marching on

6:20am. on the bus to school. elementary school. I've seen one other person reading a newspaper on the bus. now I'm writing. i wonder how this is perceived.

Upon my first visit of the farrington hwy home i did not perceive those subtle peculiarities of its occupants which now dig beneath my skin. not deep, but as if ants traversed my veins, tightrope walkers just below the surface, only enough to mildly irritate the man of steady nerves.
So in light of the silences and the stringent neurotic habits of one oddly obsessive housemate, i assumed this laughably tiny trash basket in the kitchen was only one of those images which makes this homestead of mine, individualized from the rest. my grandmother also keeps a tiny bin in the kitchen which she will empty twice a day if necessary. not unheard of.
This morning however, i looked down at the remains of my salsa creation from the night before. onion peels, tomato stems, cucumber shavings, all mixed in a heady steaming aroma of cilantro stalks and coffee grounds. and from this mass, situated precariously near the rim of the basket, (almost as if saying in a voice sounding oddly like george castanza, 'not trash') protruded a thick black conga line which danced around a small square of carpet by the sink and straight across the room, before ducking out beneath our front door. this morning i learned the reason for our presumptively humorous receptacle which requires emptying daily. one of many insect friends i will grow to love or despise here in hawaii. ants.