A Terrible Rain

Just as I was dealing with the most trivial amount of rain on Sunday, poor old Kauai was about to deal with another rageful hurricane. Today, as I ate my lunch of Spam musubi in silence on the steps of the lecture hall, waiting for my literature class to start, I thought of the island.

In a moment of pure imagination, with no real basis on what violent rainfall and winds would look like on my favorite parts of the island, I pictured the little buildings and elements of nature that make up my mental diorama of Kauai struggling to withstand the storm. Only roughly a month ago, I was running down the windy roads towards Kalapakī Beach, or hiking on the rocks of Shipwreck Beach alongside a luxurious golf course, or, most vividly yet, laying on the shore of Poipu with a novel and pineapple juice embellished in the coconut of my sunscreen. These were, in recent memory, the closest feelings to paradise that I could get. 

Taking small bites, I was reminded of my glorious walk alongside Old Koloa as the residents prepared for the annual parade. As I walked with a musubi in my right hand, I passed the familiar buildings of Koloa, which in turned inspired me to write more about it in this blog. My heart ached when I imagined them with an ominous gloom overhead, flooded in a mess of murky water and trashed objects. When I looked at images taken after the disaster, I was surprised, but also not surprised, that my mental image was fundamentally the same. 

There wasn't anything they could do. The poems we are studying in literature are from the Romantic period, and looking at nature through a lens of sublimity, I find it easy to accept that we are at the mercy of nature. The only thing that can be done is to continue to move forward. My heart went out to my family and all the other residents on Kauai in hopes to speed the restoration of daily life. I know that eventually the island will slowly begin to return back to the way it was. Unfortunately, like with most disasters, the place will never really be the same afterwards. There are still scars left on the islands as reminders of Iniki, and I know that despite the fact that this hurricane was not as devastating, there will be some. 

So I finished the last bites of my musubi, knowing that the only thing I could hope for was that everything would be okay.

A Tepid Rain

 It's early September, but today--and only today--it is raining profusely. There is something about this blog that I associate with rainy days. Among the sound of the drops hitting the roof and the neutral gloom of cumulous clouds, I love the little rainy weather icon on my macOS menu bar in the top right. Looking back through my blog, I posted a lot about rain during March of last year, when according to said blog it was raining frequently. Hitherto, this year has not been the same. 

Regarding literature, rain is one of the best atmospheric symbols/metaphors for a scene. It can be used to convey several interesting emotions, and in conjunction with other literary elements, layers of vastly unique interpretations. One of my favorite scenes in Lolita, both in the novel and the movie, occurs when Humbert and Lo have a heated argument after he finds out she has been skipping her piano lessons to practice the play with Mona. The simple idea of the Beardsley house (Oh my god, the rain is really picking up now) lit only by the lazy light of the windows, the rain suddenly intensifying as Humbert calls Mona and confirms Lo's admission of guilt is an excellent tool not only to immerse readers into the setting but also as a symbol for the tension between the two and the deterioration of their relationship (which already started in the beginning of Part 2). You can imagine rain intensifying as Humbert's anger rises when ending the call, exclusive from his narration saying "How mad I was!". 

There's so many other examples (mirroring other emotions) in literature and film that where rain functions as a major symbolic device that's pretty hard to overlook. 

In real life, however, rain is merely a natural pattern of weather. 

The Terminal Radio

Because I've been messing around with Linux for the past few days, I decided the next best thing was to get FM radio in the terminal. Most radio stations now have streaming URLS that you can use to play a specific station inside of your own media player, so after poking around the internet looking for URLS for the stations I wanted, I made the choice of which media player I'd use to get it to work.

I went with mpv. It has a simple terminal interface that I'd already configured with my own keybinds. 

To start the radio, I typed:

mpv "stream_url" 

into the prompt.

Just like that, the radio station begins to play. 

According to my brief googling, streaming the radio via the internet (which allows you to listen to any station no matter where you are, obviously) is slightly different from listening to it with an actual FM radio. For instance, I noticed that during commercial breaks the stream played what I entitled "filler songs" that do not appear on the official station website's song history. They do, however, play when you listen on the official website. 

In order to conduct a proper comparison, I turned to the only real FM radio I knew I had access to: the car! Yes, it's common knowledge that pretty much all cars have a built in FM radio, so I took my Linux laptop to the car to listen to the same station at the same time. Sure enough, during the "filler songs" gaps (which can last quite a while), the car played advertisements instead. Konichiwhaaaa? To say the least, this was the first time I discovered this. Essentially, if you're in the car listening to the over-the-air station, you are missing out on several songs (that internet users hear) while commercials play. Even worse, because I was listening the same station for so long, I was able to listen to several of these filler song breaks, and it seems the songs they choose are vastly more varied and interesting than the ones on the regular program. 

The stream URLS are not immune to commercials, however. After a listening for a while without quitting or reloading mpv, the URL will start to inject commercials into the stream during the filler song breaks. In the terminal, I could see that these commercials were denoted by "adContext=abunchofrandomnumbers"". But, if you quit and reopen mpv during these ad breaks, the filler song returns (just like it would play on the website). 

Usually, when the radio host says the name of the next song, it indicates that the normal, real songs (that would be recorded in the song history) were about to return. I believe the official website omits any audio-commercials because the website is already riddled with visual ads all over the screen. On my particularly slow laptop, these consume an irritating amount of memory. Many times my computer has crashed because I opened the tab and poor little Linux did not have enough memory. Indeed, even on a lightweight distribution and using LXQt, one unassuming tab can overload the memory, just like it used to in ChromeOS. 

That was predictable. I am forever bounded at 4GB of RAM, no matter what OS I use. Thus I have to be careful when using my browser (and severely limit what I have open. YouTube notoriously devours memory, so when that tab is open, all others are at the mercy of it). 

This is where the terminal radio comes in clutch. There's something so charming about seeing the little "icy-title" and "pipewire" pop up in the terminal after running mpv, just like how a car might pull the ID3 tags on its shitty little player. Linux! It's a gorgeous day to be back.

We're back.

 We are SO BACK!

Don't worry, I already have my knee socks on.

I feel like I lost a part of me when, out of nowhere, my Arch Linux OS that was installed on an old POS computer nuked itself overnight and completely erased everything. I think it was because I let the laptop fully die, but to this day I don't know exactly why the OS just disappeared. For the months following this, I didn't use the computer nor any form of Linux--largely because I was distracted by a shining new Mac mini.

But I never forgot. I still remembered how frustrating (yet rewarding) it was to install Arch Linux from scratch, in the middle of the night on a weekday. I remembered how surreal it felt to be finally greeted by Konqi on a bright screen saying "Welcome to KDE Plasma!" after many, many attempts. And, I remembered how much fun I had experimenting with Hyprland and making a YouTube video on it.

All I wanted now was to get this OS back, so yesterday I randomly decided that it was time. After all, it has only made me rage about 3 times (that I can actually remember). I installed it rather unfaithfully with archinstall, but I figured I had nothing to prove. It worked, and now I'm back for good, with (I think) no chance of it nuking itself.

I had to choose a lighter desktop environment, because despite how much I wanted to convince myself that this computer could still realistically handle KDE Plasma, I knew it simply could not. For the few hours I did have KDE, the computer was quite slow and crashed frequently. Luckily, Lxqt is still a pretty solid DE despite not being as flashy and aesthetically pleasing as KDE (and, in my case, the experience I remember the most from last year).

Although it took around two hours today to configure my cursor and more hours annoyingly configuring ALL of the settings and tweaks that I honestly don't remember doing on my first install, I wouldn't trade Linux for anything.

A Tropical Refresher

I am astutely aware that I've neglected this blog for quite some time now. You see, it's quite difficult to brainstorm what to write, and coupled with the fact that this site has no true focus or specificity, I find it takes more energy to merely start than to actually compose. But obviously, I have started again. My soul yearned to put down the narrative pieces of my day, and I fear there is no better place to do so than here, where I essentially have no parameters to what I post—for better or for worse.

A few days ago, I was invited by a relative to join them at a water park a few cities away. At first, I politely yet adamantly declined. Water parks aren't necessarily how I envisioned spending the last part of my summer, and less was I intrigued after coming back from such a dreamy time in Kauai. Although I declined, I was greeted by a text message later that evening saying that they had already bought the ticket. Now practically forced to say yes, I convinced myself that it might be an interesting way to spend the day.

Once we were on the road, my relative informed the that a friend of my younger cousin was to meet us there. It was apparently supposed to be a surprise, but I'm sure both of them knew each other was coming.

I hadn't known. I thought that, upon hearing this, I'd be awkwardly jostled between a "surprise" playdate with two people I hardly knew, but I can say now that this wasn't true. Everything was fine. Besides, I'm comfortable being alone anyway. 

They arrived shortly after us. It was she, her mother, and her younger sister. Immediately they wanted to merge into the lazy river, so without even having a say I joined them (my three cousins, plus the friend and her sister). The water was so shallow that I waded through the entire course like I was walking on a track. Maybe it was in my head, but the water—although technically blue—looked slightly murky. There was something so soothing about the repeated swishing of the water each time I dragged my legs. The slow-paced wade moved my mind out of the water park and into the picturesque sands of Polihale, moving closer and closer to the honey-hued sky of approaching dusk. A violent splash of cold water on my back by a stranger child took me out of my trance, right back under the dry sun and into the chlorinated enclosure.

The friend exchanged little words with me, and once we exited the river, the two went off to ride the taller slides. They invited me to come with them, but it was a hard pass; I hate the feeling of roller coasters.

It was then that I was completely on my own, left to wander aimlessly through the park. Strange. I glanced at so many people in a fascinating middle space between attractions or pools, where they walked in anticipation for the next hit of adrenaline, the high from their previous activity still lingering on their faces. They walked in a line, laughing and talking with pink-tinged cheeks as their faces slowly became morphed into one semi-consistent set of people. Don't be mistaken. I did not adapt a "main character" mindset where everyone around me was merely a non-playable character (to put it into my generation's terms). I was actually unconventionally interested in nearly everyone's business. I wanted to know what they spoke about, if they lived near, and who they were. Despite my curiosity, however, the image of the countless faces did little to reduce my growing feeling of isolation. So I did what any person would naturally do when they have nothing to occupy the empty parts of their mind—I continued observing. This special astuteness came to me in Kauai when, drifting between the crowds of people, I suddenly realized how interesting they might be (as I did that day). It's a shame that I'd never know. I kept going, hearing a mother tell her child to stay put somewhere on a bench; where was she headed? Then I passed by the Icee stand where several groups stood in line, and it reminded me of the time when I was in line for a burger shop with a brutal sunburn. There was little to look at in my setting; the sun was high, there were no clouds, and to my dismay there was an off-putting brownish tint to the sky. All the walking—and not really getting on any attractions—was making me tired, so eventually I retreated to our spot to sit and think.

I hardly got a few minutes to sit when, out of nowhere, the entire group came back to the seats. The two girls look liked they were enjoying themselves, but they said they had only been able to ride one slide. The line was that long? My relative asked where I'd been. I told them I was in the lazy river (I took another trip there in the midst of my wandering to float away like a lazy, thoughtful bum). Great, great.

We all agreed that we were hungry, so we headed toward the only "restaurant" in the park. Boy, was it expensive. As I was collecting condiments and napkins, the friend decided to exchange more dialogue with me.

"So, you're going to college?"

I nodded slowly.

"You drive?"

Nodded slowly.

"What car do you drive?"

"Honda," I muttered.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

No.

Obviously not. "Oh" was the only thing she said, and with that, the conversation was over.

We ate at our spot in the heat, but I was too hungry to even think anymore. The girls complained that they couldn't get their drink because there was too many bees flying around. I went to see for myself, and they weren't lying: the bees swarmed the fountain like madmen, desperate for the smallest drop of soda. That made sense.

Once we finished eating, the girls wanted to go on more slides, so I left the group again to do my own thing. I found myself in a line for a significantly smaller slide. Despite this embarrassing choice, the view from above was incredible. I could see all the tiny figures crawling across the paths of the park, and looking out past the grounds were the freeways and streets that fed into this surprisingly isolated spot. I leaned against the warm, sun-baked railing, admiring the view and the quiet, when finally I was standing just in front of the green slide. It was my turn! My heart fluttered in childish excitement. Of course teenagers can still enjoy water slides. Down I went, settling into the shock of the cold water, down, down. Inside the slide is perhaps the only time you truly get to yourself with almost no noise besides the sound of rushing water. In an unexpected way, the slide was how I was meant to enjoy my last days of summer.

Upon reaching the bottom, all of the clammer returned, and I was taken out of my short moment of peace. I continued to ride the smaller slides, ironically reveling the lines more than the slide itself. I picked up on a few interesting conversations between stranger families and friends, but unfortunately I cannot remember what was said verbatim to jot them down. 

Towards the end of the day, I went to the wave pool with my cousin and her friend as the last thing to do. The disc jockey was long gone by this point, so the only noises that filled the air were the sounds of everyone's chatter, the sloshing of the water, and the occasional buzzer that signaled the start of the waves. The waves rocked me up and down in an extremely rhythmic and predictable pattern, each with a mechanically equivalent force and height. In other words, it was nothing like the real ocean. I remained stolid in the pool, even as everyone else seemed overwhelming amused by them. I missed the pristine waters of Poipu, gardens of green, symbols of my passion. 

After it was all over, all over, I was instantly and totally longing to go back already. 

The Town

Koloa was—is—a very cute little town. It's obvious that many other people around the States agree, for it is quite crowded during the summertime. I believe I've been there many times when I was young, but even with what hazy memories I have left, I know it didn't used to be so crowded. But nevermind this. No matter how many people are there, Koloa's charm is much the same—if not better. It's laid out in a line, with one margin having virtually nothing but trees and grass space, and the other side having some of the buildings raised on stilts. Along the Poʻipū road side is the famous fish market, and heading North towards Koloa road is where I think it begins to look like that the very cute old town. Unsurprising! A popular little town with so much history, in the southern side of the garden isle that's relatively close to Best Beach, it's no wonder I now think of it as an alternate snapshot of those dreamy towns in Lolita.  Except for the fact that it obviously isn't on the mainland, Koloa is as distortedly reflective to Kasbeam or Elphinstone as my new experiences and readings will allow it to be. That is, a lot.

Summer Saturday and Sunday

Saturday morning runs are the absolute best. Once I turn off the side street, the neighborhood seems to come alive again. Children are playing at the nearby park or riding their bikes, and couples are walking their dogs with a coffee in hand. As I zip by the houses, a sudden, strong smell of pancakes and fried bacon lingers for a few moments. It always catches me off guard (in a good way), and I like that I don't know what house it comes from. That alone makes it worth it, especially since I never get these smells on any other day of the week.

Then Sunday comes around. And it really, really reminds me of this poem by Louis MacNeice.

Sunday Morning

Down the road someone is practising scales, 
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails, 
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car 
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar; 
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now, 

And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow, 
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast 
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past, 
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time 
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme. 

But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire 
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire 
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures 
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.

Seriously, these Saturday and Sunday mornings won't last forever. If the following Monday isn't already dreadful enough, then surely the passage of time to our deaths is! 

I love the line: "Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,". Sure, we can do these great things to achieve something down the road, but what I think is more important is to enjoy the present and live in the moment. I could run intensely to train for a marathon, but I'm gonna continue to enjoy my morning runs.

Then comes the line: "A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme." Just like a sonnet, the Sunday morning feels perfect and whole and like it could last forever, away from our life... Cue the song "Perfect Day" from Legally Blonde. Saturday and Sundays really do feel like this song sometimes. I've talked about the freshness of Saturday mornings with coffee in my In-N-Out mug writing in this blog. 

But then..

"how there is no music or movement which secures / Escape from the weekday time."

Oh god. No amount of morning runs, coffee, sleeping in, pancake breakfasts, reading in the sun, sitting in the grass at the park, or ANY other pleasant activity in which we live in the moment can save us from the 

"weekday time". That is, Monday and its depressing routine. Or wait. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and ALL of the shit we do during those days. Work, school, chores, meetings, and other mandatory things that are ultimately aging us and leading us until the day we die.

Then the final line: "Which deadens and endure". 

Time is slowly killing us, but will last forever and do the same to the next generation of lives way after we've died.

While this poem may sound grim, it's not entirely saying bad things. Basically, we can enjoy the Saturday and Sunday mornings. Living in the moment and enjoying life's pleasantries is good for our soul. The "Perfect Day" does exist, but it is not forever.... Cue the poem by Robert Frost: "Nothing Gold Can Stay". Just kidding. 

But really. We should actually live in the moment while we can. 

Grab a coffee, grab a book, and let's escape reality for a bit in the sun. Monday's a whole 24 hours away.