to have me wander off so he could steal my bounty.
“Shove off, Gypsy!” I’d yell. He’d look at me all insulted like and harumph away. But the more I thought about it I decided he had far more of a right to the fish in this island stream than did I, scrawny girl with an Irish fro, child of missionaries like I was.
So I started sharing with him. Leaving him little peace offerings. Two net fulls of guppies on the side of the flowing stream. I decided this was his portion.
After a day of fishing with Kehau, my childhood friend, we would take showers with wildly floral or fruity shampoos and bath gels. Our fifth grade, girl bodies had not yet embraced our adult forms in any way but were not opposed to the idea either. Then on long spider like legs we’d race to the bathroom mirror and stand there slicky wet and dripping to see who got the most sunburned. It was always me.
If Kehau was sleeping over, my parents would make the Friday night pilgrimage to Ala Moana where we’d order Princess plates of noodles and two other choices at Pattis’ Chinese and then rush to spend my allowance on Hello Kitty crap at Shirokiya.
After the sugar high and acquisition of plastic crap we would fall on my bed and Kehau would tell me Hawaiian ghost stories until we fell asleep.
I knew a goodnight prayer to make us feel protected against the evil we had conjured up, and eventually we would fall asleep in my little house at the foot of the Koolau mountain range, where the clouds hung low, gray and fluffy like an old man’s eyebrows.
Many was the night that my last conscious thought before nodding off was of the gecko clinging to my window. His clicking kissing lips sound always reminded of a lover trying to get my attention by tapping his ring against the glass.
That the gecko has long been regarded as a guardian spirit to protect households was no accident.
I had so many geckos in my house. It was as if they were dispatched by someone somewhere who realized I needed a veritable legion of sticky footed protectors to ward off the trouble that I not only naturally attracted but even went looking for.
The Nuuanu Pali is a section of the windward cliff (pali in Hawaiian) of the Koolau mountain located at the head of Nuʻuanu Valley on the island of Oʻahu. It has a panoramic view of the windward coast of Oʻahu.
The Nuʻuanu Pali State Wayside is a lookout with sweeping views of Kāneʻohe, and Kailua. It is also well known for strong trade winds that blow through the pass forming a sort of natural wind tunnels.
The full throttle wind could be scientific or paranormal depending on who you ask, who you believe, and if you’re prone to feeling whispers on your neck like the hot breath of a sleeping albeit nonexistent baby. A situation I’ve long ago come to this tacit agreement with. I will not whirl around looking to prove what cannot be proven only to meet the stare of my old fashioned cat clock with it’s tail, ticking and tocking. Not again anyway. It’s gets old.
The Nuʻuanu Pali was the site of the Battle of Nu’uanu, one of the bloodiest battles in Hawaiian history, in which King Kamehameha conquered the island of Oʻahu, bringing it under his rule. In 1795 Kamehameha sailed from his home island of Hawaii with an army of 10,000 warriors. The pivotal battle for the island occurred in Nuʻuanu Valley, where the defenders of Oahu were driven back up into the valley where they were trapped above the cliff. More than 400 soldiers were driven off the edge of the cliff to their deaths 1,000 feet below.
And then there’s the Goddess Pele who likes to stop motorist’s cars along the Old Pali Road to prevent them from passing. But only if they have pork in their cars. Has something to do with Madame Pele hating that demi God Kamapuaa who was half human and half pig. You cannot bring a form of Kamapuaa (pork) from the wet side of the island, the Windward side, to the dry side, the Leeward side. Because that’s Pele’s stomping ground. And she will forbid it by sending tragedy or mechanical failure to your car. Only if you tie a ti leaf around your pork will you and your passengers be saved.
Also along the Old Pali Road is reported to be the ghost of a raped and murdered girl child jumping rope. Chilling enough that, but when she turns to face you she stares at you with wildly bulging eyes, the result of her being strangled. If that’s not freaky enough for you, her face is in half decay as that’s the way she was found after being gnawed on by animals for days until she was discovered. She’s said to look terribly pissed off by the whole thing and who can blame her?
You might also see a little menehune the Hawaiian legendary dwarfs who are generally up to no good. Or a small white dog who grows in size until you rid your car of your char siu bao and all other offending pork.
It should also be noted that the Imperial Japanese Navy’s Air Force used the winds of Pali pass to give them a boost when flying through on their sneak attack on Pearl Harbor.
So pick any one of the wildly spinning vortexes of terror to explain the blustery winds that sometimes blow you off your feet when standing at the Pali lookout. Many times as I child I would lean into the wind trusting the treachery to hold and not drop me face first, with a few less of my teeth, to the cement.
Ghosts just don’t scare me. On my most recent visit to the Pali Lookout I took a full breath and considered the brilliant view that felt very much like the lookout from the top of my soul. How I’ve managed to navigate the tricky turns of my life thus far, avoiding damage, war, and demon people, time and time again.
Even today whenever a breeze blows by my face I feel a kinship with those clever rascals who have unburdened themselves of their human bodies but play on by planning mischief on those who don’t follow their arbitrary rules.
It’s on ancient streets where old ghosts meet,
such is the case on the old Pali Road.
To beguile, spook and flirt.
Like a breeze up my skirt.
Begging, “Don’t you wander too far away.”
(paintings by Edwin Ushiro)
Edges Of You
I will squish and squash and stuff you to be,
the definition of living vicariously.
Cuz what happens for you
may as well as be me.
The cleverest trick this vicariously.
When you look in the mirror
Don’t you see me?
Those edges of you
that haunt into me.
My smile is yours but it’s smeared with regret.
The shines gone from my song. I’m a silent duet.
But I want what I want. And you’ll get what I let.
I’m bequeathing to you this weight of my debt?
For the promise of me
was a short song of woe.
Til I pinned it to you
this debt that I owe.
I will be a big star
You’ll all know my name.
Nevermind that it’s yours
cause we both are the same.
Right?
Hold hold hold
my cold smile.
Then off on my own
to cry for a while.
I Pray Thee, Impossible Possum.
Possibly the only thing more disconcerting than blinking wide awake at 2:00 AM is to have that first gaze met by a possum staring in at you, sitting on your property’s bordering wall, and backlit by a quivering moon.
Once that first shocked breath had passed I took a moment to regard him in his silvery splendor. He was in no particular hurry. Not a great beauty when assessed by those who have so much time on their hands and so little to think about that they bother to assess such things. But he held his own and returned my gaze with such sweet possession that I felt I had received some kind of papal blessing.
As I drifted back to sleep I felt renewed, as if I had been visited by the Possum of Impossibility. The patron saint of dreams that can appear very much dead. But only until those who don’t know better lose interest and walk away, and then when feeling safe, will rise up, toddle away, like the precious, lumpen, silver engine that could. Off to deliver further enchantments to those he deems worthy.
The Thin, Almost Undetectable, Line That Divides.
Before saying night time prayers with Scarlett she gave me a hug and told me that she’s proud of me for, “going out there and making it happen.”
And then I giggled so long and recovered so poorly that I choked and snorted with laughter through her whole prayer.
Afterwards, she looked at me like I do her when I’m not altogether mad but don’t want to support the behavior either. It’s so hard to tell sometimes who’s the child and who’s the 40 year old with the jaded tude who thinks snake print leggings are the way to go.
The Choker, Chico, And My Man
Without question it was the suicide of Freddie Prinze in January of 1977 that stole my solo singing voice from me. I was 11 and up until then quite content to rival my Father for the title of “Biggest Showoff Belter” of the family.
We were Baptist missionaries to Hawaii. If God has to call you anywhere, let it be Hawaii. It sucketh not.
When we weren’t serving in the mission field, running the church of 200 in Kaneohe, Hawaii, we were visiting all our supporting churches, constituents with check books if you will, on the mainland and giving them updates on our ministry by way of slide shows, Hawaiian songs, and stories. Perfectly charming set against our thick Texas accents.
So here we were, traveling from one meeting to the next in our Dodge Rambler, when this impossibly grievous news hit the talk radio airwaves. There was no escaping it really as secular music was not an option in our family. So here it was that I realized two things at the age of 11. One, that life has a very real beginning, middle and an end. And then two, that I had been hopelessly in love with Freddie Prinze. When exactly that happened I didn’t even know.
I was looking out the window at the gray Tennessee landscape with its signs on every barn extolling us to “SEE ROCK CITY” when my Mom sighed, “What’s sad is that he’s probably in hell.”
Sitting in the back seat I’m quite sure an anvil fell on my head. I knew better than to plead his case or defend his honor. There wasn’t much wiggle room with Fundamentalist Baptists.
It was about here in the story where a gaping yaw in my heart flopped open and a cold clutch came to live in my throat as if invited and made himself quite at home.
Cut to: The next church and the next platform that the Singing Warren Family took to and if I was able to make it through one song without sobbing I was lucky. My eyes would pool and threaten dripping riverlets at the same time my throat would say, “This is bull crap…we’re outta here.” But we had like nine songs in the set to get through. And here I suffered in the tension of that disparity.
Did I tell you I had solos? Because I did.
My Mom would play the intro after I missed my first cue, again but in the higher treble cleff keys making it a softer place for me to fall. Still no me. Here she came again with my intro. This time with an encouraging pursed lip smile from behind the piano but with eyes that looked positively flummoxed.
Heidi, older than me, forgot herself for a moment and the fact that the microphone was mere inches from her mouth barked in her bossy boots best and went, “Knock it off.” Which of course everyone heard and were now clued into our little drama.
Everyone craned their necks to get a look at this little missionary girl dying on stage with a Cindy Brady (remember the game show episode) stroke going on in her eyes.
What would the girl in the orange muu muu do? Okay, I managed through but with that choked up, near tears way that always renders it highly uncomfortable for the audience.
I remember Miranda Ching would always sing like that. Like a musical nervous breakdown. Humiliated, I would run to the bathroom and only after making sure I was completely alone would have myself a little cry then talk myself down out of this emotional tree with a song. Elvis has a version. “Cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine, we’ll understand it all by and by.” Then as a mantra prayer I would add “Please don’t be in hell, please don’t be in hell, please dont…be…in hell.”
From there the service was usually over and I would smile and sign our album and people’s Bible’s like a pop star. “1 Peter 5:7 God bless.” Then my name. Was what I always wrote. Then when the box of records was empty and my Dad had received the white envelope with our “love gift” in it we’d button Winter coat over Aloha wear and head out to the nearest Denny’s or McDonalds or whatever shined brightest off the freeway.
Here, before eating, my Dad would pray a little too loud and a little too long for me and my sister to get too comfortable. Inevitably there was always an embarrassed waitress not knowing what to do with her load of food while this devout family thanked their God for their dinner.
It has to be said that had my Father not grown up in an Iowan farming community but in a big city, dollars to donuts he’d have have been one of the great tenors to take a turn on an operatic stage and command everyone’s awe.
But what was to be done with this daughter who’d lost her song? Was very Little Mermaid of me thinking back on it.
My affliction afflicted, and affected me for months. I have no idea how I made it through. Or how many tween tears I shed. No idea of the exact date I stopped mourning my Freddie Prinze. All I know is that it set into motion the notion of saving just one big eyed, beautiful Latin man. And for him I would be up to task of singing hymns all the freaking time. And I do.
See? By and by. You do understand. And the choke in your throat softens into a story that you bury in the sweet thumping chambers of your heart to visit with again and again whenever tender needs remembering.
Son, You Have A Panty On Your Head.
After an entire childhood of my older sister insisting all her friends should ignore me because I am only trying to get attention, which I was. It would seem now that she has had a change of heart.
She posted this yesterday on her FB page.
“No one is funnier than you! Thanks for keeping us all laughing and smiling through the years. Mom reminded me the other day of that time, when we were kids, how we had been at the beach, and hopping over people in the sand on our way back to the car, when your underwear dropped and landed on some guy’s toe and it was just hanging there. On his toe! And we were all laughing our fool heads off as you had to go back and retrieve your underwear. Off of his toe.”
I’m guessing I should just retire now. Because my work here on earth is clearly done. This is as good as it gets.
See How Pretty I am In My Stockholm Syndrome!
I’m genuinely excited for the Rashad Evans vs Jon Jones fight Saturday night. Interesting that, because I don’t even really know why.
Similarly, I now overly invest emotionally in anything the Knicks, the Giants or the Yankees accomplish. So curious when once upon a time the only sports that were gifted with my viewership would be gymnastics and ice skating. And that’s it. And only the woman’s at that.
But lately It would seem that I have supplanted my natural viewing affections with those of my husbands and daughter’s.
I have seen more talking animal movies than I care to recall and this at the suffering demise of my own film viewing choices. Choices that would have gone in another direction if I weren’t holding a certain small sticky hand.
And while this sounds like a complaint, I will, of my own volition, tuck the child in bed then come back to sit on the couch, anxious to see, needing to see, how Angelina Ballerina ends. Explain that to me because I have no idea.
Reminds me of my Sunday School days and the Bible story of Ruth who after falling in love with Boaz, fell in front of him and said the following, “Do not entreat me to leave you, for where you will go I will go, where you sleep I will sleep, and your people will be my people.”
My People now include, Felix Trinidad, Squinkies, Floyd Mayweather, and SpongeBob, Jeremy Lin, The La La Loopsies, Any Yankee, All of the Knicks, A Pair of Kings, Big Time Rush, Miguel Cotto, My Little Ponies, a slew of UFC fighters, and Usain Bolt. And we all live together in a crooked little house. And happily so.
And with all that being said, I’m so very excited for the fight Saturday. Who’s fighting again?
Just wait, you little brats, gymnastics is coming….London 2012
The Love Story of Ruth and Boaz. 
Funky Cold Medina
I have one pleasant Moroccan memory. Just one. I had been in Marbella, Spain for my sister’s wedding and took the ferry down into Morocco. Why I didn’t go into Portugal instead, is one the bigger mistakes of my tourist life. Beings as “A Small Death in Lisbon” is one of my favorite books, in retrospect it would’ve been the way to go.
My ex and I were on a train from Tangier to Marrakesh. It was hot and heaving with its’ load of people and livestock. I looked about as excited to be traveling as the goats did. And it would turn out to be terrifying for both of us.
The Moroccan market at night is a freaky bazaar. There was a man in the Marrakesh market who sold pats and cuddles of his flea bitten monkey. You patted his monkey, you owed him money.
How this seems reasonable stops at the part where the man would throw his monkey on you as you passed by and then would demand payment. If you objected, you’d be screamed at in every language until he found one you responded to. He started with German, and then French, then Russian and finally English. But since I’m a professional at ignoring you if I want to, he was livid that he couldn’t say anything to spark a response from me.
I remember spending most of that dressing down wondering why his first thought was that I was German. As I walked away he hissed, “American whore” in my direction.
Strong language to a girl wearing a floral flowing habit of a muumuu thing.
Then there was the snake guy. I didn’t want to dance with his cobra either. He carried it around on the lily pad shaped lid of a wicker basket, smiling broadly as you shrunk back in “No thank you” horror.
He carried the snake around until stopping to talk to a woman selling chickens for your dinner. She carried a crate of them. The collection were of half grown and half baby chicks. She talked shop for a while with the man until his snake, on the sneak tip, snacked up one of her chicks in a lightning fast, snorkeling, snarf of a striking bite.
Suddenly she wasn’t amused with the snake man and grabbed the neck of his snake like she would have his life right there. She was altogether unafraid and plenty pissed. She gave the snake a squeeze while shrieking at the man.
Then in a turnabout of unfair play Snake Man demanded that she touched his snake and so she owed HIM money.
And so on and so forth this medieval market haggling went on and on until I needed to go. I didn’t want my goat kebab. Not while baby goats were still tethered to the truck and jumping in the air to the amusement of the owner family. The children played with tomorrows dinner and petted his wee head.
My ex was off taking pictures and didn’t want to go back to the hotel. I said I was okay to walk by myself and made my lonely way through the Medina back down the memorized path.
This time when passing the monkey man I allowed the animal to jump on me but then kept walking with it on my shoulder.
The silver sky had come alive with a call to prayer from the minarets. I made my way through the labyrinth of stores, markets, and outdoor vendors.
It was a parade of insane riot. The man and his entourage were barking at me and demanding payment. I kept walking without looking back until reaching a taxi whereupon me and my new monkey got in and went to my hotel.
The mad men all jumped on ancient scooter things and followed me to La Marmounia which btw is the most beautiful hotel in the world.
Security at the hotel was quickly summoned and the men charged that I had stolen their monkey. I said that monkey had jumped on me thrice before on this very evening and I just decided he’d rather be with me. The men explained that in their country if you so much as touch their monkey you must pay.
I answered back that in my country I am a whore and basically if anyone touches me THEY have to pay. His monkey touched me three times so he owes ME money. So either pay me or I keep his monkey.
The hotel security “policeman” started to grin. He told the man he owed me money or I was going to keep his monkey. At this point I seated myself on an opulent tuffet and started feeding the monkey cut fruit and poured myself some mint tea while they emptied their pockets. And offered me a lot of coins I didn’t recognize. I took his money.
The monkey looked back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.
I stood and said in my limited French, “Ne jamais m’appeler pute encore, vous pénale édentée rue.”
“Don’t call me a whore ever again, you toothless criminal.”
Then I put the monkey on the ground and shooed him in the man’s direction. Little Monkey turned to give me a parting look as they left the opulent lobby. He raised his long simian arm as a graceful well mannered parting gesture. Sweet thing.
I bent down and whistled him back with a grape lure. He came running on stanchioned legs and cribbed knuckles. When he got to me I gave him the handful of change back and smiled. “This is for you.” We secretly tucked it into his vest pocket for safe keeping until it would be stolen from him later.
“Nice knowing you, boyfriend. Thanks for the evening’s entertainment, we had some fun didn’t we?”
Because in the end, what the heck, value for value, I definitely owed him. I wasn’t lonely for an entire hour in Morocco, thanks to him.
Aint No Stoppin’ Us Now…We’re On The Move.
Wiley and withstanding
in the great oncoming wind.
Blow on woeful feeling,
back to where you’ve been.
