Regular posts on Wednesday and Sunday nights Hawaiian time.

Blog look revamp.

New content. New videos

Fiction, essays, poetry, music, photography.

I’ve decided that the best way for a procrastinator like me to get anything done is to use a daily planner to get shit done and studiously avoid reading things like message boards, blog comments and newsfeed aggregators. You can imagine the internet, if you will, as a giant river. You can either swim in it and get swept away, or stand on the banks pissing inward. While it doesn’t account for much, contributing in a meaningless way is better than drowning in a sea of information masturbation. Suffice to say, enough is enough. Everything I am proud of in my life came solely through discipline. It’s time to get started on something concrete and stop whiling away the hours.


I’ve kludged together a quickie solution to my dying computer that involves icepacks and a freezer to shorten time between crashes. That said, it’s still a temporary solution to a permanent problem. When this baby goes, so does my net access.

I have no money to get another computer, as my car is on it’s last legs and getting to work takes priority over having net access. I’m not as bothered by this as I would be in past times, in fact I’m fairly relishing it. I’ve dispensed with my television and DVD player, I have no MP3 player. Quite literally when this thing goes, the highest tech in my room will be my bargain basement cell phone.

Time enough to read, though writing will be a bitch.

On that note, I intend to increase my efforts at writing letters. Some of you have exchanged them with me before. If you wish to correspond with me in the old style, please e-mail me your snail mail address at pgomes at hawaii dot edu

See you all around, I suppose.

Went to the Greek Festival today. Ate, drank, and danced outside till my legs and lungs hurt (shouldn’t have bummed that cigarette, but alcohol without nicotine is impossible).

It was the most alive I’ve been since I’ve returned from Japan. Not a single thought of mine ever drifted from the pure sensory experience of it all, from the feta, kalamata, moussaka and baklava washed down with draughts of retsina, ouzo and Greek coffee to the sun burning my face, to clapping, shouting and dancing in time.

Later, when I returned home, I felt more like writing than I have in ages.

Then it hit me. What was it that I had done that made me so damnably joyful when but two days ago, I felt dead, both spiritually and creatively?

It wasn’t the wine or food, as I’ve enjoyed both since returning. It wasn’t just the music, since I’ve enjoyed that as well. Neither, in and of itself was able to damper the ennui, the ebbing of lifeforce within me.

No, it was the physicality of it all. The feeling of being out of doors and moving, of hunger and thirst being derived from my gut and mouth instead of specified feeding times on the clock.

Then it hit me, my favorite chore is yardwork, the more strenuous the better. Like hacking the climbing vines of the maile pilau from my grandmother’s hillside fence or digging out old banana tree stumps from my mother’s old place.

Yet since high school, I’ve been pegged and worked as an indoor type. A nerd, either of the computer or academic subspecies. Office jobs punctuated by graduate school. Working with “intellectuals” and always feeling like the odd person out because of my disdain for the pretensions and airs of the academic lifestyle (even as I love the books and sensation of learning and researching).

With teaching, I was able to move, to pace, gesture and vocalize energetically, between the mind-numbing lulls of sitting in the office and soul-killing paperwork. Perhaps if I had become a college professor I’d have been the type to teach outside on days of beautiful weather. Who knows. I digress.

What I realized today is that I’ve been running from what truly makes me happy my whole life, and forcing myself to live in a certain way (and always underperforming) because I have certain mental talents that it’s been deemed by society that I should use, and that what I enjoy is dirty bust-ass work fit only for idiots, immigrants and eccentric hobbyists.

Truth be told, I think I’d be happy right now with something that had me working hard outside all day long, preferably with plants.

And I should probably take up some sort of traditional dancing/music as a hobby. Most modern stuff leaves me pretty cold.

I guess what I’m saying is that at heart, I’ve been a blue-collar person in denial.

P.S. I realized that my problems have been exacerbated recently by the fact that I now own a car for the first time in over a decade. I think I really need to walk/bike as my primary mode of transport. I need exposure and don’t need the stress of driving. Too bad bike riding in this state is a death wish. No bike lanes, nonexistent shoulders, decaying roads and walkways and crappy drivers.

::Puts on that Eminem song::

Yeah, I’m back.

In Hawaii.

Got a new job, amazingly enough, now hunting for a place to live.

Got me some plans I’m gonna put into action on my free time. This time I’m gonna be posting more, and it ain’t no half-assed promise like all the other times.

It’s absofrickenlutely for sure, cause I kicked the blog habit (mostly).

Now, I got a question for those out there who might know the answer to this: What would you consider some writers to brush up on in order to get a feel of current state of the mystery genre, particularly in the short story to novella form? What would be the absolute must reads of the now moribund Western genre of fiction, again focusing on shorter forms (but novels are okay)?

Recently I’ve been thinking about Memoirs. Are they a worthy literary enterprise, or merely a form of narcissism?

I can fully admit that at most my life has been only mildly interesting with nothing of note occuring or being accomplished.

Yet right now when I lie in bed falling asleep, I’m organizing chapters in my head.

Part of the appeal is how abused the genre has become, the playground of fantabulists, pity-mongers, bullshit artists, attention whores, failed novelists and pathological liars. Something so disreputable appeals to me, and I want to remake it somehow, by doing the complete opposite, by excising the entire notion that a life must be a noteworthy, a struggle, or a search, that the utterly mundane and quotidian can be shaped into something compelling, that plots and themes can emerge from what is an aimless going about of one’s business.

I could just be full of shit, though, and just looking for an excuse to write something I don’t have to research out the wazoo for.

Still, there is something interesting about going about the whole affair backasswards, don’t you think?

Also, yeah, it’s kinda literary. Bite me, I don’t care. You know how hard it is to research Maori defensive fortifications while in Japan? You got wikipedia and some half-assed academic articles online.

So what do you think?

Didn’t get a contract renewal with the company I’m working for. Time to start looking for a new job. I ain’t going back to the states with the economy being what it is right now.

After tying up loose threads and commitments, I’m intending to deeply cut down on my participation and observation of much of the interactive sections of the Internet. This is due to a lack of intellectual and creative returns as well as it gets me jacked up for no good reason which leads to time-wasting pursuits.

Time to be more of a generator than observer.

As such, for the moment, I’m organizing a load of pictures and some videos. Bought time I did something. I started with a jaunt yesterday. It was quite fun, but I’d like to detail it with a few pics.