KA WAI OLA
Volume 74 Fall 2020
Editors’ Note Take in the world around you: there is life and beauty surrounding us, in the slow blooming of flowers, the cheerfully hum of bees, the gentle flitting of butterflies, the whispering of leaves, tousled by a tender breeze. Take joy in these things, in the paradise that surrounds you. In the people that surround you. Look deeper. Bloom into being, in the fields and shores, in the sound and sea. Inhabit the cosmos of wonder and light that we create together.
Table of Contents Writing Love me back.
Mila Becker ’21
ένας κόσμος χωρίς εσένα
Angela Uyeda ’21
before we fade to gray
Mika Hiroi ’24
Throwing Away a Mind,
Emma Crago ’24
Keeping a Memory
Ode to ashes
Mila Becker ’21
Archive
Shea Noland ’22
Multiverse theory
Mila Becker ’21
Small be the maidens meadow
Mila Becker ’21
Tall be the emperor’s shadow
Mila Becker ’21
Grandfather Clock
Mika Hiroi ’24
His Hands Are Not
Mika Hiroi ’24
the Cleanest
One Last Thing
Mika Hiroi ’24
Juice
Lyric Ono ’24
Sleep amongst the stars
Mila Becker ’21
21 26 34-35 41-42 50 52 56-57 59 59 63 67-71 74-75 82-83 98-99
Table of Contents Art La Vie en Rose Flight Through Pages Hope Neighborhood Streets Our last summer, forgotten worries. No, Not Triplets Peek-a-boo Tune It Out walking on sunshine Lady, There, Watching Me Untitled The Illustrator a reach Untitled Spooky season shimmering in the void Interrupting REM My Dad Hates This Painting Fragment of Hydra Untitled Going green
Grace Chang ’24 Nikki Horinouchi ’21 Ava Pakravan ’24 Leo Kim ’22 Grace Chang ’24 Shea Noland ’22 Cruz Mercado ’21 Ryan Rogers ’21 Kylie Wong ’21 Shea Noland ’22 Grace Chang ’24 Anne Di Martino ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Lucas Omidyar ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Angela Uyeda ’21 Ryan Rogers ’21 Shea Noland ’22 Shea Noland ’22 Grace Chang ’24 Lauren Luke ’21
Cover 10-11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24 25 27 28 29 30 31 32-33
Art Solstice overseas i wish... Am I helping? Captured Youth Outlet end of an era Untitled Those Summer Nights Beach Disease Here Comes the Sun Homage-Starry Photo another plane birch summer Gup change in tide Slow Summer idle town Asymmetrical Estel magic промышленная еда Letting Go Urban Buddah
Anya Latham ’23 Kylie Wong ’21 Kylie Wong ’21 Lucas Omidyar ’21 Ava Pakravan ’24 Leo Kim ’22 Camryn Chun ’22 Mila Becker ’21 Grace Chang ’24 Callie Umeda ’23 Anne Di Martino ’21 Callie Umeda ’23 Lorelei Inaba ’22 Mila Becker ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Lucas Omidyar ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Cruz Mercado’21 Kylie Wong ’21 Shea Noland ’22 Elizabeth Matsumoto ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Leo Kim ’22
36-37 38 39 40 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 51 53 54-55 58 60 61 62 64 65 66 72 73
Ava Pakravan ’24
76
Leo Kim ’22
77
Art Remaining
Lucas Omidyar ’21
78
frozen plane
Mila Becker ’21
79
reflect the stars
Mila Becker ’21
80
sunburst
Mila Becker ’21
81
Red Wishes
Cruz Mercado ’21
84
Listen
Anne Di Martino ’21
85-92
Untitled
Lucas Omidyar ’21
93
Together
Lucas Omidyar ’21
94-95
familiar
Mila Becker ’21
96
dream circle
Mila Becker ’21
97
Interlude
Silvia Kim ’23
100
Flight Through Pages
Mixed Media | Nikki Horinouchi ’21
10 • KWO
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Hope
Ink Wash | Ava Pakravan ’24 12 • KWO
Neighborhood Streets Photography | Leo Kim ’22
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Our last summer, forgotten worries. Photography | Grace Chang ’24
14 • KWO
No, Not Triplets
Acrylic | Shea Noland ’22
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Peek-a-boo
Digital Art | Cruz Mercado ’21
16 • KWO
Tune It Out
Photography | Ryan Rogers ’21
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walking on sunshine
Photography | Kylie Wong ’21 18 • KWO
Lady, There, Watching Me Acrylic | Shea Noland ’22
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Untitled
Photography | Grace Chang ’24
20 • KWO
Love me back. Mila Becker ’21
In the garden we shared, I wait. In the small corner we made, I wait. Among the fruit bearing trees and weeds of careless words, I wait. Yellow tulips once laced your smile, igniting your joy brighter than the sun. Your laughter sounded like dewdrops rolling off fern leaves. Seated amid the chrysanthemums in the garden’s maze, I wait. In the home of upturned earth and cracked stone paths, I wait. Among the “what if”s and turbulent seeds, I wait. Roses of yellow and carnations of purple bloom across my chest. Christmas roses bloomed in my words; petals sprung from my neck. Dead leaves fall from your form, and primrose grows behind my eye. In the leftover memories and tattered netting, I wait. In the fields of toil and sullied hands, I wait. Among the “am I worthy of you?”s and the precarious distance between us where the sweet pea grows, I wait. Hydrangea doesn’t belong on my soil covered hands, and neither does the bitter color of the orange lily. Yet this one does. In the barren fields, I wait. In the valley of the fir trees, I wait. Among the resolve, and the buried daffodil bulbs, I wait. I’ll wait for you until the sun rises again, I’ll wait until the flowers bloom, and I’ll wait beside you when they wilt once again. In all the reasons you are love, we wait. In all the reasons I love you, we wait. Among the “you are worth my everything”s and the future flowerbeds, we wait.
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The Illustrator
Digital Art | Anne Di Martino ’21
22 • KWO
a reach
Drawing | Mila Becker’21
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Untitled
Glass | Lucas Omidyar ’21
24 • KWO
Spooky season
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
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ένας κόσμος χωρίς εσένα Angela Ueyda ’21
here i lay floating alone, boxed in with myself as company, looking out into the void, a million little lights giggling at my despair. you were the one keeping me grounded. the miles between have me trapped in my mind, gazing out at the world we once held in our hands. the rainbow of stars we shared stray further from my grasp, tauntingly bright still. how much longer will i wait? these glass walls feel closer every day. i want to see you, hold you again before it all falls apart. here i lay in the prison of my thoughts, suspended in the abyss with no exit in sight, a million little lights twinkling in time with my tears.
26 • KWO
shimmering in the void
Digital Art | Angela Ueyda ’21
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Interrupting REM
Photography | Ryan Rogers ’21
28 • KWO
My Dad Hates This Painting Acrylic | Shea Noland ’22
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Fragment of Hydra
Oil | Shea Noland ’22 30 • KWO
Untitled
Photography | Grace Chang ’24
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32 • KWO
Going green
Photography | Lauren Luke ’21
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before we fade to gray Mika Hiroi ’24
They ask me what color death is. They say it is black. I say, no, black is the color of night. Death is not black, because death is not night. They hold to their opinion, because night is the closest thing they know to death. I can understand why they would think death is the color of night. Night is dark and we become sightless. They can’t see, they don’t know what is around themselves, so they liken night to death. What they don’t understand is that even in the night, they are the color red. Even at night, one could see the red that radiates from them. Pulse rushing, heart pumping, lungs breathing. That’s red. Red heat, hot blood, movement. That’s life. Life goes on during the night, the red carries through the dark. I explain this to them, yet they still insist that death is black. They shake their heads and explain: Think of a candle which burns in a dark room. When the candle goes out, what is left is black. I interrupt. There is never only one candle, so the room is never dark. Look around yourselves, I say, there are thousands of candles in the room. Each candle burns red, each life pulses with light. If one light flickers out, it is only missed by those around it. The room does not grow dark and the glowing atmosphere is unchanged as a whole. There are candles that stand near the candle which grew dark. They spread their light over that one pinpoint of darkness. The room still is filled with light. Death is not black. I have seen death. I have looked upon it as it took a life. I have seen death and it is not black. Death stole a love from me. The world did not grow dark when he ceased to be red. When my father stopped breathing, nothing changed around me. The room full of candles was still bright. A new candle’s light soon filled his spot in the room. No one noticed the spot that was void of light, the spot that was not red. No one saw because it was not black. It was merely an absence of life. If you did not know there had been a candle burning there before, you would never have noticed the spot 34 • KWO
in the room that was not burning brightly. If that spot grew black, your eyes would have flown to it, because it would be unnatural and alien. A black spot among many burning candles would draw your attention. But death is not black. I have found that death is gray. When I look upon the spot where his candle burned in that room, it is not black, it is not red. It is gray. It is dimmer than it should be, but no one would see that unless they were looking for it. I remember when that spot was filled with red. Heat, light, joy. Now it is gray. It is not black, for black is harsh and real. Instead, it is gray, leaving an itching, unsettling feeling to the onlooker. I have gotten used to this gray. I used to hate it, curse it every day for not being red and bright, but I have accepted it to be gray. It is not unfeeling and cruel, as it would be if it were black, but soft and full of regret, longing. Death is gray. Look at all those candles in that illuminated room and notice how they echo the millions of lives that surround you. A single life mimics the glow of a candle within that room. Now do you understand? Death is gray. Look upon the lives that you love, your own and others’, and treasure the red light that shines there. Know the color of the lives around you. Love them before they turn to gray.
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Solstice
Photography | Anya Latham ’23
36 • KWO
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overseas
Photography | Kylie Wong ’21
38 • KWO
i wish...
Photography | Kylie Wong ’21
*Glass Piece by Dale Chihuly
KWO • 39
Am I helping?
Digital Art | Lucas Omidyar ’21 40 • KWO
Throwing Away a Mind, Keeping a Memory Writing | Emma Crago ’24
My parents bring down boxes upon boxes of books and journals, sending up a dust cloud which permeates the area with little particles of memories. I turn, and hear the creak of the shiny silver shredder, rolling out into the driveway. That day, I had been lounging around the house, re-reading ‘The Land of Stories’ for what seemed like the seven hundredth time. At that time I had no interest in realistic fiction, much less stories like my grandfather’s. Sure, I thought it was cool that he was an author, but I had no concept of what a good story truly was, instead choosing to read through paragraph and paragraph of cheesy young adult fiction. The journals are my grandfather’s, old and worn, with hundreds of drafts of stories yet to be told. Sitting down on the old creaky oak bench, I settle down behind the shredder and turn it on. Grasping the edge of the cover on the first spiral bound notebook, I tear down. Moving on, I start ripping out multiple pages at a time. The grinding noise of stories being torn apart fills my head. chc-chc-chc-chc. I can see his hands, old and worn, writing these stories, in his barely decipherable handwriting. What would he think, seeing his life’s work going in the trash? Each page is mutilated, each paragraph is devoured by the grating metal jaws, until all that’s left is a bent, tarnished spiral, and a memory of what once was. An hour has passed, and my back is aching from hunching over the shredder, throwing away my grandfather’s mind. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I sit up slowly, sweeping my gaze across the disarray of journal covers and feathery ends of spiral journal paper. Seeing all of those stories thrown away, I feel a pang of sadness that no one would see these stories he had written. I pick up an older looking burgundy journal from the pile set to shred. Carefully peeling back the weathered cover, I study his loopy KWO • 41
handwriting, his little sketches in the margins of the page. One catches my eye. A man, him, sketched in with a ball-point pen, staring back at me with hopeful eyes. Holding me there, I feel the need to keep this piece of my grandfather, to remember him by. Tucking it in my pocket, I sigh, sit back down, and continue to shred. By the end of the day, I’ve shredded almost everything and am down to the bottom of the box. Picking up the last journal, this one colbalt blue, newer, unfinished, I start shredding it. The last paper done, the shredder rattles, and goes silent. After that, I feel a sense of finality, and tread back inside the house. Inside, I wish I had more of him to remember than just snippets of memories. Pulling out the paper, I stare at it, looking for an answer to an unasked question.
Now, looking back, I know I can keep his memory alive when I talk about how he was. He’s still here, but it’s our job to keep his memory alive. As long as we continue to tell his story, we’ll continue to remember him. Mr. Maretzki asked us why we tell stories about ourselves. This is my answer.
42 • KWO
Captured
Mixed Media | Ava Pakravan ’24
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Youth
Photography | Leo Kim ’22 44 • KWO
Catboy
Photography | Leo Kim ’22
Outlet
Digital Art | Camryn Chun ’22
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end of an era
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
46 • KWO
Untitled
Photography | Grace Chang ’24
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Those Summer Nights
Photography | Callie Umeda ’23
48 • KWO
Beach Disease
Drawing | Anne Di Martino ’21
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Ode to ashes
Mila Becker ’21
Lay the flag down softly, at least what remains of it. May the remnants, scattered to the winds, survive another day And rise from the earth, the sprouts of tomorrow. Nation of strength, who rose against adversity, rest now. Become the rising star of a nation once again. Even the odds, with a hope and a blade by your side. Remember your true name, forever more Go forward with strength, nation of ashes.
50 • KWO
Here Comes the Sun
Photography | Callie Umeda ’23 KWO • 51
Archive
Shea Noland ’22
I’d like to be captured by a polaroid It feels more permanent. I want something holding me To space and time I want something remembering me How my posture stood tall How my feet turned out. I’d like to be a participant In the history of the living. If no one knows I was there Was I even there? Who can prove I existed? Who can prove that now? Make me a figment at least Make me a wonder. I want to be picked up by a stranger And thought about How my posture stood tall How my feet turned out. In the whites of the exposure, In the fuzzy of the time Bring me back to existence. I want to be questioned Have my life be a daydream Have my being be a conquest The truth is subjective Let me be subjective. Let me be an argument A claim of validity. I want to be captured by a polaroid. If my last years are the end of a flat trail And my footprints don’t sink in Let me at least be a document Let me at least exist to you.
52 • KWO
Homage-Starry Photo
Digital Art | Lorelei Inaba ’22
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54 • KWO
another plane
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
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Multiverse theory
Mila Becker ’21
Do you remember that tree, the one on the hill? The one with the old wooden swing set, and in the summer the hill would be painted white with dandelions? You used to pluck one from the ground and throw the seeds to the wind. You’re probably responsible for the white summers on that hill. You and I would sit at the roots of the old tree, and you’d tell me such strange things. Of worlds alike to ours, yet different. I would like to visit them, if I could. Do you recall the tree, the one on the hill? The one with the old tire swing, and in the summer the hill would be painted white with dandelions? We would always avoid that hill on those days; your allergies would act up. It doesn’t quite feel the same, but sitting beside you as your nose slowly turns red and your eyes water, I don’t feel a difference. Do you remember that tree, the one hidden deep in the valley by the abandoned train tracks? The one with abandoned bottles and cigarettes near its withering roots, and how in the winter ice would blend with broken glass? You left me again; this time it hurt that much more. You didn’t leave this world like you left the other seven i’ve seen. You left me, yet i’ll still see you, with someone else beside you, and I don’t know if that makes it worse. Do you remember that lake, the one in that fancy park? The one with the ducks swimming at the edge begging passerbys for spare bread crumbs,
56 • KWO
And in the fall, strings of lights bind the orange and yellow covered trees together? You’re married now. Married to another me. Not once in the hundreds of worlds i’ve seen have I stopped to ponder if you could have met another me, if you were destined to meet another me. I’ve been selfish, haven’t I, wanting you all to myself? You’re across the pond from me now, and yet this seems the closest I’ve ever gotten to you. Do you remember the tree, the one outside your white room? The one with the bus stop beside it, And every day I would see you from your hospital window, and every day you would stare out at that tree, waiting for me? The doctors say you can’t leave, that you don’t have much time. I bring you a dandelion from the hillside, with a weak breath you release the seeds outside your window. You smile with the same sincerity as all those years ago, I can see our hillside in your eyes. Let me be selfish just once more; let me take in every last detail of you. Write it all down and commit you to my memory. Because this is the only world I have, And you’re the only you I have.
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birch summer
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
58 • KWO
Small be the maidens meadow Mila Becker ’21
Inside a world of dreams, Inside a painting of reality. A song of finality, a world of limits Moments pass, moments strip ability Youth play near the stream side, youth lay by the wayside Over the hills, over yourself. Ultimately gaining nothing, ultimately losing everything
Tall be the emperor’s shadow Mila Becker ’21
When the world disappears. when the towers seem tall, How the world feels so small, how the world feels so vast. Owning a corner of the universe, owning it all An imposing shadow, A heavy crown. Mirrors lie, mirror’s shards. Illustrious smiles, illusions lies.
KWO • 59
Gup
Glass | Lucas Omidyar ’21
60 • KWO
change in tide
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
KWO • 61
Slow Summer
Digital Art | Cruz Mercado ’21 62 • KWO
Grandfather Clock Mika Hiroi ’24
The weary man looked at the clock, And saw that time grew old, Its face was lined, Its hands were thin, And its voice was soft and low. The weary man looked at the clock, And in it saw his twin, For the clock had too, Lived for so long. Surely, they were akin. The weary man looked at the clock, Watching it make its rounds, Pondering, It’s restlessness, Which seemed to have no bounds. The weary man looked at the clock, And saw it with new eyes, Perhaps the clock, He thought with awe, Was an old man in disguise.
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idle town
Photography | Kylie Wong ’21
64 • KWO
Asymmetrical
Drawing | Shea Noland ’22
KWO • 65
Estel
Digital Art | Elizabeth Matsumoto ’21 66 • KWO
His Hands Are Not the Cleanest Mika Hiroi ’24
The crowds thronged around, everyone vying for a glimpse at the man whose head was in the guillotine. Whispers were tossed about, carrying rumors which weaved their way into people’s ears. This man had defied the King. The man didn’t seem to be a threat, though. He seemed scared, regretful, almost. A compassionate woman in the front of the crowd turned to her husband with these observations. She asked him what the man in the guillotine had done to reap punishment upon himself. Her husband replied simply, repeating one of the rumors that had wormed into his skull. The man had defied the King. The woman argued that the man might not have done anything of the sort. Rumors were only ever half truths. Perhaps the man did not deserve to be killed. Her husband sharply hushed her treasonous words. The woman pouted, but was silent. After all, if the King had ordered this man to die, that was reason enough. High above the crowd, the King marched out of the pair of double doors being held open for him. His castle rose high and mighty behind him. He made his way to the front of the balcony which protruded from one of the castle’s many turrets. A herald announced his royal presence and the noise of the crowd died down to a murmur. He stood straight and tall, striking a formidable figure. There was not a single aspect of himself out of place. The very image of power, he stood upon the balcony and addressed his subjects. “My people!” His voice was loud, regal, and it carried. “You have gathered here today to witness the death of this resistant man. He has dared to defy my will. I trust you will all learn well from his mistake.” With a single word from the King, the man would die. The executioner stood ready, far below, on the raised platform that displayed the dreaded guillotine. At his command, the executioner would spring to action, yet the King hesitated. For a moment he observed the man in the guillotine, whom he had pronounced a vilKWO • 67
lain. The man’s face was whiter than snow. Even from the distance he was at, the King could see that the man was afraid. Opening his mouth to give the order, the King saw the man look at the ground in submission, a dead, accepting expression on his face. Guilt twisted in the King’s gut, but his voice rang out loud and clear as he announced the man’s sentence. The King turned his head away while the deed was done. He shuddered, then his eyes flicked around to make sure no one noticed. The things one does for power. Once the execution had been completed, the crowds dispersed. If the King looked closely, he could have seen that woman in the front of the crowd, tears streaming down her face as she and her husband walked home. Instead, the King found his eyes drawn to the guillotine. It had not yet been cleaned and the King’s searching gaze was met by a smattering of bright red upon the ground. Though he did not have a weak constitution, the King’s stomach turned at the sight, for he had caused it to happen. The things one does for absolute control. He whirled around, expensive robes swirling about his ankles. His stride was quick as he pushed his way through the double doors, back into the castle. The corridors were dark and winding. He knew his way around perfectly, but he found himself faltering. Alone, in the dark, he paused. Bile rose in his throat because something wet and heavy was dripping down his hands. Although he had been far from where the execution took place, the King knew it was blood. It was not his own blood, but the blood of the man he had sent to the guillotines. The King raced through the castle once more, as if escaping himself. In his imagination, he saw his hands just as he felt them, covered in blood. There, in the dimly lit halls, he couldn’t make himself look, but he knew that crimson ribbons were twining themselves around his fingers. By the time he got to his throne room, his hands held in the air in front of him, his skin was hot and sticky with scarlet. Finally, in the bright light streaming in from the windows, the King looked at his hands. There was nothing on them. Panic flooded him, for he still felt the blood between his fingers, even with the stark proof that they were clean. Feeling faint, the King stumbled to sit heavily upon his throne. With two careful fingers, the King rang the bell beside him. A servant came rushing to serve. The King announced that 68 • KWO
beside him. A servant came rushing to serve. The King announced that he needed to wash his hands. The servant cast an incredulous look at the King’s clean fingers, but he did as he was told. The servant returned with a copper basin full of fresh water. The King’s hands plunged eagerly into the liquid and he rubbed them together vigorously. When the servant offered a white towel, the King dried his hands, but a moment later, the blood was there again. It was slippery, warm, and completely indiscernible by sight. His voice shaking, the King called for another bowl of water. He washed his hands again. He dried them. Then he called for another bowl, for the blood still pooled in his palms. He washed his hands again. And again. And again. His hands were scrubbed raw by the time he finished, yet the phantom blood remained. He slumped back in defeat. The King’s wife had sat upon her own throne beside his, watching the entire ordeal with curiosity. She put her hand upon his arm in concern. Only then did he notice her presence. “Are you alright, dear?” she asked inquisitively. “Yes, my love,” the King lied, trying to ignore the itching of his hands as the blood dried on his skin, “My hands were dirty.” “They are trembling!” the queen noted in surprise, taking one of the King’s hands within her own thin and pale fingers. “Don’t!” the King yanked his arms away, retching to think that his wife’s pristine skin could have been contaminated by his own repulsiveness. “Are you ill?” the queen looked like a kicked dog as she drew her hands back. “No, my dear.” The King fought to normalize his voice. “I’m sorry to frighten you, only, I’ve had a trying day.” “I understand.” the queen smiled demurely. “Perhaps it would cheer you to see the children.” Before the King could object, his wife called out and a young girl entered the throne room. As each name sprung from her lips, another child ran in. When the queen had finished, they stood all in a line before her. There were seven in total. They smiled at their mother, who looked back with adoring eyes. She stood and kissed them each on the cheek, a reward for good behavior. When her face neared theirs, they lit up with joy. She sat and surveyed them with pride. KWO • 69
“Darlings,” the queen said, “your father has had a difficult day. Please go to him and each of you give him a kiss upon the cheek.” The children shrunk back, afraid. The King had never mistreated them, but children have a way of knowing when someone’s soul is unclean. Only the youngest child came without hesitation. She leaped upon his lap and pressed her tiny lips to his skin. She giggled softly and grabbed one of his fingertips in her small fist. The King was frozen to the spot as the child’s innocent hands twined with his. His breathing became ragged as he felt his bloody hands taint the child’s chubby fingers. The girl smiled and it snapped the King into action. He pushed her away from himself desperately, heaving her off of his lap. She tripped and fell to the floor, too shaken to cry. The rest of his children huddled together in horror, their suspicions proved right. The oldest child’s eyes burned holes in the King, glaring loathingly at the King’s hands, as if the blood stains upon them were visible. Cooing with sympathy, the queen gathered her children within her arms. The young ones cried, but she presently put a stop to that. At a word from her, they all lined up again, despite their fear of their father. She beamed at them, which brought a hesitant smile to even the oldest child’s face. “Now, my babies,” the queen’s words were rich and deep, filled to the brim with tenderness, “Don’t be frightened. Stand tall now, there is no need for fear. Don’t cry, little ones.” The children stopped crying. Their postures became perfect. They smiled at their mother, nothing forced about their happy demeanor. The King watched with awe as his wife instructed her children. She had perfect control over them, using simply her pure love. With a wonderful smile, the queen opened her arms invitingly and all her children came tumbling into her. The oldest child was the first to embrace the queen, sitting contentedly upon her lap. The rest followed soon after, piling around her as if they wished to hide her from the King’s view. Sniveling, the youngest child brought up the rear. She had scraped her knee when the King pushed her down and now a red rivulet trickled down her leg. The King gulped upon seeing it, feeling as though the blood on his hands was becoming thicker. The cut caught the queen’s eye and Photography | Kylie Wong ’21she cried out in dismay.
Midnight Memories 70 • KWO
“Make way, my dears! Please, make way. I must tend to your poor sister.” The children parted willingly before the queen. “Does it hurt very much, love?” “Not very much, mother,” the young one replied bravely to the top of the queen’s head. The queen had knelt down to examine the scrape. She tutted disdainfully and called for some bandages. A servant brought her some white gauze, which the queen wrapped gently around her child’s knee. The little girl grinned happily when she saw her mother’s handiwork. After the child had thanked her politely, the queen stood to kiss the young girl’s forehead. The queen dismissed her children as she sat back down on her throne. With satisfaction, the queen watched the children scamper off. Glancing down at her hands, the queen noticed a spot of red on her paper white hand. When tending to her daughter’s cut, some of the girl’s blood had fallen onto the back of the queen’s hand. The queen shook her head at the inconvenience and rang her bell for a servant to bring her a water basin. The King watched in breathless panic, his eyes glued to that single crimson blossom on the queen’s skin. The blood faded off of the queen’s hand, dying the water a light tint of red. She washed her hands once. She did not need to wash them again.
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magic
Ink | Mila Becker ’21 72 • KWO
Night Lightsпромышленная еда Digital Art | Anne Di Martino ’21 Photography | Leo Kim ’22
KWO • 73
One Last Thing
Mika Hiroi ’24
Tires skidded through rivulets of water which ran down the street. A woman gripped the steering wheel, driving carefully, her son sitting contentedly in the back of the car. The little boy’s lilting voice flowed in a way that was entrancing, almost a song. He bounced joyfully as he spoke, making his mother grin. The rain pattered on the roof of the car in time with his babble, the windshield wipers keeping a constant beat. His tiny hands grasped his seatbelt as he rocked back and forth in his car seat, his story winding on and on. An adoring smile spread across his mother’s face and she glanced backward, turning to look at her beloved son. The car hurtled around the corner, wheels sliding fast, too fast, over wet asphalt. The boy stopped speaking as his mother’s smile disappeared and she whipped back around to face the road. Even at his young age, he understood the tilting of the car, the frantic movements of his mother, and he knew. He sensed the sour, ominous energy which suddenly shuddered through the air and tears gathered in his eyes. A scream formed in his mother’s throat just as the car spun out of control. It died on her lips, however, as she spotted a girl no older than ten years sitting in the passenger seat. Time seemed to slow. Her face had a soothing quality, round and pink, framed by long black hair. A billowing white dress enveloped her small, frail form. As the car careened towards a street lamp, the girl’s mouth popped open in surprise and her wide eyes met the panicked gaze of the mother. Silently, the girl in white slipped her hand into the woman’s. The warm grip of the child jolted the woman into action. Keeping hold of the girl’s hand, the woman threw herself into the back of the car, shielding her son with her body. With shocking force, the car struck the street lamp. Shattered glass exploded over the leather seats of the car. The girl in white watched in delicate tranquility as the woman’s neck snapped back. Her grip on her child’s car seat was the only thing keeping her entire body from being tossed to the front of the car.
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Her son began howling, tears pouring down his face. The woman looked at her son, safe in her embrace. Seeing her son alive, a ghost of a smile flickered across her lips as her last breath trembled out of her. The girl in white pressed a kiss to the woman’s cheek. A smile, the same bittersweet smile which the woman had worn but a moment ago, graced the girl’s lips and then she was gone.
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Letting Go
Drawing | Ava Pakravan ’24 76 • KWO
Urban Buddha
Photography | Leo Kim ’22
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Remaining
Watercolor | Lucas Omidyar ’21
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frozen plane
Ink | Mila Becker ’21
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reflect the stars
Ink | Mila Becker ’21 80 • KWO
sunburst
Ink | Mila Becker ’21
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Juice
Lyric Ono ’24 A train whistle, far away and lonely sounding, woke Alfie. His room was dark and he squinted at the glowing red clock on his nightstand. 3:00 am. Not night anymore, but not yet morning. He turned away from the clock and squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use. He couldn’t go back to sleep. Alfie opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He was thirsty. He was thirsty and he wanted juice. Alfie could picture the apple juice, cold and golden-colored, waiting for him in the refrigerator. Who would get it for him? His mother had seemed upset at dinner, silently cutting her meat, not talking to his dad. “This meat is too dry, Allison,” his dad had said. His mom replied with silence, the scraping of her fork was the only sound in the room. Finally she said, “Ask your father to pass me the salt, Alfie.” His father glared. Alfie slid the salt shaker over to his mother. She didn’t seem to notice. Alfie went to his room shortly after dinner. His mother had peeked her head in before she’d gone to bed. “Goodnight, little one,” she’d said. “Make sure you brush your teeth.” She yawned and patted him on the head. Alfie’s father hadn’t stopped by. Alfie decided to ask his mom to get him his juice. Quickly, he leapt out of bed with his blanket wrapped cape-like around his shoulders. He didn’t want the creature under his bed to grab his ankles. Alfie tiptoed in the dark silence to his mom’s bedroom. Creaking the door open, he could see his mother lying in bed with her earplugs in and eye mask on. She lay on her back, corpse-like, and she had a slight scowl on her face. “Mom,” Alfie whispered. “Mom. Mom. Mommy!” His mother groaned and then she was silent. “Mom!” Alfie said. She groaned again. “What is it, Alfie?” she asked. “I just barely fell asleep! Just now!” “Mom, I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty and I want juice.” Alfie’s 82 • KWO
mother groaned once more. “Oh Alfie. If you want juice, go ask your father to get you some juice.” His father was sleeping on the couch in the family room. That meant Alfie had to walk down the stairs in the dark, silent house. He didn’t want to. But he did want juice. He was so thirsty now. Quickly he ran down the hallway, skipped down the stairs and went into the family room. His dad was sprawled on the couch, snoring loudly. Alfie shook him. “Dad!” he said. “Dad!” Alfie’s dad sat straight up. “Who’s there?” he grunted loudly. “It’s just me,” Alfie said. “I’m thirsty. I want juice. Can you get me some juice?” “You want juice? You want juice at three in the morning?” his father laughed a little as he spoke, but he was already lying back down on the couch. “If you need juice, you go ask your mother to get you some juice.” Alfie stood there silently and stared at his sleeping father. Briefly he thought about asking him again, but he didn’t think his father would be very happy about that. He reached out and pulled the blanket up to his father’s chin. Then, very slowly, he climbed the stairs and went into the hallway bathroom. He shut the door and turned on the light. He turned the taps and bent down to drink the water coming from the faucet. Then Alfie stood up straight and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The boy in the mirror stared back at him. “Tomorrow,” Alfie told him. “Tomorrow I’ll get you some juice.”
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Red Wishes
Digital Art | Cruz Mercado ’21
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Untitled
Glass | Lucas Omidyar ’21
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Together
Digital Art | Lucas Omidyar’21
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familiar
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21 96 • KWO
dream circle
Drawing | Mila Becker ’21
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Sleep amongst the stars
Mila Becker ’21
Sleep amongst the stars Once the sun sets, and the moon rises The lies, and treachery, are brought to life. One pawn dead, the rest remain. One person’s hands here are stained blood red. You could tell me that the truth never existed, and I’d believe you. The game begins, the curtain is drawn, Someone whispers, “I am innocent.” Trust and sensibility, like bones are crushed to dust. Alibis fly like stray bullets from both the innocent and the guilty, Malice lacing each round, gunshots parlay with the cacophony. A kangaroo court at its finest, Is this trial about finding the guilty anymore? Blame is thrust from hand to hand, until it falls completely and absolutely. Someone screams, “He is guilty.” Objections and rebuttals fall from the sky, Shot down by missiles from the sky. Desperate pleas falls on deaf ears, Backs turn, back against a wall. What to do when all trust is lost? A brutal war A brutal genocide of truth Someone murmurs “You’re wrong...” No matter how much you struggle, You can’t change the jury’s mind. The verdict is set in stone, And you will rest eternally with the slam of the gavel etched into your grave.
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The warmth of glory dissipates in the vacuum of space, You’ll rest beside the invisible stars Robbed of them both in life and in death.
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Interlude
Digital Art | Silvia Kim’23
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Artists’ Statements Ava Pakravan ’24, Captured - Mixed Media On a Saturday morning, I was thinking of the ocean and grabbed a piece of charcoal to draw a turtle. As I looked more carefully at the charcoal drawing of the turtle, I decided to cut it into different pieces to integrate it into the face of a lady. I incorporated other mediums such as pastel and newspaper pieces throughout the process as well. Portraits are unique in the way that each of them is able to express a different feeling through its face, and this piece is a lady captured by the beauty of turtles. Anya Latham ’23, Solstice - Photography This photo was taken on my iPhone 7, believe it or not. I was eating dinner in Waikiki on June 20, which was the summer solstice, and the sky just became more and more fascinating. I probably took hundreds of pictures that evening because I wasn’t sure when the sunset would peak. It eventually did, so I captured this photo. Kylie Wong ’21, overseas - Photography This was taken a few years ago when I went on a trip to China with my family. I really liked the architecture on this museum because of its unique geometric shape. I wanted to capture this because I had seen very few structures like this in China. I really didn’t edit it too much because I didn’t want to make the image more grainy.
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Kylie Wong ’21, i wish... - Photography This was taken at the at the Chihuly Glass Museum in Seattle. For this photo I was actually lying on the floor to get the photo because I wanted the space needle in the background. Luckily the museum wasn’t super crowded that day and I wasn’t in the way to get this photo. Something that I like about this is photo is the Space Needle got blurred by the window of the building. Kylie Wong ’21, idle town - Photography I took this in Japan a few years ago when I was walking over a bridge in Tsukiji. It was something that I took quickly as I was walking. I didn’t have time to set it up and frame it, but I am really glad I was able to capture this image and how it came out. When I was looking for photos to submit to KWO and went through all the photos from this trip, I hadn’t realized how much I liked this image. I think because of how accidental this picture was, it turned out to be one of my favorite pictures of mine in this edition. Kylie Wong ’21, walking on sunshine - Photography My photography normally is scenery photography and usually doesn’t have people in it. Although I was trying to capture this image, there were people constantly walking by. I decided to embrace this, and I saw this couple that was going to walk by and I really liked the dress she was wearing so I captured them as they walk by. Callie Umeda ’21, Here Comes the Sun - Photography My family and I go fishing once in a while and we always go to Punaluʻu. We always leave in the early hours of the morning and we get to the beach by sunrise. I like to take pictures of the nature surrounding me and on one trip. Using my phone and an app called HUJI, I was able to capture the picture you see now.
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Callie Umeda ’21, Those Summer Nights - Photography I took photography over the summer last year and this picture was one that I took for fun. I was at the Pearl City high school football field with my family and the sky looked very beautiful that evening. I took my Canon Rebel T6 out and snapped this photo. Lorelei Inaba ’22, Homage-Starry Photo - Digital Art This piece was part of an assignment for my Digital Art class where we had to pay homage to an artist’s masterpiece in our art. My piece pays homage to Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night, hence the name of my piece. The scene depicted in the polaroid is a reference to Starry Night and I used aspects from van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Cypresses to draw the nature scene outside the polaroid. The concepts that inspired this drawing were environment and technology. I wanted to show that although we can become absorbed in technology and become distracted from the world around us, technology can also be used to capture perfect moments, sort of like the one in the polaroid. Lately I’ve taken to taking photos of sunsets because it feels like I’m capturing that moment forever by doing so, and I wanted to portray that feeling in my drawing. Camryn Chun ’22, Outlet - Digital Art I drew this piece of digital art during a very restless weekend. I had a lot of creative energy bouncing around the inside of my head, so I decided to channel it into a drawing. When I first started, I really didn’t know what I was hoping to create; all I knew was that I needed to find a catalyst- an outlet- for my wild thoughts and ideas. So this is the final product of my rampant imagination, something that had started off as a strange array of messy circles and lines.
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Ryan Rogers ’21, Interrupting REM - Photography I created this piece by combining a few pictures together. I first took photos of my bed sheet in a fort-like position to create the walls of the room that the bed is in. The bed itself was shot separately, as well as each floating pillow, and I added the clovers sprouting from the ground near the bed in post-production. There were around six photos in total that ended up comprising the final piece. “Interrupting REM” is meant to be a visual representation of the confused and disoriented state of consciousness you are in after waking up from a nap/ dream in the middle of the day; something I’ve been doing much more during quarantine. Ryan Rogers ’21, Tune It Out - Photography I created this piece by first location-scouting an empty field, then shooting the self portrait with my bluetooth remote and tripod, and then adding the bubble/ dome in post-production. “Tune It Out” illustrates my ideal idea of people letting go of competition and comparison to others, thus allowing more room for their own development and space to escape into their own dreams and desires. My hope is that people can confidently grow into themselves, and tune out what others around them are doing. I believe everyone’s path is different, and if you’re constantly imitating and overlyengaged in other people’s lives, your full potential will never be reached.
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Writers’ Statements Lyric Ono ’24, Juice Several years ago my dad’s friend “Uncle Steve-O” told us a story about his childhood. As a small boy he woke in the middle of the night and went to his sleeping mother to ask for help. She told him to go ask his father. When he woke his father, his father told him to go ask his mother. It was a simple tale, but as a young girl it made me so sad to imagine that lonely little boy. “Juice” examines the backstory of characters having the same experience, but with a touch of character development for the boy. I felt better about things after empowering him a bit through the course of the story! Emma Crago ’24, Throwing Away a Mind, Keeping a Memory I wrote this piece for an assignment in my English class. The piece takes place a couple of years ago, when my parents and I took my grandfather’s old journals out of storage to shred. At the time, I felt like I was betraying my grandfather, and his memory, by shredding his stories and ideas. However, I know now that if we share stories about him, Ian MacMillan’s legacy will live on.
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Editorial Staff
Editors-in-Chief
Xeranthum Annum Management & Writing
Cruz Mercado ’21
Paeonia Art
Anne Di Martino ’21
Galanthus Submissions Editors
Juniperus Layout & Copy Editors
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Lauren Luke ’21 Aiya Bettinger ’22 Koren Kano ’22 Leo Kim ’22 Madison Suh ’22 Angela Uyeda ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Carissa Kanae ’22 Leo Kim ’22 Mattie Morales ’22 Shalita Areeyaphan ’22 Anya Latham ’23 Callie Umeda ’23 Isabel Cheever ’23 Nicole Dao ’23 Ava Pakravan ’24 Lyric Ono ’24 Mika Hiroi ’24
Iris Versicolor Staffers
Angela Uyeda ’21 Mila Becker ’21 Aiya Bettinger ’22 Gabbrielle Smith ’22 Leo Kim ’22 Lorelei Inaba ’22 Madison Suh ’22 Mattie Morales ’22 Safiya Rufino ’22 Shalita Areeyaphan ’22 Anya Latham ’23 Callie Umedia ’23 Isabel Cheever ’23 Mia Nishina ’23 Ava Pakravan ’24 Grace Chang ’24 Laʻiku Laoyaoen ’24 Mika Hiroi ’24
Salvia Rosmarinus Advisor
Anjoli Roy
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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 work published in the upcoming Spring issue? Please send your art and writing pieces to kawaiola@punahou.edu for a chance to be featured in the next issue!
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