This week’s coordinated content theme is “sanctuary.” The story that I’m working on will be posted shortly, and it’s about a car. Initially, however, I had wanted to do something involving Pu’uhonua o Honaunau, a site on the Kona side of the island of Hawai’i that I have visited several times and find myself continually fascinated with.
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| Photograph of the heiau at Pu’uhonua o Honaunau National Park. Summer 2002. |
Up until the dissolution of the Hawai’ian religious and social order by Liholiho in the early 19th century, the Pu’uhonua o Honaunau, a sacred site containing the Hale O Keawe heiau, a Hawai’ian temple. The heiau contained the remains of past ali’i, chiefs, and their spiritual energy provided the Pu’uhonua with its special protections. This site provided a place of refuge and absolution for defeated warriors and noncombatants in battle, as well as those who had broken a kapu, an offense otherwise punishable by death.
Today, the site and its surrounding area are part of Pu’uhonua o Honaunau National Park. The sand that was once kapu to all but Hawai’ian royalty is now walked by tourists. Over a century after its destruction, the heiau was reconstructed along with other buildings in the style of ancient Hawai’i. It’s a beautiful and curious place.
Four walls of tinted glass separate me from the rest of the world. From my leather throne, I can survey the world in all its dingy moral ruin. I can see the eyes of those who would scorn me, would persecute me. Though they may peer in, they may not recognize me, for here in my sanctuary of steel and iron, I am protected and appear to their wretched eyes only a dark shadow.
My hands rest on the wheel. Its mana infuses me with strength, energy, and peace. I look in the rear-view mirror. The eyes that return my steely stare are the only eyes that have ever seen my true self, for this is the only place I truly exist.
“Traffic school’s every Wednesday and Friday at seven at City Hall,” the police officer standing outside my window tells me. He returns to me my license and my registration, and with them is the citation I have received for the speed at which I live my life.
“Thank you, officer,” I tell him and receive these pieces of paper into my sanctuary. As the police officer returns to his vehicle, my left hand rolls up the window and my right turns the volume knob on my car stereo.
You got me shakin’, got me runnin’ away
You get me crawlin’ up to you everyday
With a satisfyingly plush noise, the window’s frame receives the glass and restores the division between myself and my seven billion antagonists.
Don’t bring me down
No no no no no
I turn the key in the ignition and I drive. When I arrive at my destination, I will be forced to leave my safe haven. When I return to that cesspit I call an apartment tonight, restlessly trying to sleep, this comfortable space will sit empty and cold beneath my floor.
I’ll tell you once more, before I get off the floor
Don’t bring me down.
And within sixty days, I will attend two hours of goddamned traffic school with twenty strange and filthy zombies. But now, in this moment, the road moves swiftly under my feet; now I drive; now I am secure.
Don’t bring me down–grroosss!
Don’t bring me down–grroosss!
Don’t bring me down–grroosss!
The world may even be able to stop my sanctuary, but so long as I am within it, I soar.
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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week’s theme: ‘Sanctuary’.
Becky’s shift started at nine o’clock. She shared an office with Janice, whose shift started an hour later. Becky would be well engaged in her work–typing memos, emailing reports, reviewing spreadsheets–by the time Janice would drop her mighty purse on her desk, noisily swing the door to hang up her jacket, and make a loud, tired pronouncement about whatever day of the week it was. These pronouncements would echo in everything Janice would say to her officemate or passersby for the first and last two hours of her shift, when she seemingly had an acute awareness of the day of the week. Becky liked to keep communication with Janice to a minimum and dreaded her ten o’clock arrival.
Recently, Janice had taken to complaining about her “case of the Mondays,” a term she happily and unironically confessed to lifting from Office Space. This “case of the Mondays” apparently had infected the neighboring Tuesday. Thursday was the interminable countdown to Friday and Friday was the interminable countdown to five o’clock.
But Wednesday was “hump day.” And this day was Wednesday.
Becky stared into her computer monitor, unable to concentrate on the scores of emails that required her attention. Instead, she was fixated on the time: “9:59 AM.” Right on schedule, she could hear Janice’s voice approaching from down the hall. The sound of Janice’s feet hitting carpet were amplified in Becky’s ears, thunderous and malicious. Becky’s fingers, at rest on the home row, tensed and involuntarily typed “jafkl;d” into a report to the district supervisor.
Without looking up, Becky knew Janice was now in the office with her: the air was stuffier; it reeked of cheap perfume. Becky grinded her teeth. Janice slammed her purse down on her desk, its contents jingling and crinkling in cacophony. Becky’s eyes strained and her vision blurred.
“It’s Hump Day!” Janice croaked melodically. Becky moved her lips mockingly. Janice maneuvered around the office. “I made cupcakes!”
Becky looked up from her monitor. Janice towered over her desk, grinning generously. She extended to Becky a plastic container populated with chocolate and vanilla cupcakes. Atop each one, inscribed in icing, were the words, “HUMP DAY!”
Becky smiled in return. She delicately plucked the chocolate cupcake nearest her from the container. “Thanks, Janice,”
“You’re welcome, hon. We’re halfway there, aren’t we?” Janice chirped. Becky had already stuffed her mouth full with cupcake. She nodded. Janice laughed. “We’ll get there. Hump Day’s just two days away from Friday!”
Janice made delicious cupcakes.
A concept drawing for the main character from another, untitled game project I’m developing.
Three friends decided to take a semester’s break from their busy college schedules, to regroup and recalibrate their energies. Still, they did not wish to let their sharp minds dull. As such, they enjoyed meeting to discuss art, literature, and other academic pursuits.
“Hey, Jake,” Ben said. “What you reading now?”
“As we discussed,” said Jake, “I just recently finished reading Goethe’s Faust.” Ben and Dave both nodded. “So I haven’t really started anything yet. But I think I’m going to tackle this next,” he indicated the volume on the table.
“Dude,” said Dave, suddenly smiling, “Is that title 26–?”
“Damn straight! It’s the United States Tax Code.” said Jake. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to get around to it for a while.”
“I picked up a copy of last Fall but still haven’t cracked it,” said Ben.
“It’s apparently a tough one to crack,” said Jake.
“I don’t think I’d want to read it cover-to-cover,” said Ben, “but there are certainly some sections I’d like to read.”
“Like?” asked Dave.
“Section 501,” Ben grinned with a knowing tone.
“Dude! Non-profits?” Dave said, sitting up in his chair.
“You know it!” Ben replied. They high-fived.