HOUSE OF THE SUN

While scanning old photos, I found one of me
sitting on top of the world, at the Kalahaku Overlook,
Puʻu ʻUlaʻula on Haleakalā, the House of the Sun.

The crater at the summit was Māui's grandmother's home.
Māui's mother Hina, complained that her kapa bark cloth
wouldn't dry because the days were too short. All that work ruined.
So his blind grandmother helped him snare the sun with a net
made of his sister's hair to slow its journey across the sky.
The sun pleaded for its life, they came to an arrangement
that the days would be long in summer and shorter in winter.
It 's a good story, no matter that we're close to the equator,
where the days and nights are nearly equal.

Going down the Sliding Sands Trail into the volcanic desert
was the easy part, like schussing in snow,
only it was made of red pumice.... We took giant strides
where each step took us one body height downward.
It was like walking on the moon as we descended 2000 ft
to the crater floor in minutes. Our ears strained like divers.

Will Staple and Gary Snyder opted to take the trail
down the mountain out the bottom of the crater.
I had to hike back up to the observatory by myself.
I felt abandoned. I was alone on the steep slope,
with only my restless thoughts to accompany me.
The sun scorched my arms, until I was on fire.
The thin air at 10,000 feet whistled,
my tongue was like a dry stone.

I had opportunity to study the rare 'ahinahina,
or Haleakalā silverswords, looking like porcupines
or a bouquet of swords tipped in the purple blood of flowers.
They may live a century, but only bloom once,
one chance to make seeds, no multiple families.

I slid back down the trail backwards a half-step
for every step forward. Pumice singing beneath my feet.
Then I had to face the long drive back down the mountain,
jelly-thighed, I just wanted to sleep by the side of the road,
become part of the mountain, and wait for Māui to push up the sky.

4/8/18
rev. 4/21/18

Palmetto bugs

I was both pleased and appalled to learn from Trane deVore that the large palmetto bug I once encountered in the dark is merely a large cockroach. I was remembering how they frantically scuttled & flipped over like VW bugs, and then noisily spun on their backs, buzzing like chainsaws when I turned on the kitchen light in the middle of the night at Roshi Aikin's zendo in Haiku, Maui, one summer evening a long, long time ago. 

Someone asks if I belonged to the Diamond zendo. It was a long time ago. And tequila of the first water was involved...verily, it was the holy water of choice—I sat zazen with Gary Snyder & Will Staple, yes. Diamonds on the souls of our shoes. I met poet-translator Roshi Aikin years later at a WS Merwin reading in Pasadena—and was floored when he remembered me! What else did he remember? Apparently my ¡Aha! moment of enlightenment took on bug form. How very Kafkaesque! Just leave some crumbs in the sink or the floor for me, please.

Maui Mindfulness

MAUI MINDFULNESS

This is a story of mindfulness, or the way of things. My introduction came painfully, after a poetry reading I did with a friend and poet Will Staple, at the now defunct Garbo's in Guernewood Park.

It was the last day of the Fall semester, December 18, 1981. I'd passed my exams, including the dreaded senior seminar—necessary for me to enter the Master's program in creative writing. In those days I had no concept of pacing—everything was done full-bore. I needed to slow down, and nothing seemed capable of stopping me. I had a whole vacation stretching out in front of me, vast as the horizon of the sea.

Still steeped in the melancholy liquor of a bitter break-up, I was uneasy about bringing Will home, and I remember a small moment that changed my life: I was scrambling around looking for the seatbelt, but it was underneath the cab seat of his truck, which meant getting out of the truck, lifting the seat, and retrieving the belts.

It was late and rainy along the river. I opted for au natural, no constraints. Tension, thick as clotted milk filled the cab as we wound our way along the river. A late-model '60s car in a hurry to the next watering hole, overtook us with impunity along the midway stretch, only to signal left into Dino's bar.

We wanted out of his way, and passed on the right, only to have them plow into us—they'd changed their minds—but not their blinkers. Bracing myself, I flew up against the window, and thought nothing of it.

By the telephone, where Will was about to make the call to the police, the driver motions him aside. Will, trying to be a nice guy, is agreeing with the driver—it would look bad on both insurance policies. Besides, he was a prominent realtor in the community, with an Irish name—his strange redheaded son lived two cabins down from me.

The next morning, when it was obvious something was seriously wrong, Will contacted the police, but the driver, Bruce Collins was sober as a judge, so to speak. Of course, I had no idea of what was to follow, the months of lying flat out on my back, unable to even hold up a book, let alone read.

I remember the victory of when I could carry in a small bag of groceries, or sweep the floor without experiencing nauseating pain.

It was just as well I didn't know I would never be able to do calligraphy or graphic arts again because, ten years later, I still can't tilt my chin down for any length of time. (I use my computer on the bed, with pillows propped behind my head.) Every time my neck bothers me, or the blinding headaches come, I am reminded of the lesson of mindfulness.

Will went off to Maui to join a zendo. His lesson on mindfulness continued in the dailiness of running the zendo as head resident. "No more Mr. Nice Guy," he wrote. "I've learned about appropriate behavior." Two years later, I got a small settlement from the accident, and, in order to go on to the next level of healing, I knew I had to go and see Will.

The daily chores, the cooking, the gardening, cleaning the dojo, stacking wood—were all part of the lesson of mindfulness. I suffered after stacking the wood, but it was a small victory over the body.

That night, on the slopes of Haleakala, in a hamlet appropriately called Haiku, we fired up the wine barrel hot tub, and had a poetry reading under the stars of the Southern Cross, drinking rum and eating May apple pie.

It was there, under the bodhi tree I met Robert Aitken Roshi. I admired his translations of the 16th century Japanese haiku poet Basho. We were preparing for a deep ecology conference, and poet Gary Snyder needed to be picked up at the Maui airport—such as it was.

I don't know who made me more nervous—Snyder or Aitken. My banana-persimmon bread, a smash success the week before, came out of the oven looking more like a brick than food—they were polite and ate it anyway.

The lanai was redolent with gardenia scent; the gekkos chupped, the famous Maui cockroaches spun on their backs like draedls when we entered the kitchen. Will taught me the Maui cockroach shuffle—namely, don't pick up your feet, because it's not a good idea to kill other living things.

They instructed me in the manner of mindful thinking by not instructing me at all.

Lanai, snorkeling in The Armchair, Hawaii journal, 7/19/91

I grab few minutes to snooze beneath palm trees, a dock over a pond, I am hanging out at the Lanai Club on the shores of Lanai to be exact. It’s a resort without walls. I am perversely feeding the carp some mahi-mahi. They’re stirring up the algae soup to a fine spirulina froth. This looks to be some sort of rough 1920s summer camp or barracks hastily converted over to the tourist trade. I must admit if they can sell it, they will. 

For $21 more than it costs to ride the ferry, I rode a Zodiac out to The Armchair. We snorkeled in the pinnacles, much better than Molokini. It was spectacular, like looking into the Horsehead Nebula. But the whining tourists bugged me. Why don’t they just stay home? I keep my distance. I’m just not cut out for these group activities, everyone is packed in like sardines. I want to do so much more, experience everything longer with a ferocity than most people can’t fathom.

Sleepy afternoon in Lanai, I am not ready to go back to the Maui mainland. This is my last splurge before going back home. Snorkelmania, a pristine dive spot for sure. Lanai is surrounded by a fringe reef and is quite shallow. And most of the 2,400 registered residents who live in Lanai City, located smack dab in the center of the crater. Lanai is a shield dome, or a dome volcano from the looks of it. It is arid except for the upper fringe. Hard to put a development in when there’s no water. Pineapples everywhere dress the slopes like a vast hula skirt.

The water here is brackish. Drinking water is shipped in. Maybe that’s why Mercer & Robertson of Lahaina in Boulder Colorado was able to purchase, or at least lease this land with established grounds and dwellings. Who lived here before? Three different groups have this place to themselves from 4 PM to 9AM not a bad deal. I gaze out at the West Maui Mountains, such an incredible backdrop against the sea. Molokai is shrouded with the clouds of shame, or perhaps grief. The world's tallest seacliffs contemplate the belly of the sea.

Lanai is farther west than Koho’olawe, another barren island planted with live ammo. Everything in Hawaii is transitory. The next time I come here, Club Lanai will either be gone, or evolved into something else. I’m having a hard time letting go of the old Maui I once knew some eight years ago. Only Captain Cook on the big Island seems unchanged.

I am hanging out in a defunct concession stand on an island surrounded by a moat of brackish water but the brilliant Bougainvillea is in bloom. Quietude and birds, mostly mynahbirds and finches or house sparrows. I’ve had enough of the sun. I wear my wetsuit jacket to protect myself from the sun more than from the cold. 

I’m probably the only single person here. It’s definitely a couples place, or a family place. I am so sleepy, I have very little motivation to explore the rest of the island. Then there’s the moat to consider. Perhaps I will doze a little while longer under the palm trees. Catch the last boat back to Lahaina.

Molokini Crater, Makena beach, Hawaii Journal, 7/18/91

Yesterday we went to the Molokini beach, on a double-masted schooner, Lavengro, which is Gitano for lover of words. Aptly named. I waited for the words to come, but I was too excited being on the schooner. Pretty much anything with a mast and sails thrills me. And to be able to snorkel in such an extraordinary place, I had no words.

The westward sail in late afternoon with the wind pushing us ever forward, was well worth the trip, alone. I was in hog heaven. Everyone here, including the crew, is from somewhere else. Crew member, Charlene, who kept us in libations, is from Oregon, but most of us are native Californians. 

Nick, the first mate, who originally hailed from Flagstaff Arizona, now lives in South Point on the Big Island. I tell him I was just there a few days ago staying with my cousin. My extended family has been coming to Hawaii since the early 1960s. It’s in the blood. We bond over that shared moment. He says he lives on the makai side.

Nick said that Maui is 100,000 strong and that the population is expected to double that by 1995. Almost every destination resort we passed on the way to Makena Beach is under construction. Big Island, where Nick is from, has 100,000 people but it’s six times bigger than Maui. I haven’t been here since 1983 and I am going into shock. Lahaina is a zoo. Wall-to-wall, no, shared-wall condos all up the Ka’anapali coast. The building boom is on.

Then, when we got to the half-moon crater, a steep volcanic cinder cone in the middle of nowhere, we dove along the inner arms of the crater wall. I don’t know how far down it drops, but even in the afternoon light, it was an extraordinary sight. However, snorkeling is never good in the afternoon because the ocean is not calm. We had to be careful that we weren’t thrust up against the rough sides of the volcano wall as everything was razor sharp.

A six-month pregnant woman who snorkeled with us, said there’s a baby boom in Oregon. The crew person, Charlene, said she just got two phone calls, one friend had a baby last night, and another is pregnant. It must be something in the air.

We talked about the Big Island, Nick says Kealakekua means pathway of the gods. I point out an old Hawaiian trail going up into the West Maui Mountains. Somewhere in those high caves, the aili’i are buried, Nick says, the one in charge of placing the bones in the cave was lowered down on a rope, then the rope was cut so no one would know exactly where the chief’s mana was hidden. Sacrifice.

One dolphin swims over from portside to see us off, but didn’t stay long. I was disappointed by the snorkeling in Molokini. Charlene says that during World War II, the military also bombed Molokini.  Perhaps that explains some of the barrenness of the crater floor. A hoop, what once was a barrel? 

A moray eel undulates lazily across the wasteland. Another displays his tonsils as I was washed over him by a wave. The water is unusually rough, and we are bobbing about like corks or apples. I stay out the longest, but no one, not even me, a diehard snorkeler, wants to go out for another dive.

On the way home, a line breaks on the mainsail, so we pull in the jib and the mainsail, then raise the foresail. Heaving seas drenches us every two or three swells. I wear my windsurfing jacket all the way back into port. This area of beach near Ma’alea has the fastest waves in the world. Freight train waves, says Charlene. I believe it. Those waves rip along the seawall with a velocity that would make Amtrak seems slow as a snail.

The sea was so rough, truth be known, I was glad to get out of the water when the dive was over. I was chilled to the bone. We had plenty of time to meet our shipmates on the way back. Besides, it was happy hour and the mai tais were as free as the wind and the waves. Nothing like a barefoot sunset cruise. When we landed, the dock felt like it was pitching as violently as the sea. As I walked to shore, it felt like my knees were hitting my chin, I was bone-tired but happy. Happy to return to our little bungalow facing the sea above Lahaina. Far from the banyan tree.

Did I say Lavengro means lover of words, she says, it’s from a Tom Robbins novel. I buy a T-shirt how can I not resist with the literary name like that? It’s right up my alley. Melville jumped ship here. It’s a literary hot spot here. Speaking of hot, I can’t believe Jack London wrote To Build a Fire on the beach at Waikiki, that place of swamps. 

The craziness of Lahaina is far from here. Lanai is by the pale blue shadow against an even paler  backdrop of sky. They’re burning sugarcane again in the fields, even this far out to sea, Molokini is nearly one league from the land. That’s 10 miles of burnt cane smoke drifting by the wind like seaweed. The indigo of the sea is more intense than lapis, and it is interrupted by lacy whitecaps.

This morning was one of those rare, clear ones that jackknifed across the sky like a can opener, revealing the silvery brightness of dawn. We could see into the hanging valley, where Charlene said there are the remains of a huge settlement. But smallpox and King Kamehameha, decimated the settlement. No one calls him a traitor. They say that the rivers ran red for days after after the battle, so many bodies piled up in the rivers, that the water stopped flowing.Then, the onslaught. And now the tourists come in droves to witness what is gone.

The cliffs of Molokai jab at the sky. Hard to believe that Haleakalā was actually cloudless. Beneath the shadow of the peaks, it’s dusted green, where the rainshadow begins. Yesterday I was above the clouds on the rim of the house of the sun where Maui once roped one of the legs of the sun to slow it down so that his mother could continue her work on the tapa cloth. A tapa cloth tells a story, it’s a kind of writing. No wonder a woman’s work is never done, with men out lassoing the sun to stop it in its tracks.

Today, we went down to Makena Beach, where most of the locals go. The Hawaiian surfer dude sitting in the crotch of the tree watches the sea. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. Nearly a decade, a lot has changed. The Hawaiian is oblivious to the boogie boarders and tourists. He’s watching the outside waves. Suddenly the surfer stands, looks intently out to sea, adjust his net in the crotch of the tree, it’s like a huge jellyfish. Guess he’s planning on catching some dinner too.

The Hawaiian waxes his board, puts on his booties and fins. A butterfly surfing on the offshore breeze is shoved back by the force. False alarm. He hand-signals to a friend waiting on the crest of a wave, who leashes the board to his ankle, reads the surf. Another outside wave swallows the surfers. Another and another. The Hawaiian in the blue trunks runs towards the sea, is airborne, but now the sea is calm. He is waiting for the big one. It is a fine art judging the waves like that. Waiting for the right wave takes patience. Boogie borders turn unexpected somersaults, a salute to summer?

A covey of surfers collects around the Hawaiian. From this angle, the water makes his hair black again. He is no longer the father of all of those children, but a boy riding the waves again, long before the infestation of resorts spread its malignant splendor along these once pristine shores.

Koho’olawe’s red mane under the tail of a cloud, is momentarily quiet. Last December, President Bush gave the former military target date back to the state of Hawaii. Over 1/4 of Hawaii belongs to the military. It is hard to fathom. For decades they bombed the shit out of the island, that once supported rare and endemic species, I remember listening to the adults complaining when I was living in Haiku, near Paia. Koho’olawe’s sacrifice, now a red wasteland where nothing will grow. It bleeds into the reflections of clouds, staining them pink.

More star pines and ironwood trees wear yellow bows—yellow ribbons everywhere—even in Hana which is at the end of the earth as far as Maui is concerned. Bring them home. Hana folks like their seclusion. After the sugarcane refinery went belly up, they had to rely upon their own resources. Not a café or eatery to be seen in 57 miles down the one-way road.

The Hawaiian is back up in his tree. His progeny greets the next wave. It turns out he is a lifeguard sitting in a koa tree. The Hawaiian wades out into the surf with his net cradled in both arms. The son has built a fire on the beach. Slowly he wades out through the lava rocks like a cat in tall grass waiting for the right moment.

I remember watching the fisherman of Mexico, descendants of African slaves, casting nets from the shore in a much similar fashion. Being out on the water again reminded me of the Galapagos where we were 10 days at sea in an open boat. We fought for the flat spot in front of the boat. The helm is the steadiest spot. The sea was the same shade of indigo, fathomless depths. Such an impossible blue. Ultramarine. Literally.

Two enormous bombers lazily fly low over the crater, ominously, a slow predatory crawl through the air. They circle back towards Koho’olawe like homing pigeons. Force of habit, I guess. The military presence is not forgotten here. Some things die hard. No matter that the endangered Hawaiian tern nests on Molokini, we’re not allowed to land on the crater rim, or face of $5000 fine. That’s fine by me, there is literally no place to even stand on the crater rim. The bombers circle again, perhaps the bloodletting of ancient Koho’olawe attracts them.

The Hawaiian boy gathers up more wood for the fire. He says this is the first time I saw them there, they better not bomb this island, he said, shaking his fist at the sky. He is the one who will inherit this place, tourists, and all.

The road to Hana, Haleakala, Hawaii Journal, 7/17/91

Yesterday we went to Hana, Hana means the end. As in the end of the world. As in closed. Pau. But the unpaved road itself, festooned with 7000 potholes, continues on eleven more torturous miles to the seven pools of the seven virgins. I took a photo of a young girl crouched at the lower lip of the last pool, appropriately called the Virgin.

It is a long ride back from Hana, in each canyon, the foliage is more spectacular than the last. Bamboo forests, Ohia, silvery and glistening in the mist. Rain shadow, This area gets 400 inches a year and keeps the green blaze verdant. We gaze out to a rocky settlement, where my neighbor George Howell’s uncle who was the island’s only doctor lived. He was overly fond of the drink so you took your chances with the relative sobriety of Dr. Howell.

I went out to the 16-mile marker from Paia where WS Merwin lives, remembering the road down the ridge to the sea. I found a stalk of tuberose that someone had left. A new grave at the top of the Pali, the only clue, a rusted chain and a heart-shaped metal Hawaii dog license. Someone’s beloved pet overlooks the ancient Hawaiian harbor that WS Merwin has protected from the world for so long.

This is the place that Will Staple took me to, where the deep music of the surf boulders rang a cacophony of bells beneath the waves. There is a leanto on the beach. Hawaiians still use this place, it still has the magic. Wild orchids tumble off the edge of a cliff, the blue surprise of tropical sea against the darkness of lava. In the mango forest there is an ancient Hawaiian village buried under dense jungle foliage. We explored it as we gathered mangoes. Clouds of fruit flies followed us, jealous of our bounty. The garden terraces were still growing stands of taro plant.

On the way to Hana I swam at a waterfall pool which was the perfect temperature, the water falling from the cloud forests of Haleakalā, mirrors the green harmony of the forest. And then a man named Michael who dove from the cliff 20 feet or more above me, led me to a secret hole behind the waterfall. I had to step in and down 2 1/2 feet, and then lean back up into the hole until I was behind the waterfall. The hole, small and dark, was filled with all my unknown childhood closet monsters.

Maui the Mischievous, fished these islands up from the sea. Haleakalā, house of the sun where Maui stood to share the sun and slow its passage across the sky so his mother, Hana could work the tapa cloth. Haleakalā peeks out once, on the way home, where the peninsula juts out into the sea.

When the fog lifted, revealing the eye of the Iao Needle, small white bird circled, giving a sense of scale to the West Maui mountains. I gathered fallen plumeria blossoms and tossed them into the rivers. Whitewater, Kea, as soon as the fog had lifted, the rains began, but paradise is like that, only revealing a fraction of her bounty at a time. You have to be ready for it To stare into that terrible beauty of Medusa turned men into stone. Her hair fell into the sea. This is how the coral came to be.

There are living stones wrapped in ti leaves at every site I stop at. I take photos, and I touch the stones for good luck. They are warm, like sleeping cats. Everywhere stray cats and warm stones. I carry peridot and olivine stones from South Point with me to Haleakalā. Is it is not from the volcano? Someone says the tears of Pele. I hope that Pele will understand my need for green stones. I will share them with the children. We will write poetry, adding to the deeper mystery of stone.

They say the stones speak guttural low whispers. Certainly they’ve taught the rivers here how to speak. Somewhere above me is Pu’u Kukui, it rises up some 5788 feet. Pu’uhonua, place or sanctuary of kukuis, oil for the bodies of the fallen Hawaiian warriors who fell, blocking the streams. Candlenut trees to oil the bodies of the ali’i, the royalty, whose bones still sleep in these mountains.

Some blue sky at last. Finally the voices are upon me and I feel the stirrings of a poem asking for the lips of speech. I am an imperfect receiver. Sometimes they come, and I cannot hear them, but I am mouthpiece, I savor the words in my mind, rolling them like small warm stones against the sea, polishing them until I can build a structure of language, of thought, a dwelling for the tired heart to speak to seek solace, or find refuge.

On White Hill Pu’ukea I created a circle, dropping the olivine crystals in the four directions beginning in the north, without thinking, it seems natural. Looking out over the crater, I see the bosom of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, the long mountain, I can even make out Cook’s Bay, and Kealakekua. I think of Oleg and Eddie in turn.

Last time I was here, I rode up the mountain with Will Staple and Gary Snyder in the very same truck I was injured in. Sitting beside Gary Snyder was a trying experience as he tends not to relate well to women. However, his presence, the cold, is magnetic, powerful. We come to terms with it all.

Sitting zazen next to him in the Maui zendo, I lost all recollection of time—45 minutes, maybe an hour of my life disappeared. He drew me in along with him, on the powerful riptide of Satori. 

We dropped Gary off at Halemau’u trail, and we hiked down into the crater via the Sliding Sands trail. Sword plant was in bloom and all the cinders you could fix on in one crater, a lunar landscape—lava like the crest of a standing wave.

Kaanapali, Maui, Hawaii journal, 7/2/91

Maui Park Motel is old school, quite nice, huge rooms with full kitchen. Windy but clear, the West Maui mountains are shrouded in fog, as ever. Lahaina was a shock, it is now a fast-paced pick-up town, what Waikiki used to be like. It’s very commercial. At 8 AM people are already at the pool drinking. I miss the old laid-back Lahaina.

Yesterday’s flight from Kona was rough, and when I saw Kealakekua Bay from the air, I burst into tears. At this point, Oleg is boarding a plane to Moscow. I tried to call him last night but he was out. We had talked a few days before and had said our goodbyes. I had trouble hanging up. The reason why I said I’d call again was to lessen the sorrow of parting. He says he knows that we will meet again, under what circumstances, or where, he’s not certain.

His cousin Vlad wanted to know all about me. And I said oh no, what did you tell him? Oleg replied, well, I didn’t tell him you were penguin. I am sad that he’s leaving, but there was no space in my life for him. I was ready for it to be over. I’m sure I will miss him lots when I return home to an empty house.

Meanwhile I was distracted by other things including Eddie, who is so obviously the wrong man no matter how much I am attracted to him. And also I’m tired of that married men syndrome—not that he’s married, but he is preoccupied. I was surprised the attraction was still even there even after five years, was it all in my head? What was I attracted to? Classic codependency symptoms? At least I recognized it for what it was this time around. Also, the fact that he’s smoked dope for 20 years is a bit scary. Not to mention the drinking.

Last night I dreamed I was in high school. My neighbors were there. Alastair Ingram was playing on the sax. Piles and piles of dope everywhere, was it a cleaning school? I snitched a bud to give to George and Alastair but there was no need because more and more of it was available.

The night before, I dreamt a scorpion had stung me in my right palm. I was looking for someone to take the stinger out but no one would do it. Time was a wasting and the poison with soon take affect and I need an antidote. When no one was available I had to ride it out. I knew I wouldn’t die but the joy...

Telephone ringing. I kept thinking about Oleg, and when it rang, sure enough it was Oleg on the other end of the line. I had the day wrong. He leaves tomorrow. He said, I wish you well in your life, happiness, etc. I realized that he had never once thanked me for hosting him, perhaps it never dawned upon him. Different culture?

Natasha, Vlad’s wife said, please come to New York to visit. Vlad’s mother, Inna said hello—another family member. I remember looking at Oleg at Inna’s house in Cherkassy, thinking he was like my husband. This was long before we were lovers and that intuition was correct though I didn’t know it at the time. 

The whole time Oleg was staying with me, he was saying, in my country we don’t do this we don’t do that. And now that he’s in New York he hears himself saying in California we don’t do this, we don’t do that. He’s afraid that when he returns home he’ll say in the States we don’t do this or that, and everybody will hate it. I said you probably will. Ad nauseam.

10 AM. I’ve been up for hours and I’m annoyed when Marilyn, who’s been up an hour, she needs an additional 45 minutes to get ready. Me, I barely even brush my hair, let alone worry about makeup or clothing. I am all about experiencing life as it is. I don’t care how I look. True, she sat outside giving me privacy when I talked to Oleg, but we have so little time here, and I want to get on the road, so to speak.

Down at the pool, I swim a couple of laps, soak in the hot tub to cool off, pardon the paradox, or is it oxymoron? A man enters the spa wearing a cap, nice legs, toned body but I don’t even want to make eye contact. I don’t know how old he is, and I imagine variations of Meeting Mr. Right, especially after hanging up the phone with Oleg who wishes me well and happiness, and luck in finding the right man.

This all makes me so sad because the right man doesn’t exist. We are all imperfect beings. Most are willing to accept those flaws, and adjust—only I can’t seem to find that niche and I am lonely for love. Probably the best thing about our relationship was the sex, not the loving.

I was surprised to note how much my second cousin Eddie and John Simon were alike. I just remembered another dream I had told John Simon something about the hot tub. I can’t remember the dream. But the real man in the hot tub just did a strange twisting dance to remove something from his shoe. His ass is too tan for him to be a tourist. He’s very tight like Jim Byrd, another emotional violence waiting to be born.

As I approach my 40th decade, I am quicker to sum up the body types, comparing them to past boyfriends, mistakes I wanted to set right, but say that would be to deny all the good, the new nihilism. I tend to lump all the pain into one category that equals mistake.

Serial monogamy is a more clinical term. But I’m getting tired of all this yet another lover syndrome, new tricks and quirks to get used to, it gets so old quickly. At this point I prefer an on again off again relationship with the same man so I wouldn’t have to keep learning the new quirks. Perhaps I’m jaded but I’m envious of those who have working relationships.

It wasn’t quite there with Oleg, too many problems in the way. We could overcome some of them, perhaps. But then his children remain insufferably with that viper of a wife, Nadia, and for their sake he’ll have to go back home to live with it. The hell. Because there is nothing else he can do.

We only have so many options we are capable of comprehending. His viewpoint is much smaller than mine, his worldview, as well, though he is a quick study. As I keep saying, I have mixed feelings about his leaving. I don’t want to experience the sorrow or grief, I’m not even sure it’s there.

Why was I crying when I left Kona, was because I crying for all the star-crossed lovers I’ve met along the way and those who cannot escape even themselves. Kealakekua Bay eases into the land. Eddie took us out to where Captain Cook met his unfortunate demise. Eddie says he was probably eaten on Napoopoo Beach, the Sandwich Islands indeed. With poi. Snorkeling at the Captain Cook monument was fantastic.

In my hotel room is the rendition of Cook’s voyage with the Kealakekua Bay enlarged. So many constant reminders of Eddie on the Big Island. Some quirk of fate, larger than family, has thrown us together. He is a puere, his mother says, a boy in a man’s body, the eternal Peter Pan syndrome. I am no Wendy, and I seem to have a fatal attraction to them. But then again, I too am childlike. I will probably never return to visit him, we are Pau, so this trip was about saying goodbye to something that never was, that never could be.

Nina asks, what have I done wrong as a parent? I’ve read about toxic parents—we gave him love, perhaps too much love. But she is overbearingly opinionated, a strong Italian Catholic woman, not unlike John Oliver Simon’s mother. John considers me an ex-wife, though we were never married. 

Oleg considers himself my husband, but he is already married. Something in me, perhaps the Catholic, can’t escape the dilemma of multiple mates, yet if you look at most cultures, affairs continued in spite of the marriages. Even in Polynesia where love is freely given.

I’m becoming ka’aina, having returned again and again to these islands. More love flows through me like the tides. I have no attachment to it. Eb and flow. To each his own. If Ed and his absentee older girlfriend Kim are happy, who am I to say anything? I can’t fix the world. I don’t mind talking about it to his mother Nina, but she is a venomous lady when riled, and on some level I know anything I say could become a weapon in her hands. So, I am careful and keep schtum. She is a lawyer after all.

CLOUDS OVER MOLOKAI

CLOUDS OVER MOLOKAI, II

Clouds tower over Molokai 

flat tongue of Molokai rolls from the feet of Maui, 

where reefs break, boats and whitecaps of Pacific lint.

If you look the wrong direction all there is, is endless ocean.

August/84?  No idea

added 9/15/2016

CLOUDS OVER MOLOKAI, 1

flat tongue of Molokai 

rolls from the feet of Maui 

white boats and whitecaps 

Pacific lint. If you look 

in the wrong direction 

all there is is endless ocean 

where reefs break.

I found this in a 1983 journal, but I also found a poem written in 1984. So I am not sure of the date.

EMINENT DOMAIN

EMINENT DOMAIN
—for Will Staple

At the 16-mile marker

the melody of surf leads us deeper

into the heart of the jungle

where we slide on ancient terraces,

and fruit flies rise up

from their mango prayers.

Barefoot, we re-emerge from the tangle

and follow the old Hawaiian trail.

On the cliff, a windmill places us in time.

In the surf a man shows his son

how to spear a fish.

They talk with their hands.

You offer a red flower for my hair.

The breakers confront the fish in you,

and the dorsal fin in me.

The ocean wipes all traces

of speech from our lips.

6/5/ 1983 Kulike, Maui ?

WS Merwin's place

8/90 rev.

1993 We Are Not Swans, Cecelia Woloch

Hawaii poem fragments

On the condition of my camera

you know it's bad news
when the camera repair man calls
and says well, to start with,
when I took the back off the camera
a spider jumped out.
Have you considered getting another?



Well, since you asked,
this dream is a semi sweet
chocolate covered 

macadamia nut in Waikiki.

Since you've asked again
Making love to you
would be like both of us getting laid
by the White Goddess
end comparing notes afterwards.

We're fish mongers throwing back the day's catch
And it's the same finny fish
Neptune keeps slapping back 

on the platter of sacrifice

We are both shepherds 

offering the same sacrificial lamb
to the goddess over and over again
Except the lamb no longer bleeds real blood.
The real blood is 1200 years old 

and has long since faded
into the darkened existence
we dutifully push across the page:
this writing




After making love to you
the footsteps of victory
chalking down
the carnivorous road of need and regret
would resound across the deaf mute page

6/7 1983



Calling Will in Maui
waking up until it's 130 here
so it will be 1030 there
when's the best hot fucking time
to call you I asked.

6/7 1983

She's dressed in red
making brownies after meditation



Hawaiian frog prince

Gary said quick, 

jump out of the truck.
You know what to do 

only you can save him
He's been waiting 

for your kiss all these years.




Washing off Haleakala dust 

Will hands me soap 

He said if you wash my back 

I'll wash yours. 

Gary yells, are you two 

still in the shower?

Question On laurels

Snyder said I thought old poets 

got to rest on their laurels 

and money just came in. 

You have to keep working 

as hard as you ever did. 

Harder. There are no laurels.

When I told Gary Snyder his poems about Cousin Jack spurred me into writing about the ordinary, he said I am honored and he bowed. I said I was a visual artist having come to poetry later in life. I discovered the joys in communicating verbally. He said he wished he was a visual artist, feeling the need to visually express himself. And there you have it. How green is the grass in the next pasture anyway?

Enlightenment 

late fall and mangoes 

for breakfast every day 

for two months 

Repeat on an as needed basis.

6/7/1983

added 9/2016

GECKO LUCK

GECKO LUCK

In the islands, everybody believes 

that geckos bring good luck. 

Mokoli'i means lizard Island.

I am carrying damp eucalyptus wood
to the redwood hot tub up the hill. 

Two geckos slither down my arm 

another slides down my leg. 

I am covered with red mud 

and the TV camera is rolling.
I'm dreaming in geckos and it all
comes true. Mokoli'i everywhere.

Later, I'm at a party in Kula 

with Will, Jacques, and Gary. 

We are talking about Haleakalā,

the plight of the flightless geese,
and feral pigs eroding the island.
On a painting two geckos are dancing 

on a checkerboard. At home, 

a solitary gecko chucks at midnight. 

6/1983   6/1-6, 83 could be any of those dates

Maui Zendo

added 9.15.2016 edited slightly


TWO GARDENIAS

after hauling wood all morning
I sit in the hot tub, grateful for its warmth
two gardenias break the surface like heavenly farts. 

6/6/83?


LONG DISTANCE CALL

Calling My friend Zara on the Mainland
2600 miles away, I exclaim
your voice sounds like
it's coming from underwater

6/1/83?

Haleakala, drawing

Lobster study, Maui, (drawing)

At Bob Marley‘s memorial bash

Maui madness across the moon
dark clouds over Haleakalā.

Haleakalā, a persimmon-colored bowl
to feed the sun.

Dark clouds brood over Haleakalā
Lahaina, Maui at Bob Marley's memorial bash.
Ziggy works the crowd. Jah love.
Every little thing gonna be all right.

The moon rises over the West Maui Mountains
in a reggae rhythm, clouds of blue smoke roll over us
while Gary and Steve sleep inside the Haleakalā crater.
Inside the vault, the story of striated volcanic ash.
Haleakalā's ambergris, a gift from the a’aina.
Turn on the headlights in the clouds.

Coco-lulu, Maui while we, while we…
Every little thing, reefer madness.

I’m a Haleakalā Howley. Deep ecology.
A’aina waihini. Lanai hula call Ina.
Ina oaka oaka oaka i ka lani la.
Hula dancers. The earth abides.

The sky sweeps the land of now, we are cursed.
They will return from the crater with empty pockets
and an empty heart gladdened by the sun.

On the whale road, curved water, Lahaina.

I’m a Haleakalā Haole
howling at Bob Marley's memorial reggae bash.
Moonrise over the West Maui Mountains
takes my breath away
while Gary and Steve dream
inside the Haleakalā crater.
Striated volcanic ash, a gift of ahinahina
Silversword and ambergris of Haleakalā
turn on the headlights in the cloud.
Marley’s last words: Money can’t buy life.

5/26/1983

The rocks of Maui are cursed
remove no rocks from the island he said
for bad luck will follow you.

Will Staple sleeping, Maui Zendo, 1983 (drawing)

2 POEMS: FAMINE FOOD, MONGOOSE MANGOES

FAMINE FOOD

Finger bananas 

banana toes 

little apple bananas 

taking seven years to grow

Will chopped down the banana tree 

famine food for the crossing.

5/25/1983

MONGOOSE MANGOES

Jacques, having some trouble 

with his English, asks me, 

have you picked any 

mongooses for breakfast?

5/25/1983

added 9/15/20116

2 POEMS: FLYING TO MAUI, DREAM SEQUENCE

FLYING TO MAUI

Scut cloud shadows on the ocean 

like darkened continents

Or sunken coral reefs

Modern mariner plane 

writing the air currents 

a ship of the sky.

5/24/1983?

 
DREAM SEQUENCE

I come from the past 

unerringly into your thorn shadow 

and we drink the deep water

from under the bridge. 

5/24/1983?

added 9/13/2016

LAHAINA

LAHAINA

The tentacles 

of the Banyan tree 

dangle down 

seeking wisdom 

from the earth.

Too much 

of a good thing 

is good for nothing.

5/19/1983
I added title later.