Like Moths Attracted to Lights
A menagerie Raggedly pursued in haste More baubles beckon With a slavish fate's pursuit Like moths attracted to lights
-gk
Of Fools and Rebels
Long before people texted by swiping on their phones or click-clacked their way through SMS-abbreviated sentences, we did things the old-fashioned way. From behind the music stand with our sheet music splayed, we surreptitiously texted and drew to our stand partner during orchestra rehearsals. To pass the time, we played simple games: Tic tac toe and hangman. When we were really bored, we'd make hand gestures and faces across the aisle.
But some of us took big risks. While the conductor trained their focus on an orchestra section, we'd just talk.
♩♪♫♬♫♩♩♫♬♬♫♩...“TO MEET OUTSIDE AFTER REhearsa...”
“Not today you won't. I'll see the two of you for 30 minutes after practice.”
Sometimes the orchestra would laugh out loud, but some conductors inspired the silence of fear.
We had to be strategic — short sentences and always avoid raising your voice — to avoid getting caught. Yeah, it was a game we all played, except the first row of strings — they were too close to the conductor to avoid being caught.
Then there were those of us in the rarified (id est stupefied) air of being petulant goofballs playing the music of other sections of the orchestra instead from our own pages. I played the trombone, baritone, and trumpet parts on account that, when done well, was impossible to discern. That's for a different story, though.
In the summer of my junior year, I apparently stepped over the line in a glorified “select national” wind band. Most of us only did it because of the promise of having a nice addition to our college applications — well, at least that's why I did it. It was an okay wind band and the music wasn't challenging at all; it was an excuse to have fun and meet up with band friends from around the state and intermingle with others from the Midwest.
With a simple request of a bathroom break, I managed to get under the conductor's skin. Okay, maybe there were some things that led up to that, like, oh I dunno, I guess we might have been yakking away too much in the section. We were a good section though; we never screwed up our parts. Again, the music wasn't very challenging. Still, we screwed up the rules of the game — don't get caught.
We got caught.
For what it's worth, I wasn't the one whose voice was heard when the conductor suddenly stopped the woodwinds.
“WHO WAS TALKING?”
Toby mumbled back sheepishly, “Sorry. We were.”
The conductor launched into a five minute scold (or was that a tirade?) about how important it was that we, the members of this “select national” wind band, conduct ourselves according to that honor. I swear I didn't roll my eyes, even though I knew most of those Midwestern kids only joined for the week-long vacation trip to a tropical paradise.
Back in the 80s they used to have these anti-drug ads which were referred to as, “scared straight”. In this wind band, instead of being “scared straight”, the kids were “scared silent.” He seemed satisfied at the outcome of his speech and the practice resumed.
The next day was our last rehearsal day before the concert. Three hours into practice, I needed to go. Kids, never drink a 32 ounce Slurpee before a four-hour rehearsal. It was brutal, y'all. I had to use the bathroom, so I raised my hand.
“YES?”
“Excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”
“Sit down. We're almost finished.”
“I'm not requesting, I'm telling you I have to go to the bathroom.”
Kids, never talk back to an adult, especially an older one. He launched into another lecture about taking the honor of this “select national” wind band seriously. Again, I'm certain that I resisted rolling my eyes; I just wanted to use the bathroom.
“Anyone else needing to take a bathroom break?”
To no one's surprise, half the band raised their hands.
“15 minutes.”
And that was that. Or so I thought.
The following day, our concert held up well. No one screwed up and we sounded great. At the end, the conductor called each person by name to come up and receive a little certificate for participating in this “select national” wind band. With each name, people politely clapped and a few people cheered. I debating in my head if he was going to skip my name just to passive-aggressively shame me. He didn't.
He called my name. As I stood up the band spontaneously cheered loudly, but especially my section.
Holyshit! Holyshit! HOLYSHIT!!! Did I just accidently become a rebel leader?!?
I walked up to the front of the stage, dazed but kind of happy. Do you recall the end from the first Star Wars movie? It's called “The Throne Room”, where the three heroes of the rebel forces make their grand entrance and walk up the aisle to the front? In that moment, my fantastical brain was preposterously playing that march song.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
I turned around to face the band, and I swear in that moment, I heard the band cheer louder. My section was smiling and clapping wildly. What a wonderful day that was.
The lesson I learned that day was that most people are too afraid to speak up and stand up for themselves. But, once in a while, a fool with no regard to the consequences will blithely stand up and speak out. That fool was me. And for that carefree attitude, I was briefly seen as rebel leader.
Note: Over the decades, this story may have been changed or augmented over time, perhaps bordering on myth-making, but the spirit of its message remains the same.
-gk
As You Left
Surrounded with warmth Light shone on your weathered skin Were you there, watching? But for us your barren room Our hearts silent as you left.
-gk
Unrecognizable
memories in blur of forged bits of jumbled shards rewritten in time through ceaseless reprocessing loops until gone — do i know you?
-gk
A natural act of contrition
Through calm, white noise rains Muddle and dust washed away Life yields, cleansed anew.
-gk
Snow
Cot'ny tufts adorn
Hushed, though still, none is forlorn
Comes soft glow of morn
-gk
winter, A
light sun, sky blue A fields covered, boundless Billows silent is life, Here
-gk
Yet, Winter
Eighty minutes gained Daylight stretches past solstice Death waits with a chill
-gk
Morning Routines
It was already light inside; how could she still be snoring? Kirby looked around. Except the noisy birds, the damn squirrels, the talking walkers, and the scary-loud buzzing of the blowing machines, nothing else was up causing a commotion. In other words, a typical morning. So, like a typical morning, there was nothing to do but to settle back into the comfort and warmth of being snuggled in bed next to her.
“Hey, move over yeah? I can't sleep with you taking up the whole bed.”
Maybe there was enough time for a quick dream or two. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four...
“BWAP! BWAP! BWAP! BWAP! BWAP!”
“Make up your mind — are we waking up or sleeping through?!?” Kirby was annoyed. He'd almost fallen asleep and now it was too noisy with the alarm and Emily snoring right through.
“Ughhh. Is it morning already?” Emily's arm reached out from under the comforter and blanket towards the nightstand in search of her phone.
CRASH!
Emily's phone bore the marks of excessive abuse by a graceless oaf. She would hold onto it with two hands and still manage to let it slip through. Sitting on it was not unusual. Knocking it off her nightstand with here eyes closed — that was part of her morning routine.
So was the fumbling around on the wood floor, with eyes still closed and bumping her arm into the nightstand.
“Ouch!”
“Em, are you going to wake up? Shall we go eat something? Oh wait, I think the bathroom calls. Hey, wake up! Did you hear me? You gotta move over!” Kirby wasn't desperate — yet — but nature was yelling at him to hurry up.
“Kirb, ugh. Okay, okay, I'm awake.” She let out a big sigh as she sat up while he dashed off to get to the bathroom in time.
“Uh, little help?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“K, k, k. Geez Kirb what would you do without me?”
Ahh. Kirby was so happy to make it in time to the tree in the back yard and pee. He turned his gaze away from Em, up at the blue sky, “Ah, what a wonderful morning it is! I know it's going to be a great day today!”
-gk
The Stream of Conscience
Down a 15 foot rock embankment, located at the backside of my high school, there was a storm water drainage channel. Underneath it may have, at some point, been concrete and rocks to prevent the natural stream from meandering; now it was an overgrown waterway with trees, teeming with wildlife and mosquitoes. We're not talking 'deep in Manoa Valley' level mosquitoes where you walk into a cloud of them and come out having lost a pint of blood, but it was enough to be annoying.
It was a late Friday afternoon following band rehearsal when I decided to make a solo trip down there. The path, worn by frequent use, was easy enough to take. With slippers on, I walked past the toad eggs and tadpoles and stepped into the cool, bubbling, less than calf-deep stream. Dragonflies wandered past, a couple of crayfish snapped back behind some rocks, crickets jumping to and fro, and then I saw them — big fat tilapias, the catfish of Hawaii.
Long before television shows popularized noodling — catching catfish with your bare hands — people were catching tilapia with their bare hands. There's nothing to it, right? They're slow, fat fish in shallow water. I strove to catch one.
Nope.
They deceptively floated in place right up until they saw you close-in on them, then dash away. Ah, but I was smarter than a dumb fish. I picked up a medium sized rock and pulled my arm back slowly so as to not to alert the dumb fish. There I stood like a statue for a minute or so, waiting and watching for the right moment.
PLACK!
Yes! I hit the tilapia and it started to float on its side. But then I immediately regretted it. I walked up to it — it was still “breathing”. I reached down into the water to grab it and hold it upright.
“Boo! That's so odious!”
I looked over my shoulder to see the dragonflies, perched on a rock, as they shot arrows at me.
The crayfish boiled furiously. “Harumph! How pathetic was that?”
“Aw c'mon guys, can't you see that I'm trying to get him to recover from the hit?”
The toads were hopping mad. “Oh, so you threw a rock at her just for fun? What a great guy you are.” They turned back to their tadpoles. “Kids, look away from the monster!”
The tadpoles screamed in horror.
“Hey now, look at her. She's breathing just fine. All I did was daze her a little!” I was lying; she had googly eyes.
Crickets.
“Liar, liar, liar, liar!” The cacophony of their accusations grew.
She finally came to as she dashed out of my hands. Whew, what a relief! “Sorry about that, ma'am. Hope you're okay.” That was so lame.
She turned around and looked back at me. “If you're going to apologize come closer so I can see your face.”
I obliged. I leaned down to the water and looked at her eyes — they were still a little googly. “I'm sorry I threw a rock at you. I shouldn't have done that.”
She swam to the surface, and popped her head out of the water.
PHHHPPT!
And with that spit into my face, she swam away as the wildlife laughed at me.
I never did go back to that stream. If I ever do, I'll bring a big net and a bucket.
Just kidding. That stream goes into the Ala Wai and is polluted as hell.
-gk