7. Vomit.

So here it is. I'm all patched up again; the duct tape is set in place and the holes all patched up.

I'm strapped up straight in my battle armor- tight turtlenecks, gray slacks, and the blackest pair of bitch-kickers you-ever-did-see. I lie to people and get paid for it, convince them I provide salvation, yet provide nothing. Straight out of the Catholic Church Playbook; they should allow women to be priests. (And I wouldn't even touch the altar boys; I swear.) I am the company's top performer- bringing in six figures for this old company and running figure eights around my older company. I feel no pride and I feel no guilt; just dial in the numbers and repeat my award-winning formula. Feel the too-cold air conditioning, feel the pats on my head. Feel that there is no feeling. Ignore that there is no feeling. Run away from the fact that there is no feeling. No feeling, no feeling, no feeling.

And I am a slate. Write your business plan on me. Erase it and write your lesson plan. Erase it and leave me blank; I just wait until someone brands me again. I pay to be filled up with assets, liabilities, society, Mesopotamian creation stories. $650 from my bank for my marks, A B C D FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF in dry erase marker. I think critically on and on and on and and use every dollar of critical thought until I can't handle myself. Throw away the white board cleaning spray, thrown away my tuition change (hah.) and open the jar at the last moment-shake the piggy bank and shatter it on the ground. Show the teacher what a pretty pattern the pennies make on the sidewalk and prey that after some critical thought, they give me an A.

And all the while, I dream. My hands dream as they take down a customer's address.......................................2280 Kuhio Avenue, APT 1080............their phone number on my tongue..............808.459.22222222222222222222zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.............discuss how family has socialized you..........................letting go, wrapping my hand around the rock and pushing off into the sky behind everyone else..............due date a week from today.................and the sand is so endless.............

And it only gets quiet when he's near.
And I don't know which I'd rather more.
But I know I wouldn't be able to handle less.
So I'm just a vessel-
fill me up till I'm full.

6. Jump.

Image by Ron Erickson

So let's talk fear, people. Let's talk about how afraid we all are. Because that's what we are- terrified.

We are terrified out of our minds. We build monuments to our fears- white-picket fences, locks and bolts on our doors, security systems that keep strangers out of our houses and our families trapped within. We have our fade-resistant clothes detergents, instructional fashion magazines and actual classes on etiquette to teach us how to deal with people; how to look like a normal person. We have our interior decorators and our flower beds to stay on par with the Johnsons' interior decorator and flower beds. God forbid the Johnsons get ahead of us- if we're not at least as good as they are, then we're nothing! Just like the kids who don't go to college;the people who don't pay taxes to an barely effective government-you're nothing at all. We're nothing at all.

And that is the problem, folks. When did we become so afraid of being weird? Better yet, who was the one who decided that Mrs. Johnson's petunias were a mark of who she was as a person? A mark of how we, her neighbors without perfect petunias, are as a people? How did a piece of paper with the word 'Degree' on determine the futures of millions? Whose call was it to make young adults pay $40,000 a year to learn critical thinking skills? Because we young adults have been thinking about it pretty critically and have come to the brilliant conclusion that $40,000 is wrong.

Yes, the law says we have to pay taxes. You will be taken away in a car with screaming red-and-blue sirens if you don't. But who decided that? Who said we get to take the money you busted your ass for and funnel it into pork barrel legislation because we're the government? When did we allow ourselves to be sheep for the slaughter?

So is it fear-mongering that's got us so terrified? Is it the scowling politicians and economists on the television, muttering and raving about the worst economic downturn of our generation? Our so-called War on Terror? Is it the skinny models in the commercial ads that remind us you are not good enough to be on this television? Is it the parents shouting at you, tears in their tired eyes, what are you going to do than?

No. It's that we allowed some one else to define success. We let some corporate hot-shot's silver spoon blind us. You're nothing if you don't have the perfect chair, the perfect house, the perfect degree, the perfect children. You're nothing without your corner-office-with-a-view and your plastic-covered furniture. You're nothing if you work a job you hate toward a goal you don't care about with no plan for the future.

I say we throw it all out. I say we start over, guys.

Who needs the future? All it is a day-dream of tomorrow. It's nothing better than fantasy; a fancy- just another way to distance ourselves from the reality of today. Don't work hard for the future, for those kids or that house that you don't have yet. Work hard for you. Fight and bust your hull everyday for what makes you truly happy because no one else will - no one else will save you from our perpetual fall into incorporated unhappiness (despite its many health benefits).

I say keep college as cheap as you can- the name recognition of a big school may be a boost, but its your work ethic and personality that keeps a job. Focus on bettering yourself instead of your resume!

I say buy furniture on discount and move it into your house by yourself. No moving services. Mow the lawn yourself and finger paint your wall-hangings- the grass may be uneven and the paintings uncomplimentary to your walls, but their yours yours yours. Turn off the television and turn up the music. I say forget your love handles and eat a doughnut!

And it I know it's hard, because we were born afraid. We were born into a bright world with people clad in sea foam green yelling "its a girl!", "its a boy!". Yelling "she will need to be taught to be afraid of strange men and spiders!" Yelling "he will need to be taught to be afraid of crying and stray dogs!" The body that was your home for nine months is staring at you with a weary joy, the realization of her triumph prompting an internal promise. Thinking my child will be better than I am. I will do whatever it takes to make my child better than I am.

Well, I'm yelling now. I'm yelling and screaming because I don't want it. I don't want the better. Or perfect. Or new. I don't want the fence, the dog, the crew-cut grass. And damn it, I don't want to be afraid anymore.

5. Home(bound)

If you had asked me what was my main wish in high school, I would have sent you to listen to Augustana's "Boston". I would have shown you pictures of Greece and Rome and Turkey. I would have said "to get the hell out."

And I did. I got out, I lived, and I crashed. My year in Hawaii was the most beautiful disaster I'm sure I'll ever expierence. A secluded rock outcropping on the tip of North Shore saw the best moment of my life and a bathroom shower in an apartment building in Waikiki prompted my worst. It was the kind of artful life I'd always hoped for, that I strove to reach.

And it didn't work out. It changed me in ways that, so I'm told, are undesirable. I can feel it in my chest- the laziness, the bitterness, the doubt. The stifled voice that used to ring out so clearly in my head-gone. I'm not the same girl. I'm not as good as the girl.

Still, I'm glad that girl is gone. If she hadn't been, I wouldn't be able to discover the poetry that was around me the whole time I was here and didn't see until I had finally left.


My goal is to be stable but still new. I'm taking classes at a community college so that I can still have the opportunities I had before. I'm choosing a stable major in which I know I can excel and make my family proud. There's nothing wrong with keeping all my options open. I'm working full-time to reaffirm my ability to remain committed and responsible to a project longer than a month. I still pay for my bills and hold my tongue in my parents home.

But I am working towards a college in the city. I'm in writers and art journaling groups- venues that are moving me towards sending out my art and manuscripts. These organizations are helping me to find that voice in my head again- the egotistical quips that used to flow so easily are starting trickle back into my body. The confidence tingles in my toes sometimes. It's only for a few seconds, and afterwards, I still have to turn on the t.v. to hear the voices that distract me from loneliness. Most the town doesn't understand the changes, maybe doesn't even see them, but it's okay. I read a quote that said courage isn't always a roar- sometimes its leaving quietly at the end of the day, vowing to try all over again tomorrow.

Well, I guess this is the "tomorrow". And here I am, trying. I'm still reaching for the poetry, the art, the flight. This isn't the place I thought I'd find it, but better that it exists somewhere rather than nowhere at all.

4. Inner Compass

There’s something utterly nerve-racking about getting to know the sea.

It is beauty in the most primal form: ultra blue water that teems with life, virgin white foam that has carried people for centuries to new continents, dreams, hopes, and way of life. Dawn dances rosily upon the crest of each wave and twilight stares longingly upon its own reflection in its depths. Its tides cannot be contained, its maelstrom temper never soothed. Lakes and streams can be damned, mountains drilled and gutted, soil tilled and pasteurized, but the sea… the sea is immobile. It has seen the beginning of time and so it shall see the end of it.

The first time I really saw the sea, I couldn’t breathe. Sure, I had seen it before: I’m a block away from it; I flew over it for six hours to get here. But there’s a difference of perception for the local, the tourist, and, like me, the in-betweener. To a tourist, the ocean is tranquil, quaint, a great background for a meal and a trip. It is missing from their lives and they revel in its freedom. For the local, it is a home, an identity, a physical barrier that stands alongside their ‘islanders only’ mentality. It represents the start and end of cultures: native Hawaiians came by boat and were destroyed by those who advanced the same way.

And the in-betweeners…well, we’re in-between.

My friend sent me a snippet of Esta Spalding’s “Lost August” and she nailed us in-betweeners right on the head.

“The sea is a wound
And in loving it
She learned to love
What goes missing”.

The in-betweeners came here to escape the trap of mainland life: they still have the appreciation of the tourist, But it also represents the start and end of a life: the endless endurance of the native. We embrace the exclusive identity of the island while bitterly missing the life beyond that beautiful ocean.

The sea is our hopeful wound, our gaping possibility. And like any in-betweeners that truly meets the sea for the first time, with my lower body in the water and my upper body mimicking the horizon, I cried.

But now I’m waxing poetic, and that is never good.

3. Duality

There’s something very tricky about college that most high school seniors don’t anticipate at those graduation parties and banquets. Sure, we knew that dorm food would probably be awful, that parties were going to be crazy, and that parents would emote on move-in day x10. Symbolically, we knew we’d get independence: the freedom to stay up and out all night without repercussion, the ability to skip class without permission, and to dress as scantily as we pleased. We would be able to conduct ourselves however we wanted, whenever we wanted, with whomever and whatever we wanted.

And so, graduation is a celebration of gain.

What we didn’t anticipate is loss. And for the college freshman, the collateral damage on a sense of self can be very high. The parties, the people, the freedom: its intoxicating and seductive in way that only absolute control of one's destiny can be. Unfortunately, the freedom to do anything also yields the freedom to be anything, and therein lies the problem.

Now, before I start sounding like an after school special, warning about how drinking underage can lose you your dream job, your future wife, your perfect parking spot, and claim to a happy life (please excuse my youthful condescension on how substance use is treated in the media), I want to make a point. These experiences are necessary. You have to see the extremes before you see the middle; you have go overboard in order to learn how to swim. Or else you drown in the ignorant, stagnant water that is an unchanged perspective.

I tend to air more with the camp who see change as a necessary factor for personal growth. However, it should be taken into account that I can't speak for every person my age. We're all different, so I guess I can only speak for myself.

But I do know that everyone has that one moment where your life is turned upside down. Where everything is awful and wrong and its all that you can do to keep your insides from bursting and melting all over your history homework. The moment where you stumble into the world you've been tip-toeing around for years; that ever-elusive "adult-ness" that involves mortgages, tax forms, and ultimately, the rest of your life. There is no guarantee to where you're heading: your very structured formative years have been overturned and you're faced with the vastness of destiny.

How could I know this? Easy… I asked.

When at coloring pictures at a friend's apartment, he mentioned he was feeling lost. He was so fed up with feeling that he went for a four hour walk through the streets of Honolulu and while he found nothing new, he still felt better. He couldn't explain much very well, but he had seen a group of people that were having coffee and arguing about whether Clinton or Obama was the better Democratic candidate. And he realized that he wasn't ready for that sort of responsibility; that he wasn't ready for any responsibility.

So his solution for this feeling?

Coloring.

And so I leave you with our night.

2. 96815 vs. 60564: The Art of Comparison

After leading a rather mundane Midwestern life, I decided as a senior in high school that Hawaii was where my first and most important adventure needed to happen. I remember getting the flier from Hawaii Pacific University just thinking this is it.

If I'm really honest with myself, Hawaii is it and more. It’s an island of broken history and modern ingenuity ; of gorgeous high-end tourist traps and poverty stricken valleys. It's a melting pot in the purest sense of the word: the culture-rich Chinatown is nestled comfortably next to the bustling business of the downtown Honolulu area.

There are often days where most of my friends are working or already have plans. These hard times are also the days where everything productive I could have done to fill my friendless hours ( i.e. homework, laundry, wallowing in self-pity and remorse) have already been finished. (These proactive measures are not so unusual: I like to have time to go out, so I do my homework early. Only to sit around. By myself. Doing nothing.)

I'm not bitter. I swear.

Comparison is an art: the difference between a good and bad decision is usually determined by the "eye of the beholder". Sure, there are the obvious.

Smoking ? Bad.
Studying? Good.
Desert before dinner? Bad.
Saving a baby from a burning building? Good.
Bush? Bad.
Obama? Worse.

But really, comparison is an imperfect science. In fact, it’s the farthest thing from science. Comparisons are made by a combination of (imperfect) observations, personal experience, current mood, and whether or not there is an outside stimuli that may sway your opinion. ( Take my friend Jamie: she had a boyfriend. She met a new guy. He was rich. Jamie dumped her boyfriend. Rich boy took interest in Jamie. Jamie has a new necklace. Yay.)

Today I was supposed to head to Hanauma Bay with friends. Said friends completely bailed. Evelyn was left alone.

And this is where my comparison begins. In Illinois, Evelyn would have picked up a game controller and immersed herself into another lifestyle, fraught with danger. She might have taken up a shift at work if she needed the money. She could have started (and finished) a book. Hell, she'd probably go to the computer and write something like this.

In others words, her day would have sucked.

However, Evelyn lives in Hawaii now. So she walked around, searching for adventure, and came upon tropical garden cradled by the cozy (cue eyerolling) Waikiki. It's a small patch of land filled with hibiscus and mahjong enthusiasts. The garden is a part of a series, donated to the people of Hawaii from their last royal, Queen Kapiolani.

Once I found the place, the songs on my Ipod took a happier turn. Think Sara Bareilles, Colby Callet, and, of course, the Beatles. I also got a bit camera happy, so enjoy!

The view from a branch in the pagoda.

A hibiscus. They're everywhere.

Me!

If only I were a bee...

Mahjong players. I put my three bucks on the guy in the Nike jacket. He didn't win, so I had to walk home instead of taking the Bus.



A path of flowers- a ground shot.



The end of my journey found me at a graffitied bus stop, tired and annoyed that people would write all over a public bench...until I found this.

You'd never see this on a Chicago bench. I can guarantee that.

1. The Point: Retracing My Steps

1. The Point: Retracing My Steps

My name is Evelyn Thompson and I am not an artist. I cannot draw or paint. I'd probably whack off my thumb if you handed me a caliper and you should hit the deck if I'm within five feet of a box cutter. I was a decent singer until I choose to keep my voice confined to my very narrow shower walls and inspiration for the written word comes too erratically to call myself a writer. My photography skills are limited …and the ability to identify the location of a camera in which I commit my woefully poor attempts at the medium is almost non-existent.

For a long time, I still considered myself an awesome creator, despite my obvious lack of skill in any of these departments. I've been writing fan fiction for videogames for years, a few poems have been published in the free-for-all anthologies that are sent to twelve year olds through email, and my school literary magazine published a piece of mine about my Grandpa dying.


(The truth is that I never finish any multi-chapter fanfic I start, my poems are the first lines of other poems I read in order to appear ambiguous and deep, and my (favorite!) Grandpa is very much so alive and well.)

My (very brief) story is that of a girl who hadn't realized what a self-centered lifestyle she led until she was dropped in paradise, surrounded by people who were not intimidated and in love with the idea of her. She realized there were people, places, and things that were more interesting than the things she was, saw, and thought. She had to work hard to remain (as) humble (as she could) in the face of such things; she had to strive to earn the right to picture and talk about such things.

And even though I know I probably still have not earned the full right to say what life is about according to myself and others, I still like to think that what I have to say is valid.

Try as I might, I can't change. I still think that I'm awesome and that the majority of people I meet should be dazzled. I know I'm not super skinny, I'm not super smart, and I'm not super heroic, but I am super observant and I will put that skill to use.

So this blog will serve as the microcosm for how I came about to this discovery. Let's starts from the sand up, yeah?