Thursday, February 26, 2009
My blog buddy, daveo, over at HBO asked this question the other day and I pretty much invoked my 5th amendment rights. Didn't even have to consult an attorney. I've talked about this before a little bit; and from time to time, it comes up again.
What am I really like? Well, I'll tell you. It's not pretty. I am the kind of person who, in real life, hides from all her high school friends on Facebook.
I am ugly enough in real life to run up a credit card bill but to ride my children relentlessly when they do the same thing.
In real life, I wear the same socks twice. I have been known to have a horrendously messy office and a horrendously messy bedroom. My refrigerator is toxic. Quite often.
I can and have nursed a grudge.
I get really pissed off at my neighbors when they are impatient with me. Over my dogs. Those motherfuckers.
And there's the logger poetry.
I have no problem eating all the cheerios.
I lie about wanting to floss my teeth.
I have a temper that defies description and verbal skills and expression honed to unmeasurable degrees of fury and contempt.
I have been known not to leave my house for days. For days.
I'm not as pretty as I used to be. In a lot of different ways.
But I am who I am. And for now, this is the best I can do. I'm sure my online persona is a much tidier, more generous, beautiful and likable person.
That's show biz.
The 'Kan EWA
Joseph Nathan/North Bank of the St Joe
There are so many things that speak to me about this picture; yet I am almost helpless to comment. She was typical of all his babies, blond, blue eyed and beautiful. Yet she's out of place here in his lap, as most women were when they were with him on the St. Joe. He was a completely different person then as the Joe was his emotional and spiritual home, open to only a few. Typically it was his sons that were invited in but on this day, she of dimples and sweetness sat on his throne. Now days, she is a grown up girl's girl who loves pretty dresses and party shoes but says just the same that this picture proves that the St. Joe is in her blood.
We all feel the same; besides the AT&T stock he inherited from his father my dad's legacy to us was the cottonwoods and meadow grass, the high, fast, muddy water of Memorial Day, the huckleberries and the apples, the woodpeckers and hummingbirds and the fish, elk and deer. On the Joe, my dad was man of immense means and we benefited from a largess of clarity and spirit among pine trees and splashing streams as we tramped up and down the mountainsides of the St. Joe River.
You don't see tractors like these too much any more and you sure don't see the ingenuity that would place a plastic bucket on the exhaust stack to ward off rust. I miss my dad but I am rich, rich, rich in what he left here with me and in what he took with him when he left.
The 'Kan EWA
Friday, February 20, 2009
Almost another whole week has gone by without a disciplined effort to put thoughts into written word. The fact is, to write it down and extrapolate on the GPS and wanderings of my soul is quite a chore. First, it's completely inconsistent with much of my life. I have people around me all day; I can turn to the left or to the right and say "We need to do this and this and this" and it is done. I can sit in my chair at my desk, select a button and speak into thin air almost with my hands around my coffee cup or in my lap, and say, by noon, I'd want to see that, those, and a few of the others. It's done. I can mutter, lament, or opine over any done or undone task and chore on my way to the bathroom or for coffee, and almost by magic it gets done. So imagine my confusion when another week goes by, and my blog page remain blank. How can that happen when I want to get this done so badly? I just don't get it. (Insert The Rolling of the Eyes of a self-deprecating epiphanous moment.)
I write dozens and dozens and dozens of emails daily, these days until late at night. Somedays, I write a letter, sometimes TWO letters, print them, sign them and put them in a prescribed place outside my office door where they mysteriously disappear and according to legend, become mailed. I talk on the phone for one or two hours each day. And when it is extremely still and peace settles in around me, I actually put pencil and paper to work, well, keyboard and keystroke, and work with numbers and problems, which is what I truly like to do. I like long, complicated, difficult problems that demand my full attention and are too circuitous for people around me to enter into. I like solitude and challenge in solitude. Furious solitude.
And when I'm done for the day, I am done. I leave it all in my work product, turn out the lights and go home. So to speak. In this spent and sated state, I just cannot summon the muse to help me express myself about things that I continue to think about or things that are bothering me.
I am a note writer. At the moment, I estimate, conservatively, that I am behind by about 40 or 50 notes. Did not send one Valentine this year.
And so I look up and here I am at a crossroads; I am changing. And I don't know exactly what that means.
The 'Kan EWA
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
But I'm awake now. Eating breakfast. Today's luxurious repast is one of my wintertime favorites: hot cocoa, wheatberry toast no butter and thick slabs of Tillamook medium cheddar cheese. This food is so primal, no satisfying, so ancient, I am positive my people were eating it ten thousand years ago. Bread and cheese and chocolate. Just doesn't get any better than that.
EXCEPT. Except for scrambled eggs. Scrambled eggs were the very first thing I learned to cook. My mother taught me when I was in the first grade. They are my favorite still, any time of day, and in any country. With toast, they are the perfect protein/carb combo breakfast. With bacon or sausage, and an iced tea with double lemon, they make a tasty lunch. With a salad, a nice hard roll with cold butter and some really crispy Chardonnay, they are dinner for royalty. Or your very best friend. But they are guaranted to please, impress and sate the ravished soul.
Julia Child has no less than 13 pages of instruction on how to make a perfect omelette, the kissing cousin of scrambled eggs. Enjoy.
Happy Valentine's Day.
The 'Kan EWA
Friday, February 13, 2009
Waikoloa Beach, Hawai'i
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Went into Cronies in Hilo about 4:30 and had a burger and a beer and hung out with the locals watching the Mizzou game until I just couldn't stand it any longer. So got back into the Toyota and headed into a driving rain storm in rush hour traffic, heading for Highway 130 and a nighttime glimpse of the lava flows. Althought it was only about 50 miles, it took about two hours to get out there, in no small part due to the hellacious rush hour traffic. But finally made it to the road block, where there is no longer any road because the lava kept destroying it. Finally, the HDOT just quit rebuilding the road. It was an inky black Hawaiian night out there in the middle of no where so imagine my surprise to see at least 200 cars parked at the roadblock! Turns out seeing the lava at night is a huge happening, such a happening in fact, that Japanese tour buses go out there!
Well at this point, my competitive juices were completely fired up so I hopped out the car in Nike flip flops and a Balinese muumuu, not deterred in the least by the dark, black night, the rain or the lava field.
Yes, the lava field. Turns out you have to hike 40 minutes over a 2 mile stretch of lava in the pitch black darkness down to the ocean. Absolutely no problem for a child of North Idaho. It quit raining and started raining again twice before I reached the ocean. My muumuu, soaking wet at one point along the path, had completely dried itself by the time I reached the viewing platform that was adjacent to the lava dumping into the ocean. No rain poncho, fleece, water bottle, surgical mask, hiking boots or flashlight for meeee. No sir. Candy asses.
I stood for an hour in the darkness and watched some of Our Mother's finest work; I could only think of the glaciers in the Canadian Rockies and Ha Long Bay in the Gulf of Tonkin. And walking back over the black lava in the black night with the surf thundering in the background, I thought about the politics in Washington at the moment and the squabble over the stimulus bill. And I thought, you know, you just can't fool Mother Nature.
Once at the car, I looked back over the fields of black at the fire still in the sky, chuckled, got in and drove.
Kilauea Caldera, Hawai'i
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Canadians on the beach bitching about people drinking beer poolside at 10 am.
Londoners on the elevator, remarking that they, too, have snow at home.
The guy snorkeling, with a metal detector and headphones.
Waikoloa Beach, Hawai'i
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Friday, February 06, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Wandered into the market at Kona today--they've gone back to the old school name, market. But by any name, it brought back a lot of sweet memories. The fierce feather face coconut hangie things were there. Piles and piles of flip flops and Crocs. Potholders, pineapples and pukkas. Wooden ceremonial masks, wooden Harley Davidsons, wooden bowls. And unique to the market in Hawai'i, beautiful flowers, intriguing fruit and exotic innovations in leis.
I think in my heart, like my immigrant grandparents, I am a shopkeeper. Wares carefully hung up and laid out for sale touch me in a place that's practically indescribable. Each and every table and booth of even a swap meet, MARKET, speaks to me in some manner and behooves me to respond with respect and appreciation. And I can know a people and an area by what they are selling and how they sell it. I can tell you in a about three glances, how over or under inventoried you are; how comparable your pricing is, what profits your pricing will yield given your inventory strategy. How do I know this? Because I am one hell of a shopper and an even better accountant. I have experience deep and wide in just this: shops and shopping.
But what sticks with me tonight is this: how come I have never had my own shop? Why have I never hung out my sign, only my shingle? Am I truly that monastic that I just watch, everything, and then write about it? Like Aquinas?
I don't know what this means, if anything. But the sun sets as the torches are lit for another inky night on the beach here in the Pacific and life, as one of my favorite buddies checked in today to report, is good.
Waikoloa Beach, Hawai'i
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
About 10 years ago, you started seeing little tiny golden flip flops on chains for sale in the jewelry stores here. Now flip flop jewelry lives in a highly evolved state, crafted in platinum with diamond and ruby hibiscus flowers adorned with pearls. Paris has the most beautiful shoes of any place I have ever been, yet in Paris, they do not put beautiful, finely chiseled renditions of the world's most beautiful shoes on chains around their necks. They just don't do it. Here in Hawai'i, they do.
Last night, at the cash register at the Union 76, they had a little basket with little eggs, maybe hen's eggs, that were stamped with a letter configuration. You can get an egg at the cash register at the gas station in Hawai'i. Where else in the world, I ask, where else?
Aloha nui loa.
Waikoloa Beach, Hawai'i
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Our arrival was warm and soft, just like Hawai'i should be. It was gray and overcast, too; just like Hawai'i can be. The wind blows today and along with the gray and the soft, soft air, it leaves me uncertain, and a little anxious. It feels like the 'Pending' file is too big. Just too big. I went shopping, which always reassures me and helps me to get to know the locals. That didn't even help.
I answered emails, fired out new emails ( want everyone to know, really know, I am not slacking), sent Pandas and kidnapped unsuspecting friends on Facebook, and even worked on a tax return. But still that warm wind blows and blows.
Wonder what's coming....