Ka Wai Ola: Volume 77, Spring 2022

KA WAI OLA

Volume 77 Spring 2022 KWO • 1

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Editors’ Note The year has flown by, and Ka Wai Ola has soared with it, wings spread wide as we rode the winds of change. This semester, we’ve adapted relentlessly, shedding our worn, primary down for a full set of glossy new feathers. Some changes were unsuccessful, but every false start was another wingbeat towards growth, and now we perch, ready for the flight into next school year.

This semester brings with it quite the publication. After so long in the slanting shade of the pandemic, contributors and editors of Ka Wai Ola have really put every ounce of their hearts into this edition. The publication has flourished, perhaps larger than ever before. Featuring 47 contributors all together, the issue contains 40 pieces of writing and 66 works of visual arts; 106 pieces total! Of these pieces, this issue spotlights: -10 works from the class of ’25 -37 works from the class of ’24 -33 works from the class of ’23 -22 works from graduating the class of ’22 We also have four anonymous works in the issue.

This edition is double that of Ka Wai Ola’s usual size. Needless to say, the effort put into this edition is outstanding and we thank all of our contributors and editors for their hard work. Ka Wai Ola undoubtedly blossoms because of you. We continue to celebrate being able to gather in person, and gather the art of our community in one space. We hope you enjoy this edition! Here’s to Ka Wai Ola, now and into the future.

At the head of our faithful flock are three new leaders, eagerly learning the ways of the publication, old and new. An undeniable asset to the team, they help to lead with strength and hard work. We are so excited to have them along, raising our numbers to a grand total of four Editors-in-Chief, who will head the next edition.

This semester, the Editors-in-Chief, to prepare for their flight alone, were guided by the wisdom of our Senior Editor-in-Chief, Leo. After helming the publication with the utmost dedication for so many editions in the past, he is off into the world of college and beyond. In this, his final publication, he leaves his words of farewell.

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A Farewell Note Having overseen Ka Wai Ola for the last two years, I can confidently state that our 73-year-old magazine will continue to light its flame in the future, providing an outlet of voice and passion for the writers of our Punahou community. Although familiar faces have, through the years, been replaced with those of newcomers, it fills me with great joy to see the potential in these fellow staffers who will one day become the backbone of a new generation. And in light of the reformations I have pushed for in the last two years, I hope that Ka Wai Ola will continue to keep up with the times and endure as a welcoming, supportive haven for all.

Above else, I would like to thank all—the leadership, the advisors, the editors, the staffers, the readers–for their continued support. Truly, our organization’s foundation rests upon the beating hearts of each and every one of you.

–Leo Kim

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Table of Contents Writing

KG Pan ’25

16

Nicole Dao ’23

18

Kristin Abe ’23

20

Ian Watanabe ’23

22-23

Mika Hiroi ’24

25

Choir, Dulcet Majesty

Crow Villanueva ’25

28-29

Burn the Witch

Anonymous

37

Esther Chan ’24

38-39

Ari Fukumoto ’23

41

Noelani Brennan ’25

45

Coby McKeown ’22

48

Thought Experiment

Leah McEvoy ’23

50

Fireworks

Anonymous

52

Camryn Adams ’24

56

Ash Bu ’25

60-61

Coby McKeown ’22

64

Nicole Dao ’23

66

Camryn Adams ’24

68

Atropa Choi ’24

70-72

Ash Bu ’25

77-79

Anonymous

82

I Read the Fine Print The Tenth: A Countdown The Dance of Dismissal Love™ No Solace

Searching Nice Poem for Nicer Days Forgot My Shoes Corn Fields Forever

A Forgotten Path Before You Know La Solassitude What If I Don’t?

The Lonely Bones Poem Ghost Through Time and Place One Thousand Cherry Blossoms fate.reality.(idk) 6 • KWO

Table of Contents Writing

Look Like a Woman The Academy In Essence

Mika Hiroi ’24

84-85

Lyric Ono ’24

87

Esther Chan ’24

90-91

Sorry I’m Late : 14 Minutes of My KG Pan ’25 Life as a Queer Person

93-94

Yzelle Messinger ’23

101

Broadcast

Aidan Sibley ’23

102

The Perennial Suffering

Nicole Dao ’23

110-111

Aidan Sibley ’23

113-115

A Fool’s Language

America, the Fairest of Them All Esther Chan ’24 Route 800 Does Not Exist Losing Myself To Various Nations First Generation Pretending

Zlata Matyushenko ’25 116 Nicole Dao ’23

120-121

Mika Hiroi ’24

123-125

Mika Hiroi ’24

130

What to Think of Your Aluminum Sophie Chen ’24 Starfish Post-Vaporwave door light door light door light

106

132-133

Coby McKeown ’22

135

Henry Payne ’23

138-139

Harley Wolters ’23

144

Ash Bu ’25

146-148

Leah McEvoy ’23

150

door light door light door light door light Free Spirit On This Cliffside, at Sunset, Alone W.I.P.

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Table of Contents Art

Feather Blossom

Noa Menjo ’22

Cover

You’re a Wizard, Harry

Noa Menjo ’22

13

Bewick’s Wren

Colin Morita ’24

14-15

Hobbies

Ian Watanabe ’23

17

Shhh! Secret Sketchy

Samantha Sumstine ’22

19

Two Cockatoos

Emma Crago ’24

21

Billie

Kelsi Higashi ’22

24

Mariposa

Zoe Beccaria Chou ’22

26-27

Fishmonger on Break (Fish

Holly Chang-Gangl ’24

30

Steampunk Fashion

Samantha Sumstine ’22

31

Wangshu Inn (Liyue)

Haiyi Sun ’24

32-33

Seirai Island (Inazuma)

Haiyi Sun ’24

34

Halemaʻumaʻu Crater at

Emma Crago ’24

35

Fire Extinguisher

Mitchell Atebara ’24

36

Dandelion

Emma Crago ’24

40

Reflections

Harley Wolters ’23

42-43

ʻŌhiʻa

Emma Crago ’24

44

Autumn Song

Leo Kim ’22

46-47

Swelling Daguerreotype

Samantha Sumstine ’22

49

You Saw

Skyler Miranda ’23

51

Exchange

Blood)

Night

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Table of Contents Art

The Ancient Devourer Solitary Luminescence Nuʻuanu Fantasy Into the Woods Coffee Break Blinded Sunset Surveillance Extinct Untitled Untitled Bird of Paradise ʻAukuʻu Quaint Keyhole Creek King George Lola Chroma-Deer I Didn’t Know That I Was Young The Walls Are Closing In Integration Going Postal Gentle C·Mono

Anonymous Noa Menjo ’22 Anna Lerner ’22 Mira Kubo ’24 Ian Watanabe ’23 Sarah Holliday ’23 Leo Kim ’22 Emma Crago ’24 Olivia Cox ’24 Atropa Choi ’24 Kelsi Higashi ’22 Colin Morita ’23 Samantha Sumstine ’22 Harley Wolters ’23 Joy Leung ’23 Noa Mejo ’22 Holly Chong-Gangl ’24 Lorelei Inaba ’22 Ava Pakravan ’24 Leo Kim ’22 Zlata Matyushenko ’25 Adam Gerhardt ’24

53 54-55 57 58-59 62 63 65 67 69 73 74 75 76 80 81 83 86 88 89 92 95 96-97 KWO • 9

Table of Contents Art The Princess and the Iso

Alana Clayson ’24

98-99

Hebe Xu ’25

100

Ian Watanabe ’23

103

Miya Peterson ’24

104-105

Ian Watanabe ’23

107

Samantha Sumstine ’22

108-109

Yzelle Messinger ’23

112

Ava Pakravan ’24

117

Claire Sanders ’23

118-119

Nicole Dao ’23

121

Emma Crago ’24

122

Noa Menjo ’22

126

Rhys Yamanoha ’24

127

Samantha Sumstine ’22

128

Sarah Holliday ’23

129

Mitchell Atebara ’24

131

Felicia Yang ’24

134

Lyric Ono ’24

136

Colin Morita ’23

137

Anna Lerner ’22

140

Ian Watanabe ’23

141

Peanut Turtle’s Valentine Down with the King Conflict Imperialism Is “Quirky” Military Turtles Unite!

Open The Unseen Consequences Kāneʻohe Rising Tempest ʻIo Feather Blossom Pandemonium Hazy Ethereal Gaze Hiker Many Things There Are to Think About Field of Light South Disneyland Drive The Creative Process Nebulous 10 • KWO

Table of Contents Art

Telescope Alignment in the Twelfth House The End That’s Not Art

Mitchell Atebara ’24 Claire Sanders ’23 Joy Leung ’23 Yzelle Messinger ’23

Writers’ Statements

145 149 151 152

Artists’ Statements Quaint Keyhole Creek

142-143

153 Samantha Sumstine ’22

Back Cover

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You’re a Wizard, Harry

Digital Art | Noa Menjo ’22

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Bewick’s Wren

Photography | Colin Morita ’24 14 • KWO

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I Read the Fine Print KG Pan ’25 LIFE the product didn’t come as advertised they forgot the warning a simple it’s sharp. be careful. in the terms and conditions it’s sharp and i am not careful i would like my refund now please

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Hobbies

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

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The Tenth: A Countdown Nicole Dao ’23

& on the sixth day, God made man & on the seventh day, He rested & on the eighth day, Adam asked: God—why am I here? (spoiler: Adam gets punished for asking) On the first day of the ninth month, the first child of her parents is born.

It’s not really the first day of anything, & she’s not really the first child of anything, This much they know (these things had already been conceived) In the fifth grade, I decide to become a martyr.

I read a poem by my dead-alive grandfather about a wedding dress and a laundr-O-mat.

This is my Chekhov’s gun: “Go forth,” it says, my dead-alive cat in Pandora’s box (the dead-alive part is what catches up with me) The second time one declares oneself a poet is the time humanity is forfeited: perhaps the train will stop in a second perhaps the dead man will get up, & walk away from the tracks (perhaps his fate has been written by a poet) It feels like something that must be whispered to the dead of night, your hands against my skin, the third hour, our secret, what a sin: this is barbaric, we know, we know (we’re turning war into poetry)

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Shhh! Secret Sketchy Exchange

Acrylic Paint | Samantha Sumstine ’22

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The Dance of Dismissal Kristin Abe ’23

stumbling with his expression and how he approached me 13 counts in but i perused his amusement in eights gaze travelling down my face as if in penché he stood with a slouch but his sentences were sharp and pointed at the tips unlike his pigeon-toed feet but similarly to the ends of his lips first a scoff, then he began to squawk his words pirouetted around each other some were dancing in 3/4, others in 4/4 in an attempt to keep time with 1 stifled chuckle 2 hands aiming to shrug 3 seconds of pause too long 4 words: “have you even tried…” and a 5, 6, 7, 8 to a stuttering end as our conversation reaches the coda, his effort is rendered useless. we both know what he means because to a tolerance smaller than his biceps in his suffocating sense of self-worth my work will always be perceived as easy

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Two Cockatoos

Photography | Emma Crago ’24

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Love™

Ian Watanabe ’23 What is Love™?

Nobody knows.

The industry has yet to release a statement.

It cannot be explained by science, Or by its consumers.

All they know is that it’s amazing.

That it makes life many times better.

That they cannot live without it.

Sometimes, it works.

Some consumers are cured by this miracle product.

Satisfied, starstruck, and transformed by it, all at once.

And so they shower it with overwhelming praise.

That praise is noticeable to all, Undeniable to all.

Like an ad you can’t skip.

The industry’s reputation keeps the customer inspired, And people won’t stop talking about it.

So more people give it a try.

Usually, the customer is satisfied, But the promised satisfaction is not always felt, Sometimes, it gets broken.

Broken spectacularly.

There aren’t refunds.

After all, the customer just used it carelessly.

So, they must buy another.

And another.

They pay with pieces of their soul, And it can get expensive.

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On paper, it sounds like a scam, But would a scam be so universally Loved™ by everyone?

Would a scam be the undisputed answer to life?

Love™ has no tangible explanation and yet, The authenticity is hopelessly real to the customer, So they keep paying, with more and more of their soul, Because this currency is one they can afford to burn.

One they insist they can afford to burn.

Love™ is the hot new product, And everybody must own it.

Gotta hand it to them, it’s a solid business strategy.

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Billie

Acrylic Paint | Kelsi Higashi ’22

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No Solace

Mika Hiroi ’24 To all I loved: There will not be a moment when I do not mourn my passing, for death is to leave you, and faith in all that is beautiful.

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Mariposa

Graphite | Zoe Beccaria Chou ’22

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Choir, Dulcet Majesty Crow Villanueva ’25 I love the sound of choirs.

The harmony of many voices, The rhythm of many souls, How breath bleeds into beauty.

The tingling skin Left in the wake of dulcet tones The breath caught In song-filled lungs The tears hanging in the corner of eyes Eyes in awe of majesty Eyes afraid of wrath.

The sound of voices is soothing, But their lyrics burn.

Speech is simple.

Consonants and vowels.

Length and brevity.

Sound and silence.

Lyrics add meaning.

And through meaning, ruin is sown.

Words with connections indispensable A history I’d rather not know A history I’d rather forget One made to let go.

For voices are like cool water, Splashed lightly on skin.

And tea soft and gentle Caressing from within While words are harsh fire, Razing all in their path.

That tell of, from their eyes, The truth of my life.

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Of what, for them, I failed to be Of the temptations I fell to Of the vices I breathe.

Their words should not matter, Not now as I am free, But fire always burns, Indiscriminately.

And choirs sound like angels, Proclaiming my disgrace.

Unified holy voices, Casting a sinner astray.

Their sound brings the memories Of smoke and incense, Filling every cavity in my lungs.

Of life under iron fists, Ruling on high clouds above.

I swear, I swear when I have forgotten the meaning of the word To whatever remains in my forsaken world That though I am not a singer, I love the sound of song.

That though I am not a conductor, I love the sound of symphony.

And that though I am not holy, I love the sound of choir.

Smooth Sailing

Photography | Maddy Hodge ’23

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Fishmonger on Break (Fish Blood) Digital Art | Holly Chong-Gangl ’24 30 • KWO

Steampunk Fashion

Digital Art | Samantha Sumstine ’22

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Wangshu Inn (Liyue) Acrylic Paint | Haiyi Sun ’24 32 • KWO

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Seirai Island (Inazuma) Acrylic Paint | Haiyi Sun ’24 34 • KWO

Halemaʻumaʻu Crater at Night

Photography | Emma Crago ’24 KWO • 35

Fire Extinguisher

Digital Art | Mitchell Atebara ’24

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Burn the Witch Anonymous

vampire? all you do is suck blood until there’s nothing left what will you do when there’s nothing left? i have nothing left? are you not empathetic? how? could you little girl? why are you crying?

(i’m sorry)

you suck my blood

i thought you loved me? we’re=family for sure i’m your blood i’m not a vampire? no matter how much

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Searching

Esther Chan ’24 Christianity is a tricky thing.

It slips through my hands like water no matter how hard I clench my fists and I find myself searching and searching and wanting to hold the knowledge that evades me and then they tell me, “Faith.”

Faith. It can move mountains, they say.

And I believe them because it’s true. I believe them because I know that the Lord is God and that there’s more to this life than just living.

So. Much. More.

And yet… the questions. The questions that don’t stop flowing, the questions that swirl in my mind around and around and around until I’m left dizzy, gasping for air, wondering how I got here in the first place.

Faith. I feel it.

It’s like love–unmistakable.

It’s a fabric so intricate, so complex, so strong, so beautiful. How can I even begin to comprehend what is beyond my comprehension? Faith.

It tugs at my heartstrings–gently, gently.

It pushes me forward like a gust of wind that blows the blushing leaves in autumn, and I’m left questioning where it came from and where it’s going next.

Who knows?

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Faith.

Ethereal. Everchanging.

How do I begin to describe the indescribably indescribable?

Questions. So many questions.

Maybe one day I will find the answers.

Maybe one day it will all fall into place like pieces of a puzzle, like a masterpiece so perfectly perfect.

Maybe one day it will all make sense and the stormy lake will fall still and I will see with clarity all that is and will be and I will hear Him calling from across the waters and I will know the truth.

But for now, I listen, and I wait, and I grow restless. Again.

I find myself searching and searching and wanting to hold the knowledge that evades me and then I tell myself, “Faith.”

Faith.

And then–suddenly– I can breathe again.

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Dandelion

Photography | Emma Crago ’24

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Nice Poem for Nicer Days Ari Fukumoto ’23

the weeks go by i’m not holding on kiss me goodnight but don’t turn off the lights the sky is getting colder dressed like a mourner no smiles in october the kids come out to play the world becomes a blur the merry go round turns there’s nothing to see just you and me homemade movie night street lamps turn bright you see through me so i hide under the sheets you’re postcards away the mail comes in today if my words can make you stay i’ll write to you someday

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Reflections

Photography | Harley Wolters ’23

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ʻŌhiʻa

Photography | Emma Crago ’24

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Forgot My Shoes Noelani Brennan ’25

there’s a leather-bound book in my pocket and forty-three flowers crushed in your fist my feet turn to black ¿why don’t you turn back? ¿don’t you get it? not until the twilight paints calm with her mist oh, friend until the twilight paints calm with her mist turn back the journey’s not yet at its end wait until, until the twilight paints calm with her mist bye, friend until the twilight paints calm with—

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Autumn Song

Photography | Leo Kim ’22

Magic

Ink | Mila Becker ’21 46 • KWO

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Corn Fields Forever Coby McKeown ’22

I chase the rising sun as it crawls above the horizon.

The green dragon flies above and casts a shadow over me.

I can see her claws and her teeth; they are long and sharp.

Flapping her wings, she sends ripples through the corn fields.

The sun has now quietly slipped away, and the dragon’s form has long passed, leaving only a note behind.

I pick up the note, and it reads: What does it take to breathe the sea?

What does it take to teach the body?

What does it take to say it again?

And the note spills away into the river and through the roots of the trees, and into the ears of every creature for miles, so soon the snakes and the gophers and the sparrows and the bees gather to sit in a circle below the light of the placid moon, and they sing: What does it take to breathe the sea?

What does it take to teach the body?

What does it take to say it again?

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Swelling Daguerreotype

Clay and Acrylic Paint | Samantha Sumstine ’22

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Thought Experiment Leah McEvoy ’23

Once a child, thought to love quarrels, asked for some help defining morals.

The others each scholar rushed to outbid For the prize to enlighten this foul little kid.

One said to help those who are in need.

One said to follow the rules you read.

One said to always trust your heart.

One said to simply do your part.

One said listen to the masses.

One said to think when one reaches impasses.

One by one they started to fight, Each one thinking that they were right.

No one had realized, as on ticked the clocks, Maybe “morals” can’t be put in one box.

And so gave the youngster mistaken as vile, A sad little laugh, set to wait for a while.

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You Saw

Digital Art|Skyler Miranda ’23

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Fireworks Anonymous

Time points its accusatory finger at me Waiting I am swallowing the hours hungrily Perpetually unsatiated, eyes bulging Counting to midnight Time does not wait long —Neither do I And In spite of The time on my hands I have nothing to offer except These few words

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The Ancient Devourer Digital Art | Anonymous

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Solitary Luminescence Digital Art | Noa Menjo ’22

Magic

Ink | Mila Becker ’21 54 • KWO

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A Forgotten Path Camryn Adams ’24 The gates seemed endless.

Around me the forest stirred.

Should I turn around?

It was all so beautiful in the moment.

Pity I didn’t pay attention to the steps we took.

A shame I didn’t read the “turn around” signs.

I was too distracted by the path you showed me The path I now walk alone.

Timeless smiles to raging fits.

You strung me along the once well-traveled path.

I followed at your word And obeyed at your command.

I have traveled down the forgotten path, One we knew so well.

Do you remember which way we came?

Which way does it end?

Was it left? No, right. No, left.

I am so tired of this forgotten path.

Do you remember what you said to me all those summers ago?

Does it still hold true?

You have raced so far ahead, On the forgotten path I tread.

The forgotten path you’ve woven, is beginning to become a burden.

I can’t help but think; Have you... ...forgotten me?

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Nuʻuanu Fantasy

Photography | Anna Lerner ’22

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Into the Woods

Photography | Mira Kubo ’24

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Before You Know Ash Bu ’25

Staring at the boundless night, shivering from snowy bewilderment You find yourself asking why we love They take your hand, and you start trekking through the snow A cocktail of oxytocin for a simple touch Each new development a dopamine hit Serotonin levels steadily rising Each a meaningless thought The darkness of the old frosted park Where rivers flow to seas flow to skies Flow to their eyes And with each footprint in the fresh lain snow A small patch thaws in the old, forgotten yard Haven in the infinite nothing Of winter Leaving the rusted gates where science goes unaided Where love is a string of neurochemical processes not understood Not known, not appreciated Into the veins of a great big wintry city Maybe there the lights will bring the gentle warm That you crave They rush with you to the last little house Luscious and green, lit with new sun that blends to sky Rest and calm in the city that beats, yet has no heart Where the dogs can bark without shock collars The grass is green again in the yard, under the swings And water flows on rock and earth Lay your head on their shoulder And you’ll see a purple spring flower Defiantly rising from under the worn swings Where it had narrowly avoided a hundred steps of children in play 60 • KWO

Watch as they harvest it with a gentle smile Placed so carefully behind your ear.

Before you know, they’ve shown you in a little spring The answer to a winter night’s grand question.

Before you know to ask why, Stare with them into a new, infinite, impossible day.

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Coffee Break

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

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Blinded Sunset

Digital Art | Sarah Holliday ’23

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La Solassitude

Coby McKeown ’22 Someday I will try all that I can to lift above and make more shapes with my fingers.

But alack alack alack, I fear that day won’t be today, or anytime soon really.

All that I can do now is brush my legs back and forth as I sit against the rim of the pool.

And because it is nighttime, the underwater lights make the pool glow like a vat of acid.

The sky is a compressed black above me because the city lights are brighter than the stars, and the only things above are the blinking red and green of some kind of commercial aircraft, and my eyes stare at this aircraft because it is: constant, stable, predictable, ingenious, daunting, totalitarian, lifeless, draining, awe-inspiring.

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Surveillance

Photography | Leo Kim ’22

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What If I Don’t?

Nicole Dao ’23

They tell me that the only time my words matter Is when they are proof of my capacity to think Well here I am—thinking: I think that boy looks like a rabbit when he smiles I think the planes are falling backwards through the sky I think the world isn’t blue enough I think my mind is too damn blue I think the way you cry makes me want to laugh and I know it’s cruel and I’m sorry I think you’re pretty when we’re driving With the windows down, and your hair playing like party streamers (And sometimes) I think the only thing keeping the world from ruin is the broken white lines on the highway telling me to watch out watch out watch out

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Extinct

Photography | Emma Crago ’24

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The Lonely Bones Poem Camryn Adams ’24

There is beauty in bones.

Our lonely bones.

We’re all just piles of Bones.

Lonely bones.

Aren’t we all alike?

Small, large, thin, thick, slim, delicate, sturdy, curved Piles of bones.

To me, your bones are beautiful.

And if I asked for my lonely bones to have a place beside yours...

Would you oblige?

What if I asked you if you’d still love me if I was nothing but a small pile of bones?

Would you…

Love me…

Even if at the core, I’m just a pile of bones.

Would you listen?

I mean, We’ve got our whole lives to figure it out.

But beneath it all, I want to know If my bones have found a resting place beside yours?

We’re all just piles of bones Trying to find a place to rest And a partner to hold.

Your lonely bones are beautiful to me.

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Untitled

Photography | Olivia Cox ’24

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Ghost Through Time and Place Atropa Choi ’24 I.

A faint blinking light forms in darkness.

Ghost wakes up, senses dull, eyes glassy, its body a mass of condensed air sprinkled with tiny nodes of nerves. It lifts itself up with more force than necessary, like anticipating the weight of a cardboard box, only to find that it is empty. It stumbles but does not fall.

Ghost looks around, turning in awkward angles each time. It appears to be in a small room with dusty beige carpet. Heavy bookshelves fill up three walls. A high window displays a grey sky and not much more.

A beam of dim sunlight reflects off the slowly falling dust. Ghost extends its hand out, waits for a particle to land, but it passes right through and continues its slow descent. Its arm falters slightly, until it eventually, hesitantly, folds toward itself. It follows the speck until it disappears back into the shadows. It doesn’t think that’s supposed to happen.

Ghost stares at one of the walls for a moment, then floats forward, eyes closed and half-expecting contact. It never comes, but Ghost is suddenly surrounded by noise and cold smog.

II.

It may have been a long time, or maybe Ghost travels fast. The weather changes again and again, cycling through rain and sunshine and thick fog. It sees mountains and greenery and warm air fills its hazy figure.

It drowns further into the ocean as specks of salt cling on and weigh it down. It flies between skyscrapers with glass panels that do not reflect it.

The squirming human symbols become less and less familiar until it looks more like a maze that changes walls. It floats through the hoards of people below, and they fill Ghost with writhing flesh. Following the crowd makes Ghost rush to soar higher to quell its anxiety.

III.

It continues on. In the distance, it sees a body of water trapped in concrete walls. Those are Ghost’s favorite. Water makes Ghost heavy again, heavy like an object. As it approaches the artificial lake, a translucent figure sitting on a rock comes into view. Ghost halts. It crouches beside a thunder-stricken tree in a grove behind the lake and stares at the

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figure. It watches until all the brown leaves have fallen and some have started to rot on the ground.

The figure sits still through it all, occasionally lifts his arm and looks down. Ghost leans against the tree, and in the new angle, it notices that the figure holds a fishing pole. As Ghost glides closer to the figure with fascination, it notices solid details on the pole—the wooden rod and flaking red paint, and the delicate darkening of color where the wood touches the water.

“How are you...how are you doing that?” Ghost says, quietly at first, then bursting out in newfound excitement.

“Wha...Doin’ what?” The figure sounds like he has just woken up.

“Y’know, holding stuff! You’re holding that fishing pole. A real fishing pole.”

The old figure looks down at his hands holding the object, as if he had forgotten it was there. His expression shifts into something of smug pride.

“You just look at the thing you wanna hold, concentrate and try to pick it up. It’s gonna look like it’s not doing anything, but just do it again and again until you can.”

Leaning back, he swings the fishing pole around with one hand. It passes through Ghost over and over but he does not notice. Ghost attempts to grab the pole, only for it to pass through its body once more.

IV.

In one of its travels, Ghost finds a hill, overshadowed by mountainscapes, barren and grey. It spots a particularly bright boulder among the pebbles. The boulder easily outshines the others with its size and creamy color. Ghost chooses this object for its first picking-up-practice. It uses too much force, and its hand slides right past the surface. It uses too little, and its hand only sits on top. Ghost flops back in frustration. Its body falls through, into the cold dirt.

V.

Ghost does not go to the city often. It forgot the last visit, when it was, what it was like. But time seems to flow fast and maybe the humans have figured something out.

To its surprise, an odd sight waits for it in the small city. Ghost wonders if it is some new human object. Flying closer, it sees an entire cluster of translucent figures on the rooftop of a low building, the floor coated in layers of shiny waterproof paint. They lay back to back or in messy stacks on top of one another, but none owns a reflection. Looking KWO • 71

through the piles, the filters of ghosts create a nauseating mirage. Ghost floats to one figure. They have fallen halfway over the edge, and seem to have no interest in correcting their position.

“Hello? Are you guys alright?” Ghost asks. There is no response.

It talks to the ghost nearest the vent, one at the highest point, one at the very bottom of the biggest pile. It only finds tired stares and silence. It would have believed they were objects if they didn’t shift and flinch occasionally, like itself. Ghost stays for as long as it can, waiting for some sudden, grand movement. But no matter how many times the leaves change color and fall and rot, they continue to lay still with lethargic expressions. As Ghost’s stay extends, its vision blurs and noises around it blend into the background. It is as if trapped inside a bottle made of thick, textured glass, sitting among the figures.

VI.

Ghost’s hill seems brighter than usual from afar. As the mound gets closer and closer, Ghost realizes that its chosen rock has been broken into pieces and scattered along the hill. It kneels near one of the fragments and reaches its hand out. It passes right through, no matter how many times it tries.

VII.

The old figure is no longer on the rock. Ghost circles the spot before it decides to fill his place. It pretends it can still feel the warmth of life on the rock.

Ghost tilts its head to look into the lake. It remains calm and undisturbed but sees no reflection. Instead, the figure’s fishing pole lies beneath the waters. It has deteriorated to the point that even the remnants of the red paint have completely disappeared. Ghost reaches into the water, still undisturbed, but its hands give way one last time. It lifts off in frustration, flies straight to the rooftop in the small city, the only place with others like it.

Ghost lies down on the edge and stares into the ghastly mirage.

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Untitled

Digital Art | Atropa Choi ’24

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Bird of Paradise

Painting | Kelsi Higashi ’22

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ʻAukuʻu

Photography | Colin Morita ’23

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Quaint Keyhole Creek

Digital Art|Samantha Sumstine ’22 76 • KWO

One Thousand Cherry Blossoms Ash Bu ’25

One thousand cherry blossoms Swaying gently in their full affluence Whistling a sweet yet sultry melody to the glimmering pond Their branches tangled in an expansive web like lovers’ embrace Petals like pendulums as they dance on their terminal journey And lightly they kiss the ground, joining their fallen kin of long ago Coating the earth with their soft fibers A streak of sunlight peeks through the leaves Ghastly and pale luminescence in a twinkling morning The daystar among the minuet of petals I can hear the weeping of the trees Are they simply moved by the blossoms’ dance?

Or are they mourning the very bench I watch them from?

Then the thousandth tree with curling leaves on his head, His branches warm from sweet human life A fair quality of snow against me like no other of the blossoms Born of a Dutch winter, belonging in this eastern spring His fingers slender yet long, nimble yet more powerful than any branch of any blossom The strings bending and vibrating to his will, Filling the air with a sound sweeter than all the world’s cherries An ambient adagio in a flowing polyrhythm Like a river of sound where nectar fairies dance above a thin wind My hand brushes the side of his guitar Its texture like stained glass on a church window As the vibrating wood mimics that beauty which surrounds us In twirling whites and rich browns on asymmetrical frets where his fingers move with such grace And when he strums his last chord, I tell the tree in all his grand yet intimate magnificence “I’m saddened this won’t be here forever KWO • 77

As in a millennium these thousand blossoms will have fallen You and I will be covered by petals dropped in their prime of so long ago And the nectar fairies will spend a forever searching for your fingers to make music to dance on again And my soul will reach out a hand to you, but it will never find much other than the muck of eons” He stopped a moment, as he placed his guitar in its velvet case; its maroon home since its forever I could see a melancholic pondering in his eyes as he spoke with such a sweet voice, “Forever is a princess whom the kingdom of us may love only in name.

Her dress of satisfaction hides terrible tendrils that may never free you from her grasp And if a time comes when you may love her no longer She collects the castle and all from within To never free you from her sight, And never to see you feel such a way again” The tree collected my soul in his warm branches as we looked off into the sunlit forest His warmth radiating in ways I no longer know the words to describe “The petals dance for us now, But court Forever, and she will tell you they merely fall She’ll strip my eyes from knowing that you are beautiful ever again When it is cold, she makes you believe it will never be warm like this again But if my soul reaches for yours, my mind will find you buried in my heart Forever is a woman who you’ll never see until her presence becomes unbearable But you will remain with me in times like this, just past And if in a million years we may no longer be able to remember This forest will know this moment in time” The fish make a few small ripples in the pond, And I say to him, a slight quiver in my voice,

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“And when time washes our flesh into something for a new few trees to feed on, Some part of these blossoms will remember your song And the nectar fairies will dance in their memories of a forever ago” He smiles with a sunlit glimmer in his eyes so impossibly blue The wisest tree in the forest wraps his branches around me And in the sands of time, ever fading as they slip between my fingers, I hear his song, ringing through the past, And a woman named Forever may watch from afar, But now, in my heart of hearts, I know that this music, This etude of the ages, this bright yet somber dance of the pink petals, Was never for a forever, but rather, simply for me.

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King George

Photography | Harley Wolters ’23

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Lola

Graphite | Joy Leung ’23

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fate.reality.(idk) Anonymous i came back, i came back “it’s so nice to see you falling deep in love” i know, i know my head spins i’ll take the subway blue line, green line colors blur and so does your face it doesn’t matter that my body travels down to great depths as long as i’m with you it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter i can’t see your true face you hide our reality behind a dream that’s what this is (i forgot)(i forget) it’s a dream

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Chroma-Deer

Digital Art | Noa Menjo ’22

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Look Like a Woman Mika Hiroi ’24

Don’t you think that shirt is a bit low?

A little too much!

Not enough.

Too much skin, cleavage, leg, body. You’re so boring.

What is this, the 1800’s? Show it off!

You look like a ho, a hooker.

What? Are you scared to be a little flashy and fun? You’re asking for it.

What am I for?

If you believe I am a woman.

To serve, to smile?

To sit prim and proper?

Who am I if I don’t act and appear exactly how you want?

Who am I if I have bare shoulders, long sleeves,

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short skirts, high collars?

I am a woman, every time I’ve looked in the mirror.

If I am bundled against the winter bite of roving eyes, if I’m dressed in wallflower shadows, or if I’m stark naked in burning rain, it’s never for you. I look like this for me.

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I Didn’t Know That I Was Young Digital Art | Holly Chong-Gangl ’24

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The Academy

Lyric Ono ’24

Call me Lyric—they might’ve, maybe, if only they’d come to know me in the Germanic sense.

Ensconced in the sepulchral halls of storied academia we leaned against the freshly painted iconostasis and watched the passion play.

The Templum: a track ad hoc, temporary, a course delineated by hala trees and night-blooming cereus Pānini-o-Ka-Punahou The Players: The Athlete—overpowering height and focus, eye on the ball The Aesthete—overjoyed by English class and the Old Masters The Academic—overloaded with AP and honors The Social Butterfly—maybe she was your friend and maybe she wasn’t The Dilettante—maybe all of them were that, too.

The Play: Think Botticelli’s Venus and Mars presented by Brandy Melville and TikTok. The passion and circularity and brutality of a middle-school dance. A crash will only slow them down a little, then with a prayer to Freyja, they roll on.

After, outside the slings and arrows of adolescence, a life well-lived.

A future yet to be written.

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The Walls Are Closing In Digital Art | Lorelei Inaba ’22

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Integration

Mixed Media | Ava Pakravan ’24 KWO • 89

In Essence

Esther Chan ’24 Truth is the fog that cascades into San Francisco; the fog that envelops the hills in a blanket of white, that cools the air and nourishes the soul.

Go ahead…reach. Reach out your hand and try to touch the fog that brings life, and wonder, and longing, and confusion. Can you feel it? It’s okay if you can’t. You can keep trying until the sun bursts through in all of its overwhelming brilliance and burns the fog into nothingness.

Truth is the fire that brings warmth, such refreshing warmth, on the days when frost grows on the windows overnight and when icicles spring from the eaves.

Truth is the fire that burns.

It burns, it burns, it sears your heart and your soul like a roaring flame and makes you question everything– everything you have ever known.

Truth is the fire that perches atop the lone candle on the altar just like a maraschino cherry on a sundae.

It represents hope, peace, light.

The quiet beauty within. The flame flickers–incessantly in motion–until a puff of air leaves behind an ember, glowing yellow then orange then red.

And a trail of smoke that winds up and up and up until it dissipates.

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Truth is the pitter patter of rain on a windowsill after the storm has passed.

Rays of sunlight pierce the clouds and give you a taste of heaven; it’s sweet, like honey, and melts on the tongue. Tap, tap, silence. Tap. Unpredictable, yet faithful all the same– a different kind of music. Silence.

Perhaps a rainbow will soon be drawn across the canvas of dull clouds in the vivid hues of nature’s palette.

Wait here, in silence. Listen, and perhaps you will find.

Truth is the swell of the ocean, the sweet lullaby of waves on rock. How can it be so ruthless and yet so gentle?

Multidimensional. It’s okay, you can lay down and close your eyes. Rest, and I will wake you when the time comes. Truthfully.

For truth is, and always will be, the deep blue water that falls and rises and falls again.

Until it rises…

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Going Postal

Photography | Leo Kim ’22

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Sorry I’m Late: 14 Minutes of My Life as a Queer Person KG Pan ’25

1:53. Time ticks by slowly. I need to pee, but the only bathroom I can use is on the other side of campus, in Bingham. I’m in Castle, and my next class, at 2:00, is in Alexander. It’s a four-minute walk.

1:54. Tick-tock. I shove my computer into my bag and clip my water bottle to the side. We have yet to be excused, so I sit impatiently, legs bouncing and fingers tapping.

1:55. “Class dismissed.” Finally, we’re free, and I dash out of the classroom. It may be a four-minute walk, but the extra length to Bingham is an added two minutes. Factor in the four minutes it takes to use the bathroom, and then the two-minute walk back to Alexander, and I’m screwed.

1:56. I pick up my pace down the stairs and past the four-square courts, but my messenger bag isn’t designed for hurrying. It bumps against my hip at every step and limits my stride. There are kids everywhere, with classes just being let out, and I feel like a salmon swimming upstream.

1:58. The crowd thins, and I’m able to make it the rest of the way across the courtyard without incident. I get to the concrete on the other side of the grass, and my shoes squeak as I take the stairs two at a time. I’m rushing, but I know the effort is futile. I’m going to be late.

2:01. I push open the door, and the pastel pink tiles are the first thing I see, as always. Even with “all-gender bathrooms,” I can’t get away. But there’s no time to dwell on the effects of the 1960s, so I don’t. I hurriedly attempt to take off my bag, but my headphones are tangled in my shirt, and the hood of my jacket prevents the removal of my ID. It’s a mess, but eventually, I’m able to work it all off.

2:05. I grab the door with my wet hands, and then wipe them hastily on my shirt, soaking it in the process. I pull my bag over my shoulder, forgoing the more comfortable diagonal carry, as my footsteps echo like raindrops KWO • 93

through the halls. In just a few minutes, the campus has cleared out again and I’m the only one around. I race back across the grass and pull the Alexander door open. I speed past the Deans’ office and up the stairs. There are a couple of kids sitting in the hallway, but I don’t stop.

2:07. “Sorry I’m late,” I murmur, head ducked in what I hope comes across as apologetic. I stumble to my desk and collapse into my chair. My keys jangle loudly as I once again try to separate the mess of cords and straps from my body. The teacher waves away my tardiness and continues talking. I’ve made it, late, but I’m present, at least physically. But my mind is elsewhere, weighing the pros and cons, the small things that catalyze.

Using the bathroom is more work than I want to deal with. Maybe I should stop drinking water.

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Gentle

Photography | Zlata Matyushenko ’25

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C•Mono

Photography | Adam Gerhardt ’24

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The Princess and the Iso Peanut Set Design | Alana Clayson ’24

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Turtle’s Valentine

Photography | Hebe Xu ’25 100 • KWO

A Fool’s Language Yzelle Messinger ’23

I would rather the conversation be left cold Like a meal left untouched They only spoke a fool’s language.

Like non-sentient beings The harsh, guttural clanging of syllables Painfully smashed together, Like an unmatching puzzle piece Only one voice Rises above them all Hear me?

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Broadcast

Aidan Sibley ’23 The sound of the revolution Radios echoing under streets The time is nigh for Molotov TV static will be our cue Hoist up those mighty megaphones Symphonic is our cause!

Call down from every rooftop We’ll establish righteous laws

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Down with the King

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

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Conflict

Photography | Miya Peterson ’24

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America, the Fairest of Them All Esther Chan ’24

Mirror. I see a reflection in the mirror–myself, flipped backwards, a play on light. I move when she moves. Or is it the other way around? Convex. Concave. The wall behind me stretches like putty as I tilt my head right, then left. Then right.

Who’s to say the image is an illusion? Maybe Reality is the one that’s distorted. Who says Liberal is fairest? Who am I to say it’s not? I’m confused, and I’m proud of it. Which way is up again? Sorry, I forgot. I forgot them, the People. I am forgetting who I am. Luckily, it’s all just in the reflection, right?

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Imperialism Is “Quirky” Digital Art|Ian Watanabe ’23

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Military Turtles Unite!

Ballpoint Pen | Samantha Sumstine ’22 108 • KWO

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The Perennial Suffering Nicole Dao ’23

Forgive us: We do not speak with knowledge of the weight of our words.

We speak of history as if we cannot see the lives tangled up in each other.

We speak of war as if we cannot smell the flesh burning.

We read the textbooks and believe as much as we can stomach, as if we do not realize who is left alive, as if it’s only for the sake of our own comfort, the sake of: At least we know that the ocean cannot replace the blood in our veins!

It is easier this way. What is truth but a man and a gun and the world at his back? Maybe this, then: What is truer than what he loses, when his hands have learned the body of death?

But I am wrong, of course, because this, much like the textbooks, is an oversimplification.

5. Who was the leader of the Nazi Party and dictator of the German Empire? a. Adolf Hitler b. A child c. You d. Me And still, it is hard to quantify—death. I think perhaps we aren’t using the numbers right. It shouldn’t go “one, two, three, four,” and so on.

Let’s try this, then: eight, six, four, nine, three, two, five. Eighty-two. Are you kidding, that’s a B minus! reads a note-to-self scrawled in the margins of a research paper.

6. How many Americans lost their lives in World War II? a. 1,500,000 b. 405,400 c. 82 d. All of them

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What is truth but the woman—a hollow aching, an open mouth?

A pilgrimage of her own, a blind faith, a choice to be made. I want to ask her: what makes you so certain? I know I’d never say it aloud.

Instead, I am with everyone else: merely observing history, watching the bombs fly forward and backward through time, watching the beginnings of nations, the ends of certain peaces. Napalm falls, and I pretend it is only petroleum jelly.

7. What will World War IV be fought with? a. Sticks and stones b. Battleships in space c. Children d. CHILDREN Forgive me—I am impatient. When it comes to time, the sense of magnitude eludes me.

Forgive me––There is no such thing as time. We are ever existing, growing forward into the past and through the future and seeping into the present.

Please––We are an accumulation of our pains, our histories, unspoken words, the wars that will come.

What of this, then: if not the ocean, let me pour tears into my veins, let me see what kind of pain comes.

Question 8 refers to Passage 3, in which the speaker defines truthfulness as coinciding with reality. According to the speaker, who is the most truthful?

I. The man II. The woman III. The child, born years after the war has tightened into a fixed knitting of scar tissue 8. Choose the best fitting answer. a. I only b. II only c. I and II only d. None of the above

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Open Ink | Yzelle Messinger ’23

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Route 800 Does Not Exist Aidan Sibley ’23

The truck drives down the road. Its tires are worn, its paint chipped and cut by years of erosion. A light dust is kicked up behind its wheels as it turns towards us. The truck sails through our pleasant little town, the road cutting us in two. The truck may stop for gas, food, rest, or continue on, for it doesn’t really matter. It soon leaves, traveling Route 800.

In a month or two we see another truck approach. The paint is chipped, the wheels kick up desert sand. The truck continues down Route 800, cresting the hills to our west.

We sit and watch the truck each time, following its movements until it disappears again. We then carry out our lives as normal until the next time a truck comes past. The license plate is WSS 572. We’ve memorized the pattern of chipping on the white paint. The countdown continues, waiting for the truck; it will return.

Route 800 The road splitting us in two An artery, connecting us to the outside Route 800 does not exist _____ -I told Cheryl I’d be leaving home early today, having a meeting and all -An important one, I insisted. I don’t think she believes me -That brings me to the present, sitting in my truck -She wasn’t awake, of course. I made sure not to disturb her. I was a dang ninja, man. Brushin’ my teeth across the hall, the whole nine yards -Anyways, that’s all for now. I’m heading to work. The sun’s barely rising.

I’ll turn on my fog lights just to be safe -I’ve come to a stop off the side of the road -It’s been a few hours… I woke up around 4, so it’s probably 6 or 7?

-There’s still a slight fog. Better than before, but difficult to see through -I think I’m lost. Well, I am lost. It normally takes 30 minutes tops to reach work. A bit longer if there’s traffic, but I left earlier enough I didn’t see any others KWO • 113

-At all…

-Yeah, I’m definitely lost -I don’t think I took a wrong turn? I’m not sure there’s even a turn I could’ve made. There’s very few on that road. It’s so straight forward, simple. Easy -I’m heading off again. I’m getting a little hungry, though thankfully I found some granola bars stuffed in the center console -I hope they’re still good -I turned left -A left exit… from a highway?

-I thought I could make out a sign in the distance so I figured there would be some rest stops or something on this ride -But it’s empty -I called Cheryl, but she didn’t respond. Probably still asleep. My phone reads 9:20. Has it really been that long?

-I still have plenty of gas left -The granola bars were ok. Crushed, but otherwise fine -Man, I’m really late now. I gotta find a way back -Oh, a road sign. Route… Route 800 it reads -I didn’t know there’s was a Route 800 out here -I’ll continue on. Maybe the rest stops are further down the road -No rest stops, but a town!

-A town, out here? I just left my own. There shouldn’t be another for many miles around -Anyways the fog had cleared up a lot more and the sun started to bake the road -At first I saw the town through the heat waves and figured it was an illusion -I didn’t know there was a town out here -I continued, and seeing the road cut straight through the little town I decided to stop for a bit -I see some shops here, hopefully I have enough on me to stock up on more food -I’ll ask the locals, they may know where I messed up. I wonder how many visitors they get out here -I got more food and water, gas too -I’m all stocked up now -They were kind, and many just said to continue down the road 114 • KWO

-The others were kind of shy. I guess not many come here after all -Hey, makes sense. I wouldn’t come out here on purpose either -Well, I waved goodbye and thanked those who helped. I’ll leave soon, cresting those desert hills on the horizon -I’ll surprise Cheryl, getting there as she wakes up -A lunch in bed, I’ll tell her about the day -I’m leaving now, following Route 800 Goodbye.

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Losing Myself

Zlata Matyushenko ’25 if i could (i can’t) change myself to make you see me i would in a heartbeat (and my heart beats fast) but i can’t (if only i could) because i fear (my heart beats fast?) i would (gladly) become her (not me) you’re making me wonder (again?) who am i without you? and what you want? (and what you need?) can you remind me who am I again?

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The Unseen Consequences

Mixed-Media Collage | Ava Pakravan ’24

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Kāneʻohe Rising

Photography | Claire Sanders ’23

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To Various Nations Nicole Dao ’23

my great grandmother, a doctor, attends to the nationalist army captain’s wife, who tells her to flee, take your family & run. She says divide my body into two parts, where the 黄河 cleaves over my breasts, stretching down to my navel. & i shout: think of your children! think of the separations! the way the river erodes the banks from which i was made—loess sediment & a man’s left rib.

Mother, when the blood runs back in my nose & down my throat, it’s more than just red—see! this is my lifeline, weightier than an ocean’s salt water. when i was born, they cut the red thread connecting us, & i felt the world crash into existence, but you clung to me, the same way a collapsing lung suffocates a word. this is my birthright, bread broken for me the same way my feet aren’t, you tell me, this is how a woman walks. this is how a woman grows old. this is how a woman lets herself be made into a river, this is how you separate yourself by way of the river, this is what you call the war when you win, this is how you pronounce it when you lose. you tell me you have sloughed away your skin for me, for my sake, this is a privilege, & i say no, this is a pain in the throat, an ache in the chest, & i tell you i know this pain, & i do.

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do you see what I mean, of making & undoing?

Mother, there has been a birth. we are not ready. * 黄河: Yellow River, also known as “China’s Sorrow”

Tempest

Ink | Nicole Dao ’23 KWO • 121

‘Io

Photography | Emma Crago ’24

First Generation

Mika Hiroi ’24

Dear Daedalus, These wings are faulty.

You promised they would carry us to freedom!

So many of us have flown over the sea.

We did as you told, flew straight and true!

And yet…

It’s been so long now, most of us have forgotten what it is like to soar, forgotten we had the power to.

We had the power too…

You overlooked the ways our wings could be bound.

Freedom is a memory now, like the must of mothballs between our true emotions, which we only pull from the wardrobe when society’s watchful gaze no longer requires a facade.

The powers that be, KWO • 123

being as strict and abstricted–constricting– as they are, have stricken our history from the records so we must spend hours searching for ways to unclip the binds on what should have been ours all along.

Power sounds like it’s trickling from the top down.

You’d think it’d be obvious–like Minos or Midas– But there is power in the subtle things too–in the little liberties taken from us–in how our feather-light armor was lifted away in the night and we couldn’t feel the difference until we tasted steel swords running us through.

Oh, Daedalus…

Your gift marks us now, wings dragging heavy behind.

Our past holds us to the ground, its whitened knuckles like jewel studs around our ankles, deepened with the scarlet teardrops winding from where nails piece forever fragile flesh.

They tell us to go back to where we came from.

But we worked too hard to get here.

It was your creation, powerful wingbeats, that pushed us to solid ground.

Can you, marvelous inventor, find a way to save us again?

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Find a way to make it so when all the colors of the world stand together you’d have to squint to tell who wields the power.

Find a way to stretch these wings, which haven’t been out of bounds, and these legs, which haven’t been bounding across salvation’s lavish shores.

Make it so we are unshackled once more before we drop down to Hades and dance for eternity to the rhythm of oblivion.

The day will come when Themis shows Adikia how to hold the scales steady.

The day will come when we find our wings, when we find ourselves, when we find the way out of this new labyrinth.

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Feather Blossom

Digital Art | Noa Menjo ’22

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Pandemonium

Digital Art | Rhys Yamanoha ’24

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Hazy

Digital Art|Samantha Sumstine ’22

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Ethereal Gaze

Digital Art | Sarah Holliday ’23

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Pretending Mika Hiroi ’24

Welcome to the land of make believe where ink swirls on paper and smudges my sleeve.

It’s a playground of snakes and mirrors, sharpened to slice away your preconceptions.

No children swing, slipping and tripping, from the bars slick with sweat, strife, and sorrows.

Ideas play hide and seek and run hard and fast when I finally finally find one.

The sky’s the limit!

Or so they tell me… Is it really?

Really, I’m just futilely pulling myself up from the floor which is lava.

Welcome to my land of make believe!

I won’t be offended if you want to leave.

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Hiker

Colored Markers | Mitchell Atebara ’24

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What to Think of Your Aluminum Starfish Sophie Chen ’24 Think of the forge Sparks flying within.

Your brother’s.

Who spent restless nights building it.

It lays atop the stump of the old orange tree.

The metal cover shines in the summer sun.

A drink sits in the holder of those foldable chairs.

You sit and watch the fire burn.

Something silver bubbles inside And the grass moves with the smoke, The wind is picking up And the sun is beating down, noon, In summer.

Metal tongs lift something that shines.

The liquid flows like gold, You step back, the smoke picks up.

There’s a great hissing noise, a clear whistle When the liquid hits the tray, The shape of a starfish that you’d fill with sand at the beach.

Your brother pours the shining silver into the mold, It hisses and bubbles and smoothes over, Hardening quickly, 132 • KWO

Your eyes never leaving, Burning from the smoke and the sun, but unable to look away.

And when the glistening aluminum starfish is pulled Flawless from the mold, Your brother smiles and places it on the concrete By the foldable chair you have long left to crouch at the starfish.

What wonder it is to craft With your own hands and come alive something shining.

Like silver, like gold, but worthless aluminum.

How, you ask, how can it be worthless when it shines so brightly The light reflected so starkly, the white blinding Heat of summer and the aluminum starfish.

He’d give it to you, your brother.

The starfish, your own to sit atop the bookshelf.

And on summer days with no clouds, The sun crashing through the window would ignite the pale room, The bookshelf would shine from the glow of childhood And you’d wring your hands to walk over to the flames once again.

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Many Things There Are to Think About Paper Collage | Felicia Yang ’24

134 • KWO

Post-Vaporwave Coby McKeown ’22

Dark! is the new midnight vogue; black, slick, sexy in modern robes.

“Modernity will kill us all!”

So said the man on Twitter of all places, and why should we believe him, that lying, impotent Neo-Luddite?

And anyway, he died in an Amazon warehouse facility accident just last week–we shouldn’t even bother with him; clearly he wasn’t so smart.

I guess King Crimson was right!

Now let’s move on and make fun of the 22nd Century Neurotic Man: “Ha ha ha.”

“Modernity will make our insides burst!”

Well, I mean, it could be worse, and besides, a short burst of energy never hurt anybody.

Have you ever heard anybody say that Pablo Neruda is actually good with a straight face?

Neither have I, it must be fake, it definitely has to be fake.

Sufre más el que espera siempre que aquel que nunca esperó a nadie?

Give or take a few years and everyone’s living the same life; at the end of the day we all curl up in our beds in a fetal position, dreaming about Billie Eilish’s breasts or something, and we join hands with Addison Rae and Timothée Chalamet and sing “We Are The World 25 For Haiti” in unison.

So I guess King Crimson was right– right about everything covered by the compact fluorescent Light.

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Field of Light

Photography | Lyric Ono ’24

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South Disneyland Drive Photography | Colin Morita ’23

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door light door light door light door light door light door light door light Henry Payne ’23

she stands tall and proudish in all her 4.32 star glory, not-home to dozens of weary seafarers. they each live their own little lives: fighting their battles, crying and laughing, drinking and talking, contained in separate, economically spaced little pods, side by side in neat rows; protected by walls of glass and hypothetical exclusivity. i march through the space in between these bubbles and unfeeling feet sink into unfeeling carpeting that stretches out to the horizon, framed by the mind-numbing repetition of doors and lights, over and over again. meaningless art lines the walls, nothing but smatterings of paint on an eggshell canvas: a deer gazes at nothing. intentionless colors mindlessly tangle with one another. immortal flowers sit dead in their pot.

It is wholly unholy and uncomforting, simply there to check a box on a grid. in the mirror, artificial ferns serve as pathetic attempts to convince onlookers that there is anything natural about where they find themselves: firmly inoffensive, they die next to the water fountain­­— the perfect, plastic beacon of faux-hospitality. somberly, i hurtle down this endless hall. falling past infinite lights beside me, i pull in my arms to ensure i don’t bash them on protruding door knobs 138 • KWO

that threaten to bruise my hips as i sail by. the sensation of motion is completely gone, instead the walls move up around me, and my mind succumbs to the sweet, surreal static. my limbs are leaden; my eyes slow; my ears and nose strained by the smell of artificiality and air freshener, as well as urban silence and tiny plastic wheels. suddenly, it all comes to a stop. my feet reach the floor. we’ve arrived at our room. keys are uncooperative and fingers go numb as my entire body strains towards the bed i know is inside. at last, with a satisfying click, a gateway opens to safety. i am pulled inside, my eyes barely have time to touch the interior before i stumble onto the mattress.

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The Creative Process

Photography | Anna Lerner ’22 140 • KWO

Nebulous

Digital Art | Ian Watanabe ’23

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Telescope

Colored Marker | Mitchell Atebara ’24

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Free Spirit

Harley Wolters ’23 The spirit inside of me yearns to be free.

It craves to know more than dull pencils, And crumpled note paper stuffed in a backpack, More than the clatter of keys underneath my tired fingers, And the filling in of bubbles on a test decorated with tear splatters.

It desires to explore past the 200-pound textbooks, And five page analytical essays on countries I will never visit, Past the weekly mental breakdowns, And the dark bags that droop beneath my blue eyes.

The spirit inside of me yearns to be free.

Running down sandy shores as the sky glows orange and pink, The soft waves chasing after me, the water wrapping around my ankles.

Running down cracked pavement under the cover of night, Guided only by twinkling city lights and the glow of the moon.

Driving down open country roads with the windows down, Feeling the whip of the wind in my hair, gulping in the fresh air.

The spirit inside of me yearns to be free.

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Alignment in the Twelfth House Photography | Claire Sanders ’23

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On This Cliffside, at Sunset, Alone Ash Bu ’25

On this cliffside, at sunset, alone, Watching as a lazy ball of hydrogen descends into new days, As its array of soft oranges graze my eyes like the gentle caress of fresh sheets, And sprays of a thinned ocean coat my ankles in white salt I reach my hand out, And I see Her drifting from me as Her colors seem brighter But Her magnificence the arbiter of Her deceit, As She sends a mocking word of success to those now in the dark, And bathes someone new with Her blinding yet necessary light But She slips between my fingers as Her flames sink seemingly just inches lower And while She eludes me I turn away, Laying my back on volcanic rock, I lay further back in time...

Rock from the heart of a mountain, forged in the hearth of a malleable beginning Glowing even brighter than Her head of muted orange hairs, a million miles away In that pressure the literal weight of a million tons of rock And yet the molten had the courage to change Now that sands I may rest my back against Are strong enough to keep whole under pressures of millennia later I reach my hand behind me, grasping further back in the timeline…

This stone that once was a heart of molten is on a larger rock That was an entire mountain range, then down to the core of the planet A core that still rages in such a bitter fatherhood of our world’s togetherness As He longs to devour this rock that is Himself And dance for a billion years with She who now settles below our saline lake Her mocking rays now bathing another rock, but still the same Him And He may cycle through a new stone, 146 • KWO

A new forgery But still the very same us I see my hair spread across this earth as they connect to the ground like roots made of me And my roots bring me further back…

Back to a time with these very same rocks, more distant A time where these stones were made of simple gases in a thin veil of nothing As strange moltens were made inside a star The same strange moltens where the roots of my being evolved So I, too, am information from a star I lean even further back in the timeline, As the sea foams at my still-dangling feet, My hair starts falling into the aether of the past As I dip my head into a thick membrane of nothing I can see my thoughts floating in this dry water, This cold fire, this grounded sky, And while I try to look around this strange fetal womb of the universe I see that I have no head to turn, and yet I think, no eyes to look, and yet I see I see into this everything, at every time, everywhere, Membranes of the universe where the tendrils of physics cease to pull us apart The birthplace of everything where we never left, the womb of life in which we still dwell And I hear my own voice, Calling to a maiden a million miles away, And that very same voice responds with illustrious tenderness And a million billion trillion quadrillion— An infinite supposed other calls with that very same voice, Not to a maiden’s blinding light, Nor to the pressures of His core And they, we, the voice, the body, the universe, We call to ourselves to wake up, To see the sky as a crown upon our heads KWO • 147

And to see that crown as a member of the kingdom of us That verse of us, this world, the universe And the universe said I love you And the universe said you are love And the universe said you are the midnight And the universe said you are the daylight And as I raise my head back to this place bound by space and time, I see that I am this cliffside I am this sunset And I am, with all this universe that is what I am, alone.

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The End

Digital Art | Joy Leung ’23

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W.I.P.

Leah McEvoy ’23 You will like this poem.

It will make you laugh.

Or maybe notThis was the first draft.

It may not be perfect, But that’s not the point.

What do you expect from me?

A consistent rhyme scheme?

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That’s Not Art

Ink | Yzelle Messinger ’23

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Writers’ Statements Crow Villanueva ’25, Choir, Dulcet Majesty (28-29) The idea for this poem came to me while I was listening to a video essay on the soundtrack of a video game. The soundtrack in question featured a prominent presence of choir and there was a point in my listening where it literally brought tears to my eyes because of both its beauty and the memories of the decade I spent in the Catholic Church. To put it politely, I did not have a pleasant time in the Church, and I am still healing to this day, yet still, I feel this almost self-destructive attraction to some of the things that remind me of my time there. Baroque art, gothic architecture, and as you know well, choir. I hoped to capture this essence in my work, the tear between wanting to love and celebrate the beauty, but being reminded of an unfortunate past.

Nicole Dao ’23, The Perennial Suffering (110-111) This is not so much a critique of APUSH (or any history class for that matter) as it is a critique of my own brain. Here’s a useful piece of trivia: During WWII, Japan had a human experimentation program called Unit 731. One of the experiments was to inject people with seawater to see if it would work as an alternative to saline solution. It didn’t. The imagery sticks with me, even if the weight of the actual crime does not.

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Artists’ Statements Ian Watanabe ’23, Hobbies (17) I took up plastic model building as a hobby/addiction during the pandemic. This piece is a simple tribute to the hobby in all of its messy glory.

Skyler Miranda ’23, You Saw (51) This is based on that donut space theory. The one in that space is shaped like a donut. Also, maybe the person in the middle is god, looking with dread.

Mira Kubo ’24, Into the Woods (58-59) I was hiking with my friends in Mānoa, and the trail we were on had a metal box that acted as a tunnel. I really liked how the tunnel felt out of place in the midst of the foliage as well as how it contrasted with the sky.

Emma Crago ’24, Extinct (67) This photo was particularly difficult to get. The ʻAlalā (Hawaiian Crow) are extinct in the wild, with only 110 left in captivity. Only two of them were available to be seen by the public, at the Panaʻewa Rainforest Zoo and Gardens on Big Island. Even so, they are difficult to see, obscured by glass and fencing in a small structure. When I shot this photo, the crow had flown to the nearest perch, turning its inquisitive eyes on the people gathered around.

Ian Watanabe ’23, Imperialism Is “Quirky” (107) This piece is a response to the recent internet trend of depicting soldiers and leaders of war/fascism as cute anime girls. I feel that such bubbly depictions undercut the seriousness of these issues, and even fetishize them to an extent. Therefore, I pasted the whimsical fantasy onto the serious reality as a way to point out the unsettling contradictions of fetishizing imperialism.

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Samantha Sumstine ’22, Military Turtles Unite! (108-109) This ballpoint pen piece is inspired by (and dedicated to) the turtles in our chapel’s lily pond. I was sitting near the water one day only to make sudden eye contact with one peering out of the water. But….this was no typical turtle—no, this one was of a different breed. It had an extremely long neck, a slender snout (which resembled a straw), and a flat shell. I was SPOOKED! Before I could get any closer, the turtle abruptly darted away, and I haven’t seen it since. If anyone ever sees this turtle, please…. let me know.

Claire Sanders ’23, Kāne‘ohe Rising (118-119) The photo captures an environment where my family has deeply rooted memories. I think it’s important to acknowledge how climate change has affected families in Hawai‘i and the grief that comes with it.

Ian Watanabe ’23, Nebulous (141) I wanted the piece to convey a spaceship and pilot who’ve both seen better days. The setting of a dirty and gritty spaceship cockpit is a prominent trope in sci-fi, and I tried to use it to reflect the past and current state of the man in the chair. Recognizable objects like photographs, medals, and cluttered paperwork also assist with filling in details. My main stylistic inspiration is the anime “Cowboy Bebop.” The title’s definition is “vague” or “poorly defined.” The man’s current purpose in this universe is nebulous, even to him. He’s also flying a starship through a literal space nebula, so the title works as a slightly depressing pun.

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Editorial Staff

Editors-in-Chief

Mob of Kangaroos Writing & Management Fever of Stingrays Art & Administration Murder of Crows Layout & Copy Editor Pandemonium of Parrots Advisors Labor of Moles Layout Editors

Congregation of Alligators Submission Editors

Leo Kim ’22 Mika Hiroi ’24 Ian Watanabe ’23 Ava Pakravan ’24 Nicole Dao ’23

Anjoli Roy Jill Sprott Lorelei Inaba ’22 Kira Goode ’23 Joy Leung ’23 Yzelle Messinger ’23 Irene Zhong ’24 Ivey Zhong ’24 KG Pan ’25 Benjamin Watanabe ’26 Nicole Dao ’23 Ian Watanabe ’23 Ava Pakravan ’24 KWO • 155

Conspiracy of Lemurs Staffers

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Noelani Brennan ’25 Ash Bu ’25 Penelope Dye ’25 Flora Elham ’25 Michael Gatbonton ’25 Jovie Okamoto ’25 Zoei Peacock ’25

The mission of Ka Wai Ola is to share the original writing and artwork of Punahou students with a larger community.

Would you like to see your art or writing published in the upcoming issue? Check out our website at kawaiola.punahou.edu for information on submitting.

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