I had a science teacher once who told my class that the moon is no bigger on the horizon than it is in the sky. But it always seemed mammoth, like a planetary floodlight. He insisted that it was an illusion our ancestors had passed down to us- the lingering eyes of hunters who had watched the horizon. I've never tried to prove him wrong by measuring the moon, but now I feel the old eyesight regaining control. There is no way to know my progenitors, but I feel their sight now swiveling in my head.
In an urban matrix our eyes function in planar space. Menus, books, computer screens, billboards and tables all tribute the rectangle. The commercial world is stacked like playing cards, easily read and shuffled. But I have left that, and play in twisted space now, in a jungle of bending shapes. My job depends on me reading the collage just as my ancestors did. Standing in a bed of elephant grass bending over my head, I crane my neck slowly left then right then up then down, watching all angles of serpentine branches in green leafy clothes, waiting for a piece of red to touch the sunlight. I once walked in forests and saw only trees of faceless portraits. Now I shift my glance to the horizon and many patches of color pierce my eyes, kindling the old instincts. I even found a Jackson chameleon today, a slow little commuter hoping not to be spotted.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
2/20/10: This is It
Went to Hilo today to indulge in the Earthly pleasures of energy. One is the simple buzz of social interaction- of walking on crowded streets and seeing and hearing other people operate on Saturday, witnessing the way so many objectives in a city mesh like cogs. The other energy I speak of is food- the simple fuel of life. Nothing is more pleasant than satisfaction bordering gluttony, and nothing tastes better than dark chocolate, Kona coffee, and hot dogs after another week in the fields.
On the street front there was a grand sign proclaiming "This is it: Thrift Store and more." I walked into a cavernous room leading to other colorful rooms, and asked a woman behind the desk if this was it. "We have the thrift shop over in the back, the kids toys in that room, restaurant right here, and adult entertainment section behind those doors," she said. "Would you like a free donut? It's our one year anniversary." What a store, I realized, a typical Hawaiian conglomerate of leisure before aesthetics. In the same place on could buy vintage clothing, cap guns, leather thongs, and finish it all with a dollar hot dog.
On the street front there was a grand sign proclaiming "This is it: Thrift Store and more." I walked into a cavernous room leading to other colorful rooms, and asked a woman behind the desk if this was it. "We have the thrift shop over in the back, the kids toys in that room, restaurant right here, and adult entertainment section behind those doors," she said. "Would you like a free donut? It's our one year anniversary." What a store, I realized, a typical Hawaiian conglomerate of leisure before aesthetics. In the same place on could buy vintage clothing, cap guns, leather thongs, and finish it all with a dollar hot dog.
Friday, February 19, 2010
2/17/10
There are no longer walls or doors in the passage of time. I am not walking down a hallway, but rather, swimming through a stream. My life simply seems to flow together now, with nothing to really lay anchor upon.
We were discussing the time phenomenon this morning. I told Jennifer and Hans that when I lay my head on my pillow at night, it seems that no time has passed since the night before, when I was in identical position. I am not going to bed after any day in particular, but after any day at all. Every event of going to bed blends with every other one, and every waking up leaks into every other waking up, like spilled milk on a level surface. Hans called it the closest to a groundhog day phenomenon we would ever experience, and it seems only minutes ago that he said it. And I remarked on the phenomenon with Jen today, and I mentioned that the walk home was one anonymous in a stack of many. But this evening Hans arrived with the lower half of a boar body hanging from his hand, its legs dripping blood on the sidewalk. He was holding a machete with the other hand and said, "pork chops tonight," and that is what I will grapple, to anchor today in time.
We were discussing the time phenomenon this morning. I told Jennifer and Hans that when I lay my head on my pillow at night, it seems that no time has passed since the night before, when I was in identical position. I am not going to bed after any day in particular, but after any day at all. Every event of going to bed blends with every other one, and every waking up leaks into every other waking up, like spilled milk on a level surface. Hans called it the closest to a groundhog day phenomenon we would ever experience, and it seems only minutes ago that he said it. And I remarked on the phenomenon with Jen today, and I mentioned that the walk home was one anonymous in a stack of many. But this evening Hans arrived with the lower half of a boar body hanging from his hand, its legs dripping blood on the sidewalk. He was holding a machete with the other hand and said, "pork chops tonight," and that is what I will grapple, to anchor today in time.
2/15/10
I don't hear music often. I don't hear it secondhand, drifting from cars or hallways and I am not injected with it by high sterile speakers. But in the evenings I sometimes listen to a song or two through headphones when I walk beneath the stars. And all of that energy, that grooviness and that swaying strong beats sleeping inside of me, wake up and remind me what I love. And they remind me not to love in excess.
The most memorable moment of today's picking was reaping an orange that was big enough to only sit clumsily in my two palms together. It was wide and wrinkled like a granddaddy orange let grow forever, and it must have been four pounds.
The most memorable moment of today's picking was reaping an orange that was big enough to only sit clumsily in my two palms together. It was wide and wrinkled like a granddaddy orange let grow forever, and it must have been four pounds.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
2/14/10: Happy New Year
Interesting things happened today. And when interesting things happen, they become the new subject and scope of my time. I am demoted to state of passivity, of a dangling indirect object in my own life's sentence, watching the interesting things assume the nominative position. I no longer count minutes, but simply allow time to pass me as I stand still in the road. My neighbor, Richard, some time ago mentioned a ceremony at the Wood Valley Tibetan temple, several towns away. I went with him this morning to slip into this strange hole in paradise.
Southern churches in America are full of sideways glances, aggressive proclamations, and saccharine smiles every Sunday. No one slips through the system without being showered and slathered by the love of Jesus, but more so, the stares of other church goers. I expected something of this community, but I was very wrong at the Tibetan temple.
A group of thirty perhaps had gathered in the open-air shrine. Brown and red wood twisted amongst one another in strong arches. I placed my fruit at the base of a mountain of offerings to the glinting gold Buddha, smugly watching over the crowd from the rear corner. WE sat crosslegged on carpet in rows facing one another, rather than the idols. I was completely oblivious to custom, letting my hands shift amongst positions, and scrutinizing myself mentally- was I dressed correctly? Was my hair too unclean? I was waiting to feel the seething heat of judgment, but I experienced nothing but quiet warmth, and a nonchalant sense of community.
We were served tea and rice to symbolize auspicious tidings for the new year. I likened it in my mind to plastic wafers and tart communion juice, without the blood spilt. What ensued was no sermon or hymn or lesson, but a chant- a chant in the room of smoke unfurling. The English phonetics were typed under the Tibetan scripture, spelling guttural sounds like "zhay war se nim ghom oord." This was no lilting four-beat eight-tone christian hymn. It was no velvet harmony and chain of resolutions. These sounds were deep and forged with breath in the belly, and slow and wandering, without looking for a place to end. We turned through twenty five pages of texts, singing several loops, echoing several syllables hundreds of times. It was all soft and restful, and humming with invisible smiles.
At the end was a climactic ushering of the new year. We gathered in a circle and each grabbed a handful of flour from the bucket being passed. On the same count we all threw it into a white mist together, like quiet fireworks.
Southern churches in America are full of sideways glances, aggressive proclamations, and saccharine smiles every Sunday. No one slips through the system without being showered and slathered by the love of Jesus, but more so, the stares of other church goers. I expected something of this community, but I was very wrong at the Tibetan temple.
A group of thirty perhaps had gathered in the open-air shrine. Brown and red wood twisted amongst one another in strong arches. I placed my fruit at the base of a mountain of offerings to the glinting gold Buddha, smugly watching over the crowd from the rear corner. WE sat crosslegged on carpet in rows facing one another, rather than the idols. I was completely oblivious to custom, letting my hands shift amongst positions, and scrutinizing myself mentally- was I dressed correctly? Was my hair too unclean? I was waiting to feel the seething heat of judgment, but I experienced nothing but quiet warmth, and a nonchalant sense of community.
We were served tea and rice to symbolize auspicious tidings for the new year. I likened it in my mind to plastic wafers and tart communion juice, without the blood spilt. What ensued was no sermon or hymn or lesson, but a chant- a chant in the room of smoke unfurling. The English phonetics were typed under the Tibetan scripture, spelling guttural sounds like "zhay war se nim ghom oord." This was no lilting four-beat eight-tone christian hymn. It was no velvet harmony and chain of resolutions. These sounds were deep and forged with breath in the belly, and slow and wandering, without looking for a place to end. We turned through twenty five pages of texts, singing several loops, echoing several syllables hundreds of times. It was all soft and restful, and humming with invisible smiles.
At the end was a climactic ushering of the new year. We gathered in a circle and each grabbed a handful of flour from the bucket being passed. On the same count we all threw it into a white mist together, like quiet fireworks.
2/12/10
By now the absurd has become normal, the struggle has become routine, and mustering inspiration to write is not an act of touristic awe. Time is in full swing, rounding a gentle curve like the pendulum falling through the bottom of its arc.
Friday is a half a day of work for me. I went out to pull weeds today as I have on other Fridays, but today was exceptional because Hans brought the tractor. Orange trees are docile and wide, like well fed kings. The weeds that surround them and gnaw and pry and twist their tendrils around the bark of orange trees are densely clustered, growing at tight angles shrouded in darkness, choking one another for a view of sunlight. They cling to trees, they cling to each other, and they cling to the hands that pull them, like relentless famished beggars. But they will never learn not to cling to tractor tires or the machete blade. Tonight I met Jimbo the quietly spiritual neighborhood icon. He is polite and earthly, and I hope to see him again.
Friday is a half a day of work for me. I went out to pull weeds today as I have on other Fridays, but today was exceptional because Hans brought the tractor. Orange trees are docile and wide, like well fed kings. The weeds that surround them and gnaw and pry and twist their tendrils around the bark of orange trees are densely clustered, growing at tight angles shrouded in darkness, choking one another for a view of sunlight. They cling to trees, they cling to each other, and they cling to the hands that pull them, like relentless famished beggars. But they will never learn not to cling to tractor tires or the machete blade. Tonight I met Jimbo the quietly spiritual neighborhood icon. He is polite and earthly, and I hope to see him again.
Friday, February 12, 2010
1/11/10: Split Time
I haven't been intent on writing my feelings recently. In my mind I mulled over the merits of keeping consistent record of thoughts, and the uselessness of recording the same things each day as well. So I decided to write about it. I'm constantly pulled between the vital present and the commanding force of now, and the faint, scrupulous call of the future- the duty of retrospect.
So I am lingering between two habitats of being- one of the lush and lively now, and one of the future tourist in me, eager to see the slideshows of Hawaii. There is so much space to infiltrate in the narrow crevices of life's surface- so much to explore between the grains of sand, and most of us only walk on top. I would be cheating no one if I exited this moment, but would simply be destroying my own desires.
So I am lingering between two habitats of being- one of the lush and lively now, and one of the future tourist in me, eager to see the slideshows of Hawaii. There is so much space to infiltrate in the narrow crevices of life's surface- so much to explore between the grains of sand, and most of us only walk on top. I would be cheating no one if I exited this moment, but would simply be destroying my own desires.
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