Slavery in America June 22, 2015

In a recent Forum letter, a frequent  writer wrote,  “…the Confederate flag flying high over the state Capitol of Charleston, South Carolina…” And quoted a legislature  endorsed  resolution about white supremacy. The writer commented, “Makes you proud to call yourself an American, doesn’t it?”

No. But it makes me proud to be a citizen of the state of Hawaii.

According to a Wikipedia demographic on South Carolina, 93% of its citizens are Christian. Perhaps they were just quoting the Bible? For an example…

“When a man sells his daughter as a slave, she will not be freed at the end of six years as the men are. If she does not please the man who bought her, he may allow her to be bought back again. But he is not allowed to sell her to foreigners, since he is the one who broke the contract with her. And if the slave girl’s owner arranges for her to marry his son, he may no longer treat her as a slave girl, but he must treat her as his daughter. If he himself marries her and then takes another wife, he may not reduce her food or clothing or fail to sleep with her as his wife. If he fails in any of these three ways, she may leave as a free woman without making any payment.” Exodus 21:7-11

“When a man strikes his male or female slave with a rod so hard that the slave dies under his hand, he shall be punished. If, however, the slave survives for a day or two, he is not to be punished, since the slave is his own property.” (Exodus 21:20-21 NAB)

These are Biblical values? Seems a man can buy as many sex slaves as he wants.

In the most recent Voice of Reason journal of Americans for Religious Liberty, Edd Doerr writes Is the Wall Crumbling? Scary! An American theocracy? Oh, my goodness! My beloved editor, the good Jewainian, and my favorite Hebrew black dog, Obama, and I could end up in the same pot. Or shower. Bring your own soap.

All kidding aside, I think all of us, left sane and even halfway intelligent, need to take these religious lunatics seriously.

We had, for a while, a thriving bigoted, morally foul-mouthed,vicious, cut throat, obsessive fundamentalist gang of thugs who quoted the Bible, Chapter and Verse. Not the goodie-goodie-two-shoes passages that everyone loves to quote, but the extreme nasties. Including rape, sodomy and bashing baby’s head against the rocks.

If there are any left on Kauai–goodness forbid–may they hurry back to wherever they came from. Soonest.

Stay out of Hawaii, guys–they’re always men, have you noticed? Too many non Christians–of any, all, or no religious persuasion–carry big sticks. Poisoned pens? You betcha.

A personal aside, I was labeled a ‘spawn of satan’, a 666, and sent to hell so often I was a prized and welcome resident. All the good guys are in hell, you know. They’ve got it air-conditioned, and everybody is sitting around playing strip poker with Marilyn Monroe.

 

 

 

 

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Daydreams and the Perfect Moment June 10, 2015

There should be bright little signs we can drape around our necks that say: DO NOT DISTURB DAYDREAMER AT WORK…

…OR PLAY. Careful here. There are those who think play is a thing we do Sunday at the beach, or the golf course, or trotting down a bridle path to never-never.

Daydreams  and daydreamer are  special things. They should go hand- in- hand with the perfect moment. Don’t you think?

Daydreams are personal. The perfect personal fascinating moment only we can know. Only we can imagine. They are ours to own and not to share. They can be filled with love and laughter, scents and soft caresses, and maybe the sensational taste of whatever we think tastes sensational. We can put music to that French Cherry pie and dance with it. Or  fly with  a  red royal poinciana that sings like a white-rumped shama and flits through a bamboo grove at Smith’s Tropical Paradise.

Imagine!

You can toss creations like this  around  light as whistles in a breeze. Anywhere. Any time. Savor them. Soak them up like bubbles in a fragrant bubble bath and never let them  go. Until someone gives you a poke in the a** and slams you with a  get back to work blast of hot air. But quick! You can turn this doddering horror into mite on a mouse that scurries and scuttles asunder. Send it to perdition. Crumple it like bits of  over-salted chippys.

Tape and file your perfect daydream moment on a disc in your mind you can call up at any moment. Be there now.

Instantly.

You don’t need an iPod or a cell phone or a Royal Royce or Lear to get you there. And it didn’t cost you nothin’. Drives the doddering horrors to distractions.

You don’t need a Carnival Cruise  that can turn into something very other- than- perfect at any given moment.

You don’t need a lover or a friend or a church or club group. All you need is you, love. All you need is you.

Studies indicate the average person spends eight hours a day daydreaming.

Studies also state the daydreamer looks like a drooling, slack- lipped rutabagas on Dramamine.

Ha!!

Doddering horrors have had imagination and creativity punched out of them. Long ago they lost it. They see dollar signs. They see expensive silk- lined coffins standing stiffly still as death in dim-lit rooms draped in long black veils. They hear voices like rusty fog horns. Songs that shudder the ear and drown in the silence.

A quote, with small changes, I blank plagiarism. “The scientific community continues to unlock these and other mysteries behind daydreams. A recent discovery pointed to a negative correlation with technology, finding the constant presence of screens and devices in our lives to be robbing our weary brains of restful daydream moments, resulting in a tragic drop in imaginary revelry for  all.”

I’m goin’ back to Smith’s Tropical Paradise and sit on a bench beneath a tree. See you there.

 

 

 

 

WILD HURRICANES I HAVE KNOWN June 2, 2015

I’ve weathered four.  My husband and I escaped the ravages of Typhoon Jean, dodging caribou and ballistic teak logs the size of a Kauai bus shooting by us in a Philippine Airline jet taking off from a beach in Aparri, a primitive village in the province of Cagayan, Luzon-one bar, one outdoor movie, one hotel- on the banks of the South China Sea.  Aparri survived. Today it’s a first class municipality.

We made the fastest flight- ever- back to Manila that day. Jean was the biggest typhoon of the season.

A typhoon is a hurricane that swirls and whirls and rips around in another neighborhood.

The Aparri memory is a cute storyI tell often.

But hurricanes are not cute. No one can ever say ‘been there, done that’ or ‘seen one seen ’em all’ . Platitudes don’t apply. Each storm’s different. They’ve personalities all their own, and always a very human side.

In 1970 we were in Mississippi a year after Hurricane Camille demolished Gulfport and were amazed at the mess. A tug boat still  balanced  on its keel in the middle of a forest. It looked as though it’d just been planted. Along millionaire’s row, all a two story mansion had to show for itself were water pipes standing upright indicating bathrooms on a vanished second floor.

Hurricane Iwa-November 22, 1982-sent our beloved boat, Warpath in Kukuiula Harbor, over the top of a swimming pool and broke her back. She was headed for safe port in the red barn across the street.  We’d built the barn for $900.00. All by myself I tar- papered the roof. Not a corner  lifted. On Kauai’s millionaire’s row, it looked as though a war had gone through.

I’d spent a terrifying night in the barn with my horses in the lava rock house up the Alexander Dam Road. All I was was the howl of that wind

Bill-who was needed at the power plant in Wainiha- and I, coming home that  night, had a most incredible surprise in store for us.. On the north shore at Tahiti Nui, Louise Marston  prepared-on the beach-a Thanksgiving dinner to end all Thanksgiving dinners-the works-to those who could find their way to her open door. A generous, marvelous, wonderful woman, I miss her. We sat at a savory table with locals, hippies, surfers, tourists from everywhere, survivors, and indulged. I’ve never felt so thankful. I didn’t say grace but I thought it.

Back home, we’d just put the roof on our new house. Not a shingle lifted.

September 6, 1992, Iniki- the strongest storm to hit Hawaii-barreled through. I was alone. I spent the night here.  Three horses locked in stalls. Me and the dogs and cats hunkered down in my old Buick. I had carrots for the horses, nibbles for the dog and cats, and a bottle of wine for me. Before the night was over, the horses were eating dog food while the dogs and cats munched carrots. I didn’t share the wine.

My experienced advice during hurricane season? Be prepared.