early to rise

Suddenly yet simultaneously precisely regular. That particular series of moments when the character brightens the world, awaking it from dark slumber. His arms slowly elongate across the increasingly blue expanse. Slowly he slinks down the leaves of the tallest trees. They respond carefully, stretching out and soaking up - conversing with this refreshing, old friend. Down to the roots the character speaks life into creation. Then glistening in the dewy grasses who swell in the wind as algae of the deep. The character unfolds the limbs of the beast of the land, the wings of the air. The character widens the eyes, harkens ears to readiness. The character converses all day, but none so fresh, so peaceful as that first morning dialogue.
Once dark, now separated, that daily reassuring ritual of redeeming grace, a fresh face, a romantic embrace – we welcome that character in this place.

the harvest is plentiful...

I'm 3 for 3.

One of my goals in coming to Hawaii was to eat (in many cases a whole lot) pineapple everyday. On the first day, the yellow delight came in the form of a pre-dinner salad. The second day brought an amazingly fruitful excursion to the Dole plantation.

Yep - Dole's the place where they grow copious amounts of pineapple. On our train ride throughout the crops, we learned that a pineapple is a labor-intensive crop that is planted and harvested entirely by hand. Even in the summertime, the workers must wear thick long sleeves, pants and gloves to protect themselves from the plant's sharp leaves. Here's the kicker, each pineapple plant takes 20 months before it produces its firstfruit. Then another 14-16 months before it turns out another. For those of you unskilled in math, that's a whopping total of 2 fruits per plant every three years.

This begs the question: Is the fruit harvest worth the work? or the wait?

Tonight we capped off our first night in Kauai by dining at the locally owned Pizzeta. The "Kauaiian" proved to be a deliciously fresh take on the "Hawaiian" pizza I enjoy so much. Of course, this made an excellent addition to the sunset over the palm trees.

Thus three days into vacation and three months into my job, I dare say that though the workers are few and the labor may be long and arduous, the fruit is definately worth the work needed for the harvest.

train ride for maggie

A shimmering testament to the modern grandeur of invention. Speeding across the world from east to west. A numbing ride leaving those outside in the dust. Sitting quietly in the passenger car…

Maggie sips her tea. She loosens the red velvet curtain beside her. Several people gather outside their rural huts. Green trees glisten in the mid-morning sun. Dark smoke rises from the eastern horizon. Black.

Maggie returns from her reverie. She turns towards her mom.

“Mom.”

No answer. The words springing from the conductor over the loudspeaker mesmerize her mother. She tugs the lace upon the edge of her dress. No answer.

Maggie sits up in her chair. Peeking around her seat, the boy behind her plays with his toy Mercedes. The other mommies and daddies sit silently, stopping only momentarily to reprimand their children. A firm tug on her dress returns Maggie’s bottom “back in your seat young lady.”

Maggie catches words flowing from the mysteriously familiar old voice:

“Technology waves us on in the progress of life. With simple tools and models we conquer the world. Freedom travels at the speed of light. And we will get there.”

Maggie stares at the flowers on her dress, her empty blue and white teacup. A man shouts from the back of the train:

“That’s ridiculous. It’s just his opinion. Each of us…”

Two uniformed figures swiftly emerge from the front door of the train. They usher the man out the back door with only a short scuffle. The conductor’s voice drowned out the man’s kicking and screaming. The trains-people resumed shifted back in their rows and refocused on the conductor’s words.

Maggie’s face brightens. She peers out her window once again. Another village passes. The large mountain casts a shadow on the below. A tattered man waves at the train from his horse. Maggie rises to her knees and eagerly waves back, dimples deeply ingrained in her cheeks. She presses her nose against the windowpane.

A gaggle of geese fly overhead. Rows of farmland hypnotize her wandering eyes. The shaded trees sway softly in the wind. Clouds hang easily amidst the darkening sky.

She turns quickly to her mother. The conductor’s voice drones on:

“You must choose where your life is headed. Will you allow your path to be predetermined? Will your life be guided by another - ”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Maggie’s mom shifts her weight without looking down at her daughter. Maggie moves into the aisle. She passes rows of blank staring faces. Her feet wobble with the slightly unsettling train turbulence.

Maggie stops just short of the back door. The thickening smoke on the horizon looms closer. She opens the back door.

Before she reaches the bathroom door, another door catches her eye – a black door, repainted multiple times and dented.

In the bathroom she hears yelling and screaming like before. It gets closer. Her shoulders lower. She remains as quiet as possible. She hears voices. A door opens. Wind and train track clatter immediately force the men to shout to hear one another:

“You can sit back down and shut up or we’ll throw you off.”

“But I want to talk to the conductor. He’s leading people to certain doom.”

“That is not an option. This will be your doom unless you shut up.”

“Didn’t you see the smoke around the bend? We’re headed towards sure disaster.”

“Which part of this ultimatum didn’t you understand?”

“Can’t you just let me talk to the people for a brief second? It’s beautiful outside. We’re missing it.”

“That is not an option. We’re going this way no matter what.”

“But I can’t just let everyone fall…”

A door slammed. Only the smooth ambient train noise accompanied the normalized volume voices:

“Why can’t people just sit and enjoy the ride?”

“I don’t know. I mean the chairs are comfortable.”

A door opens and shuts quietly.

Maggie slowly washes her hands. She stares beyond herself in the bathroom mirror.

an average wednesday night

The testicle count hit eight.
The crowd bravo'd with laughter and praise.
The poet smiled adoring his own creative communal joke.

The Tiger breathed his last: “Grrrreat.”
The “carrot tops are green.”
The need to “believe in something.”

The three dollar G&T
The nine point eight and a ten
The $100 prize

The words weaved.
The audience applauded.
The underground undulated.

ego’s soared
ego's floored
Ego’s roared.

just page 12

reinforcing a new cadence within a perspective of exile:

That is, postmodern awareness helps us consider that there is no "given reality" behind our several constructs, but even our presumed given reality is itself a rhetorical construct, whether of the cold war, or consumer capitalism, or the "free world," or male hegemony, or whatever. An awareness of this reality about "world" and about "self" opens the way to liminality that permits transformation of all those "givens."
- Walter Brueggemann

for me, this happens to mean that:

my increasingly postmodern lenses reveal that the modern "given reality" in which i have grown up has been manipulated, degredated, and outdated as well as passive and inoculated within my current "reality" to the point that i must envision a new (and at the same time old) personal (and communal) construct. in my current state of psysiological and ideological liminality, colors are emerging on the canvas in vibrant, fresh ways that present intriguing, and yet "odd" possibilties.