fine, but I’ll be going Speyside and teriyaki tonight.
And breaking out that fresh canvas
and box of acrylics too…
But none of these things are what make the difference. There is a variance I
cannot ignore one moment of the night or day. I realize I’m in transition and that I
should not make any sweeping generalizations about how I should
at any giventime or place (though these self-propped platitudes never really comfort or stop mefrom the summation of wtf?).
I’ve been busy as hell, trying to navigate getting all of myp’s and q’s in order while keeping up with the almost 2x’s “Full
time” class work load.
But I know more
about the place, and the resources here, than I did previously, and I’ve
no intention of letting an institution such as academia kill me or bleed me dry.
Something’s missing…it’s so obvious that a deep emotional spring wells up behind my
eyes every time
I’m quiet enough to hear what it will whisper. Like now, here, at home.
Moments of time float into my mind of recent plateaus of nearly orgasmicradiating elation, and also deep-pitted craters of mourning for the death of selves Icould have, should have, would have never meant to be. Here and there, I catch agroove of melody that makes my heart quicken, my step skip to beats and my mindsmile in the motion
and it makes me remember what is missing, because far too soon,the light of Life has left and my circuitry is returned to a mechanistic mode with only themind thinking to outsmart itself with cleverness. But my heart knows its hoax, and sodoes my body. There is an energy of this island not to be denied. Nature here is aliving force
a passionate, ever-
present and communicative living force. Pele’ is the
personification of this force, and the Big Island is her home, here, now.Imagine the tea cup being unceremoniously overfilled, spilling over, running outof bounds of efficient use, and there is a good snapshot of my mind now. Perhaps I
should have put that on the postcards. I feel like I’m trying to learn French but missing
the joie de vivre, caught up in details that I already have come to understand do nottruly matter. It took awhile to learn this before, on previous trips here that feel likeprevious lives now. And the mainland was full, as expected, of people running back andforth in their bustling lives, busy schedules and desires for distractions. It hurt to beback there amongst the land of the too busy, but I just expected to pick back up when Iarrived here again
a consciousness with nothing lost and nothing changed even if everything has been rearranged. Maybe I just want too much, too fast, too intensely, asusual?Today, now, here, at home, I am quietly confronting this absence. I am stalking
myself. When I catch her, I’ll wrap her in my arms in an embrace that leaves no room forother people’s frantic questions, seeds of distrustful doubts, or unconscious flight
fromfears of falling.
The need to “keep it up” while moving through is only appropriate for