I am sitting in a local cafe. On the wall behind me a government conspirocy theory movie on 9/11 is playing. I'm sorry that I missed the beginning, I would like to have their whole story. The evidence they are presenting in interesting, including interviews with eyewitnesses, newspaper articles, government reports - all with an anti-government hint. The narrator's voice is calm, but every now and then he throws in a bit of sarcasm. I would wager that the purpose is to undermine public support for the government's war against terrorism and all that goes with it (increased security at airports, government buildings, etc.; the Patriot Act, the war in Afganistan, the war in Iraq)
"America has been hijacked...by a group of tyrants..."

The woman whom I think is in charge of the showing is giving a speach.
"Keep your minds open...it's important to think critically..."
Machiavelli just came up... I am now regretting my lack of attention to the news in the last few years.
It is only too easy to loose trust in everyone and everything...but things like this make one wonder. The wondering is good, but how far should it go?

I stand waiting and watching beyond the open door. The wind brushes past me, catching at my hair, my clothes.

"Why do you stand here? What are you looking for?"

"I am looking for a way to find what I once had. Tell me, wind, how to find it..."

"You cannot go back," replied the wind's ever-changing voice. "Time does not work in such a way with men."

"No, do not tell me such things," the tears and searing pain betraying themselves in my voice, yet knowing the wind spoke truly. I cannot go back. The passage of Time necessarily brings change, but through the will somethings are able to remain. Turning, I gaze once more through the doorway, remembering wondering if my will is strong enough.

Eli, the barrowboy, you're the old town
Sells coal and marigolds and he cries out all down the day
Below the tamarac she is crying
Corn cobs and candlewax for the buying, all down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine robe
Made of gold and silk arabian thread
She is dead and gone and lying in a pine grove
And I must push my barrow all the day
And I must push my barrow all the day

Eli, the barrowboy, when they found him
Dressed all in corduroy, he had drowned in the river down the way
They laid his body down in a churchyard
But still when the moon is out, with his pushcart, he calls down the day

Would I could afford to buy my love a fine gown
Made of gold and silk arabian thread
But I am dead and gone and lying in a church ground
But still I push my barrow all the day
Still I push my barrow all the day

Eli, The Barrowboy -The Decemberists

who's seen jezebel?
she was born to be the woman i would know
and hold like the breeze
half as tight as both eyes closed

and who's seen jezebel?
she went walking where the cedars line the road
her blouse on the ground
where the dogs were hungry, roaming

saying, "wait, we swear we'll love you more and wholly
jezebel, it's we that you are for only"

who's seen jezebel?
she was born to be the woman we could blame
make me a beast half as brave
i'd be the same

who's seen jezebel?
she was gone before i ever got to say
"lay here my love
you're the only shape i'll pray to, jezebel"

who's seen jezebel?
will the mountain last as long as i can wait
wait for the dawn
how it aches to meet the day

who's seen jezebel?
she was certainly the spark for all i've done
the window was wide
she could see the dogs come running

saying, "wait, we swear
we'll love you more and wholly
jezebel, it's we that you are for
only"

Jezebel by Iron & Wine

I came to Life with my hands open, awaiting the good things I knew would be poured into them. I was not mistaken. As long as my hands remained open they were filled. I saw loves and joys, hopes and dreams placed in their once empty palms. At times the desire to assure myself that these were actually mine to hold and keep was too great and I found my fingers trembling. What would happen if I closed my hands on these gifts? How long would they remain with me if I did not? I did not know, and Life provided me no clear answers. Something within urged me not to cling to such apparently fragile things, and so I resisted the desire to close my hands upon what I had been given. I would wait and try to trust.
Months have passed and some of these treasures have been carried away with Time's winds. They were not meant to be mine any longer and perhaps will not be ever again. With sleepless nights and tears I mourned their passing. Others have remained, though seemingly changed to ash even as I watched and waited. These too I mourn. I am asked how could I not fight for these my treasures? Because in a very real way they were not truly mine. They were given to me, yet in a most transitory fashion, placed in my open hands. And so now I stand waiting, tears occationally disturbing the layers of ash, perhaps waiting for a phoenix to rise. For these treasures are still in my care, though not in the form they once had, and I will not reject them in order to reach after something else.

(catching up on my postings...I'd forgotten about this stuff in the ebb and flow of the past week)

8 July
Listening to the safety instructions as I sit in my exit row seat, I wonder idly if I really know them as well as my years of flying should warrant. I remember as a child being fascinated by the flight attendant running so smoothly through the routine...

The crowded trees and hidden roofs of Keaukaha slide by as we taxi down the runway. I'm on the wrong side of the plane for watching my home sink below me. It is raining again up the hill and I cannot keep the drops from being mirrored on my face. As the plane rises into the low clouds I catch a last glimpse of rugged curving coastline, white surf breaking on black rocks, forest of dark greens sweeping away from the dark blues of the sea. And then all was white and greys. Now the clouds lie below me, and below them is the ocean.
Its raining of Maui too. Watching the downpour from above the clouds gives the impression of a...
Lani, Moloka'i...perhaps I'm not on the wrong side of the plane. Ribbons of white sand beach lie along the edge of the islands, sometimes faced by off shore reefs, other times only kissed by the waves of the open ocean.
It looks like another world up here, with plains and hills, canyons and mountains - all of cloud. It is very beautiful - but I have seen few places that are as stark and empty.
How can there be so many shades of blue? The sky goes on forever, pale ice at the horizon to rich azure at zenith, and the sea holds a myriad more...

watching the news on the TV's near my gate...
I am struck again by another national leader urging a "return to normalcy", this time made by Prime Minister Tony Blair of the U.K. Assuming that the purpose of terrorist attacks is to disrupt the normal flow of life and business, this injunction makes sense. It is a show of personal and community strength, almost a passive defiance of those who made the attacks. In another way though, the "return to normalcy and business as usual" is disconcerting. It seems to be an ignoring and dismissal of the attacks altogether. Those killed are left to be mourned by their families and friends as the rest of the world goes on shopping...

This is my 151st post...

Conclusion: It is hard to stop thinking in the dark. I am beginning to fear the setting of the sun and the arrival of the night. I want to work all day and keep the sun up... Fortunately, I can do just that all week-end (without keeping the sun up). Oh, joy...

Happy 1st Blog-day to me...

So, I've been writting for a year now. Somehow it seems fitting that this is the day I leave home once again. It was because I came home last year that the writting kept up; I wonder if it will be that way this year...
I've been reminicing about this past year while I packed. Much has happened, loves were lost - and found, friendships shaken and rebuilt, strengths and weaknesses tested. I questioned the all reasons for being at school, while never doubting that it was where I was meant to be. And this blog, my burrying ground and junk-drawer for thoughts, has witnessed and recorded it all...

Well...
(the relative lateness of the hour must be affecting my brain, so I'm not going to say anything more)

It is Sunday afternoon and the house is nearly empty, well as close to being empty as it has been since I got home. The family has scattered to the proverbial four winds (for the afternoon) and I have time to fill by myself. The desire to read has somewhat abated since yesterday's reading of Steinbeck Of Mice and Men. I am looking forward to returning to school and discussing it with someone (the one-sided discussions I've been having with myself can only take me so far). I've been nibbling at an Harry Potter book (I will confess unabashedly that I have read all five of the books and am looking forward to the next) while waiting for the very slow dial-up connection to the outside world (also known as the internet) catches up with what I want it to do. All in all I am happy to be five days away from leaving. I think that I need to go while there are still things here I want to do and people I want to see, or I will start chaffing under the ever present knowledge that there is a 2000 mile barrier between myself and where I want to be... On the other hand, it will be hard to leave my younger siblings, not knowing when I will see them again, that they will continue to grow up and I won't really know them and they won't really know me... life is strange.

Random observation: blogging was meant to happen late at night when the house is asleep...morning blogging is not very practical when you have little people coming up to you every few minutes asking if you are still on the computer. ("Gabe, I can sit at the computer all day." "Wow...") I think I will surrender of the obvious and get dressed for the day... hopefully I will come back with beautiful thoughts about the beach...

Here Comes

Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Chirping robin, budding rose.
Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Gentle showers, summer clothes.
Here comes summer,
Here comes summer,
Whoosh - shiver - there it goes.

I've introduced my younger siblings to the wonders of Shel Silverstein. I remember picking up A Light in the Atic somewhere, library book sale or church grab box or whathaveyou, and thinking that I had found a treasure. Now I will freely confess that I had not read very much Silverstein myself, flipped through some of his collections of poems and The Giving Tree. Reading to my little sis, I was struck by the depth of some of these "children's" poems, "The little boy and the old man," "Nobody," "This bridge," for example. I need to wonder about these a bit more...

Random thought spawned by being home that I lack the time to turn into proper blogs...

...streets familiar in a parallel way hints and shadow of past life and what once was possible...

The warm humidity inclines me toward the water, strange for one who care not for swimming.

The land spreads itself out for my viewing, hues and shades of green down to the water. The sea is less than ten miles away... The deep blue turns grey under the reflection of the clouds.

Darling, remember
When you come to me
I'm the pretender
And not what I'm supposed to be
But who could know if I'm a traitor
Time's the revelator

They caught the katy
And left me a mule to ride
The fortune lady
Came along, she walked beside
But every word seemed to date her
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Up in the morning
Up and on the ride
I drive into Corning
And all the spindles whine
And every day is getting straighter
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Leaving the valley
And ducking out of sight
I'll go back to Cali
Where I can sleep out every night
And watch the waves and move the fader
Time's the revelator
The revelator

Queen of the fakes and imitators
Time's the revelator

-Gillian Welch

How much are we products of the places we grow up? How much of this place do I carry with me, and in me? I look around my home town, or rather my home island, and I know I could never be satisfied to stay here. It is beautiful, both the land and the people, but small in the same ways. I look at the lives of the people here and become discontent. I do not want life in the way they have it. Don't get me wrong, on the whole there is nothing wrong with their lives, they are good and full. But I have seen more, and now this is not enough. But I wonder if I am really any different from these people I so easily pass judgement upon. Why should I think that I need something more than this place can offer? Is it simply in the seeing and the learning and the doing that one is driven further afield? If so, where am I to go?

The fog twists and swirls around me, blurring the line between my feet and the ground. Nothing feels solid, nothing seems quite there. I wonder how I ended up here, after seeing so clearly...
I want to leave, but that would mean I'd have to move away from the one spot I think I know and strike out into the greyness. It is cold and I am alone and afraid. I can hear a Voice, low and clear and sure, even through the fog. It beckons me toward it, offering reassurance and comfort, if only I would come and follow. I want to follow, know I'd follow wherever it lead - but qualified by a constant 'if'. If the fog first broke I and I could clearly see where I was headed. If I could be guaranteed that there would be no danger of new or further pain. But now, in this dimness, chill and damp, unsure of footing and way... I do want to follow, but that means I'd have to strike out into the unknown. What if I fell, I know not how far I would fall before coming to a bottom, in this confusion of the senses where I am not even sure of where my feet really are. And still the Voice, my sought-after, wept-for Love pleads for me and beckons...
"He'll come to me...He'll not leave me here..." My pride is my prop, my cane of black by which I feel my way to nowhere. I can see nothing beyond it's tip. The fog whirls and catches at my feet. I turn 'round and 'round seeking on my own for a clearing of the murk, a way in which to wander. Instead, it draws tighter, and the Voice grows a little faint. My heart aches at the realization. Peering through the thickening mistiness, a red candle flame flickers and dances, now hidden, now clear. He has not left me, but it is I who must come to Him, not He to me. Will I throw down my black cane which guides nothingness and despair? Will I be able to take the risk of walking in this fog that at times obscures even the red lamp and seems to dim the Light?

The fog catches and swirls as I lift my foot...

I found an old self of mine not long ago. Odd, but I don't remember ever taking it off, or leaving it behind. Apparently, I had left it in a book I started reading last summer. I opened the cover and noticed a wisp of it peaking out between some of the pages near the beginning. It looked a bit faded and somewhat crinkled, but not too much worse for the wear, or lack of wear I should say. I took it out and looked at it for a while trying to remember what I was like when last I wore it. Rather different, I think, though I couldn't say quite how. A bit sadder, mayhap, but steady. Content, no "content" is not the right word, accepting of the where and how things are for the time. Willing enough to change, but not activly seeking change for its own sake. And yet constatly seeking, longing after something almost inexpressible, captured in moonlight and shadow, the heady sent of the rose, the cool touch of fog and mist. I smiled slightly at the remembrance of it...
On an impulse, I slipped on that old self. It still fit. Oh, it felt different in a few places, but still familiar. Some of the rough spots I remembered are gone, a few of the corners and angles have been sharpened, but on the whole I feel - myself. Funny how that can happen. The slipping on of an old self is as easy as falling asleep, the tears still moist on your cheek and the damp of them soaking into your pillow, and waking the next morning. You see the world under a new, and at the same time, familiar light...

Though one thing about an old self that I have discovered is that once it goes on, it is very difficult to get off, so I think this one will be around for a while...

I built a sandcastle not long ago, beautiful as any dream ought to be. Tureted and crenelated, flags waving proudly in the winds and wispering in the soft breezes. It was all held together with laughter and long talks, adventures and explorations. Brave knights and lovely ladies would make visits while wending their errant ways. It was full of life...
My castle is falling now before my eyes, worn down by changing winds and salty waters... I watch as corners chip and break, as walls I thought sure and sturdy crack and threaten to crumble. The laughter isoften missing, the long talks held over and over in memory. The brave knights and lovely ladies come no more to share their adventures and exploratory finds. I wonder if it will stand for much longer, if its foundations were build upon something stronger than sand and dreams...
Yet I cannot hold it, for who can hold still the sands of time? The tighter I'd grasp them the sooner they would slip from my fingers. Better to let it go if it wills, treasuring the beauty of it as long as it remains. For the foundations may yet hold, withstanding wind and water. Life will fill it again...

(from last night)
For days now the wind has been whispering to me of impending end. "It comes," it breaths into my ears, echoing, seeping down into my heart. "Why speak to me of ends?" I plead. "They do not belong to me - I am but young..."
"Nay," comes the reply.
Sitting here on the sand, the echoes of a beginning come back to me. But the murmur of the winds words in the waves is louder and I cannot ignore it.
The sea is, as it always is to my ears, mourning the sorrows of the world. I think I know of no sound in nature so evoking of sorrow than the sea...

Now those sad currents are only in my head. Quiet night sounds blend with the music playing in the empty coffee shop. It too has a melancholy tenor. Or perhaps, I am simply projecting my humor upon the world at large. I am alone, and though missing one, content enough. It occurs to me that there is a difference between feeling alone and being lonely...the former is beyond one's own control, the latter has more to do with the will.

"End."
The almost silence presses upon me. I nod acquiescence within myself and move on.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the makings of an amazing cobweb. It bridges the span between the edge of the desk shelf and the wall, and is already beginning to collect dust... I wonder how long it will last, now that it has been pointed out...

Someday I want to be able to play with this passion...

The music I was playing was nowhere nearly as moving as that of one of India's greatest musicians whose stories I often heard while growing up. Sixteenth century Tansen was one of the jewels in the court of Mogul king Akbar. It's said that when Tansen played raga deepak (from Sanskrit, fire melody) things would heat up, literally, and the lamps in the king's court would begin to glow. When he played raga megh malhar (rain melody), raindrops would begin falling to bring relief from the heat.

For some reason though the urgency to play, to create the liquid beauty of sound and rhythm, has left me. I can not blame it on the heat (for it has not been hot), nor on the intensity of my daylight labors (for they are relatively light). I feel this lack of urgency in other areas as well. I have not yet finished a book, nor written much, nor wandered the hills... I feel tired, as if the school year were still weighing on me. Too many worries...