Portrait in Linen

Last night, I began a very frail skeleton of a timeline, beginning with Dad’s birth on Big Island in 1940, and ending with his death in 1998.

The largest gaps are the 40s through the 60s–his childhood, youth, and first years in the military. The most significant events of this period:

• 1940s - Dad’s family moved from Big Island to O’ahu. Questions: When? Why? To where?
• 1940s/50s (?) - Dad begins his martial arts training. Questions: At what age? Where? Who was/were his instructor(s)?
• 1959-(?) - Dad joins military.  Questions: What were his stations?  How long at each?  What was the nature/extent of his martial arts involvement during those times?
• 1960s - Dad serves two tours in Vietnam.  Questions:  What years?  What did he do when he returned?

Mom provided me with some basic information about the 70s and 80s.  I’m not too worried about acquiring details about those time periods, because there are several people still living who could help me.  That information, added to my personal experiences, should flesh out rather well.

—

I didn’t realize how painful the research might be for other people.  I’m not the only one who has a hard time looking back.  This is something I really need to do some soul-searching on.  I know I’m an aggressive researcher, and it only gets worse the closer I get to an answer.  Interviews require sensitivity and compassion, allowing the interviewee time to remember, to revisit old feelings and experience all over again times that may be excruciating, exhilarating, or a bittersweet mixture of the two.  I can’t forget I’m not the only one opening old wounds and trying to heal through the process.

—

Also thought I had a beautiful working title for the body of my research:  My Father’s Bones.  But apparently, the title has already been taken.  A Christian author put together a chapbook of poetry that bears the same name.  I’ll have to come up with something else.

Sudden influx of voices, corridors gaping open on every side of me, paths to answers that may quiet this internal stirring of my father’s ghost….

Still so many questions, and they heap one upon the other, packed down, compounding the agony of myriad voids.

One answer is some comfort. But the satisfaction is fleeting and temporal. One unknown laid to rest, and then another takes its place.

I’m contemplating creating a new site specifically for keeping record of my research into Dad’s past. Big Brother already suggested I move the bulk of my findings to the system website to keep Dad’s students abreast of whatever I may find. Many minds are better than a lonely, fledgling one. Besides–not everyone who would like to know what I’ve found necessarily cares to find themselves exposed to my personal messes; I don’t blame them at all.

Perhaps if I compartmentalize a bit, I may be able to focus my studies a little more. At times, I find myself entirely overwhelmed and lost, convincing myself I’ll never be able to organize all the facts into something comprehensible and meaningful, and then I begin to think I’m not cut out for the job, and then I begin to consider giving up. One-way ticket to failure.

As of late, I’ve felt morbidly ashamed of my gusto, just as I did in researching hula. I’m always afraid I may badger to death my kind resources, wear out my welcome, press and push until I’ve made a heel of myself to the very people I admire and revere.

Research, as with writing fiction, requires patience, pacing, thoroughness coupled with self-restraint.

It may be a long while before I hit another windfall of leads, but that may be a good thing. I’ve got to slow down and organize the information I’ve accumulated within the past week before I attempt to dig into anything else.

Ua kākau mau au i nā mea no’ono’o hūpō.  ‘A’ole hiki ia’u ke kākau i nā mea panepo’o, ‘a’ole noa.

Ua nīnau au i ko’u kāne, “Ke ‘olu’olu…hiki ke kali li’ili’i e lohe i ko’u mau mana’o?”

Ua kāpae ‘ōlelo o’ia.  I kēia manawa, pono ia’u e nānā i ko’u alelo, no ka mea, pēlā paha e maopopo ‘ole ana o’ia.  Nō laila, e wili ana ke ala.

Barnes & Noble has failed me again.

Sensei Kūnane picked up on my quest for facts, and at class today, he brought me an issue of Classical Fighting Arts magazine. This would be the publisher of the Okazaki interview I read last week, so no more ambiguity concerning the reliability of this particular resource.

He pointed out what appears to be an amazing article—Martial Arts Legends: Gichin Funakoshi, by Harry Cook, B. A.. It’s an excerpt from Cook’s book, Shotokan Karate: A Precise History (which–from what I understand–hasn’t been released yet).

Skimming over the first few paragraphs, I noticed bulleted highlights of Funakoshi’s life, many facts of which I’ve already read about in Funakoshi’s autobiography. But I stopped myself after the first two or three, because it almost felt like a spoiler. When I read about Funakoshi’s life, I want to absorb the material first from the man himself, and then read other writers’ interpretations of the same information. I’d like to be able to draw my own conclusions, rather than have my perspective influenced by someone else who has already put in their personal time and research.

So, even though I have the Cook article right here in front of me, I refuse to read it until I’m done with Karate-Dō.

The magazine is on loan from the dōjō, so I won’t keep it; I intend to make copies of the pertinent pages, since Barnes & Noble doesn’t have what I’m looking for. AGAIN.

Masters magazine is another great resource I discovered. I didn’t have time to browse very much, but one of the titles on the front cover mentioned Okazaki. I wish I could’ve taken home both magazines today, but I knew that was a bad idea. I figured I’d just buy it from the bookstore, but…B&N is playing hard to get.

—

I think it’s kinda hilarious that I find myself reading martial arts magazines on my own inspiration. Growing up, there were karate mags stuffed and rolled and crammed and stacked in every nook and cranny of the house. Probably every publication under the sun. A backdrop detail, like wallpaper or doilies or a collection of ceramic country geese.

When he died, I couldn’t give the magazines away, even though there were so many vintage issues containing several articles on Bruce Lee (you’d think some cult follower would want them, simply to have them). I wish I could’ve kept them. I wish I could’ve kept everything, but that would’ve added up to another garage-sized space we didn’t have.

—

Felt so great after class. Spent a lot of time perfecting shuto uke (knife-hand block). Trouble with the left side. Just can’t get the arc of execution smooth enough, haven’t figured out when the hand should begin to rotate, and always forget the placement of the guarding hand. I feel quite spastic when attempting it, over and over again, like my arm has a mind of its own.

I tried to think of the technique as a hula gesture, which seems to come much easier to me, since the movements have an essential flow and often a terminating point. I think that may have helped to envision it that way, but it’s still not right.

And feeling a little stronger today. Arms don’t feel so wobbly, seems like the thighs are getting used to the demands.

When I glimpse myself in the mirror in class, all I see is a white cotton bundle of awkwardness. I see no sharpness or beauty in execution at all. I know what I’m supposed to look like, but what I see doesn’t even come close.

I wish I could get an objective view of how I look. I remember recording myself performing our hula kahiko (“ancient” style hula dance). That was humiliating. I could see just how choppy and stiff I truly was. But after I got over the initial repulse of my mistakes, I was able to take notes and focus on exactly what it was I needed to change.

Maybe, when I gather some courage, I’ll record a session of techniques and perhaps the first kata. That ought to let me in on a whole lotta areas that need attention.

‘A’ole hiki ke poina i ka waiho’olu’u o ke kai kakahiaka, nā po’ohiwi o ka nalu ha’i, nā lima ma ke one.

Ua ki’eki’e ke kuahiwi, ua ho’oaka a’e ke kua i ka u’i, ua ka’awili ia i ke kuawa noe.

‘O ka makani ‘oni mai ke kai mai…ua hue i ke aho o ka ‘āina.

12:30 AM and still reconstructing the household. Guess that’s the price one pays for leaving the house under kid control all day. It was worth it.

I can see why Josie enjoys working at L’Auberge. Being the vacation fiend she is, it would be the perfect environment for her, second only to Disneyland. The boulevard leading from the main road to the casino is–how did I phrase it–”intimidating.” Glassy signage, manicured grounds, bleached pavement snaking through the acres and around a curve where the visage opens up to a sprawling resort. A gaping patio outside the front doors…wide pillars, valet parking, doormen (do people still use that word?) dressed to the nines….

Walking inside is like stepping into a lacquered mahogany forest. Lush wood, lush rugs, mirrors on all sides, tall ceilings, wide hallways. It’s beautiful.

However, the buffet was not “all that.” Virtually no seafood. No white gravy (why???). Highlight was the White Zinfandel (in lieu of a massage) and the yummy crab salad.
Josie and I ate leisurely, laughing, gasping, plotting, speculating. No rush at all.

Finally got a visual on Ryan Seacrest manager who sends Josie spinning every time he passes by. She gets absolutely giddy and reverts back to high school self-consciousness, face flushing a furious shade of coral. I know I’m not much help with the cheesy grin and knowing cutting-of-the-eyes, but I can’t help it. That’s what best friends do, heighten the static. I have toned down the playful prodding since high school; I don’t embarrass her anymore. Just try to provide impeccably timed opportunities for her to look even more demure and desirable in that subtle supporting role kinda way. Doesn’t take much for her to look demure and desirable.

The rest of the day was spent zipping around between the mall and various other clothing retailers, searching for Josie’s perfect pair of board shorts.

Was mildly miffed when the clerk at Gap asked, “Is that a real (insert classy handbag designer here)?”

Huh???

Not that it’s really all that important, because I’m not a bag hound, nor am I a brand snob. I didn’t buy the bag; classy cousin gave it to me when she cleaned out her closet, so in all probability, it is a genuine (insert classy handbag designer here).

But what if it wasn’t? What would I say? “Nah, it’s a cheap knock-off.” Geez.
In the end, success: Josie got her board shorts, and I got a kickin’ little cotton flare skirt, same cut as the linen one I made a few months ago. Perfect A-line, feminine and flow-y. Will go with just about anything. Can’t wait to wear it.

Starbuck’s made for the perfect ending to a perfect girly day. We never stopped talking, never stopped laughing. A glass of wine, retail therapy, and a fresh cup of java…primo decompression.

We’re determined to make this a regular thing, every other month. Sure beats a massage.

So much for “Guilt-Free.”  I wouldn’t take L’Auberge buffet for a “best-push-up-bra and strappy heels” kinda place, to hear about it, but Josie confirmed–it is.  I don’t own one skirt above the knee, and certainly no bust-plunging tops.  And even if I did, I wouldn’t wear that to lunch.  What does it matter anyway?  Why is everything so complicated?

And why am I even dealing with this?

—

Karate class was not easy tonight.  I think my stamina is improving a tiny bit, but there is still so much to be desired.  Had another light-headed episode, but thankfully, it didn’t set in until the very end of class.  This time, I did have to lie down on the bench in the dressing room to recover.

I felt so bad for Sensei Sweet (female instructor who has welcomed me with open arms from the very beginning).  I think I scared her.  She en