sandpiles before sunrise

goal setting

• I want to fall in love again
• I want to challenge myself: physically, mentally, spiritually, professionally
• I want to read GREAT books
• I want to laugh all the time- go out with friends and relax
• I want to see my family more often
• I want to embark on some freelance gigs, for money, freedom and stimulation
• I want to be a part of music again
• I want to dance- well.
• I want to be informed. To read the news and get current
• I want to be a good person. To stop dancing with the devil and be respectable. 
• I want to be a good role model
• I want to help others/ which will, in turn, help me to stop taking myself so damn seriously
• I want to learn to be a public speaker
• I want to make a difference
• I want to be a writer
• I want to create art again
• I want HUGE HUGE love
• I want a core group of good friends. The kind you know you’re hanging out with on a Friday night before you even ask them.
• I want to be more honest with myself
• I want to be more honest with my family
• I want to make time for faith

what happens at work before 9 am

A walk past the onetime horse-stable-turned-ceramics-studio, now condemned clay storage unit. Board members are passionately discussing whether or not to tear it down and start from scratch (cost saver) or  do the reno from the inside-out, maintaining the structural & historical integrity (a totally non-mission-based & costly solution, but so obviously worthwhile). I love, love this place. 

Pop in on the children's studio to check on my new teaching artists and campers. This little girl's father passed away a few years ago, so I've been giving her free art lessons ever since. She is awesome. 

I seem to be the only person around that appreciates these insanely beautiful jewelry clamp tables. Sure, they're short, wobbly and cheap, but they're also delicious and amazing. 

Checking to make sure the blow torch stations are still in tact. I'm a sucker for home-drawn signs, especially the "I love our studio! Please keep it clean and tidy!" one. 

This is the ceramics studio where we bisque/ mix/ glaze/ fire our work. There's another space for throwing and yet another for storage (as seen up top). Ceramicists rule this place. Wow, I'm totally making that into a bumper sticker.

Have a great morning!

let's not forget fall

Super meant to post a few photos from last month’s Boston adventure. This was a good trip. Buzzwords: Thora, Jane Golden, Will Power, Leadership, Samuel Adams, Newbury Street, Mentor, Future, Hope, Intelligence, Insomnia.

Cobham, Surrey

Yesterday was my second Christmas away from my family in 33 years. 

I think about the first one consistently. I had just completed a semester studying abroad in Dublin and had a few weeks to kill before my brother was meant to meet me for a trek through Ireland, Scotland, England and into Amsterdam before my next semester as a marketing intern with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. My mother knew a family from church that had recently moved to Cobham, Surrey and asked if they would take me in- which they did- which then served as my first of many emotionally vivid periods of what was thought to be anti-climax, but was actually a beautifully sculpted moment for reflection by the powers that be, namingly, the Boylan family.

During my time with the Boylan’s, I slept like a teenager, read like a post-grad and minded my manners like the daughter of a well-reputed set of Irish Catholic folks. Patty, the mother, was a prototypical type A who had herself completely convinced that she coined the phrase “think different,” that had been adopted as the official slogan of Apple computers just the previous year. She would slip me a Guinness as she let her kids have it after dinner, screaming so loudly about unfolded laundry or unwashed dishes that I waned to crawl under a bed and die- though it was completely conventional behavior in my own home. She shuffled my name into the daily chore lists, which I appreciated simply for feeling some sense of responsibility and normalcy- or as a way to “give back” for the kindness of these complete strangers that had taken me into their home over the Christmas holiday. On Christmas morning there were presents- tons and tons of presents- with my name on them. It was simultaneously mortifying and touching. Days were spent reading everything Hemingway ever wrote. Nights were spent learning how to play chess with my mentor Michael, the 8-year old Boylan (and on-again, off-again “boyfriend” of my baby sister, who he once attended Catholic school with).  When it came time for me to catch my flight back to Ireland where I would meet my brother for the trip that would take us through the transformation from siblings into friends, I did my very best to write a heartfelt card that would tell the entire family just how grateful I was of their ridiculous generosity, warmth, care and kindness. I was always pretty good at writing sappy cards, having many years of practice for parents whose only seasonal gift giving wish was a card that “meant something,” but this Boylan non-unconditional love association presented some uncharted terrain that I all but writer’s blocked all over. I remember torturing myself over the sentence “you will be sorely missed”- unsure of whether or not it was actually “surely missed” and feeling like a total tool. To this day, I don’t remember which one I went with- just that it was the wrong one and that they would think I was come dramatically sassy kid who couldn’t come up with a better way of saying thank you than leaving a corny card on my roughly made up futon. I always, always meant to send them a better gift, a letter, some sort of comparison of my “before and after” London life. 

Of course I never did. I was on the phone with my mother a few years ago when she mentioned in passing that Patty Boylan had died of cancer (fucking cancer), and she was nearly floored by my devastated reaction. She quickly apologized for her delivery to which I responded with a passing breeze slightly resembling this story and she told me that it would mean the world to that family to write them that letter. I still think about it, and I still think about Patty- especially on Christmas. 

reckless, dangerous and unwise

The buzzwords of my lately seem to be “risk” and “consequence.” Whether or not this is about carpe’ing the diem or engaging in the active practice of stupidity is yet to be determined.

I am planting land mines for those that threat proximity, leaving their ultimate demise up to them- but tempting the fates with every strategically placed bomb.

Reckless, dangerous and unwise. Refreshing, invigorating and fuck-all. Always (always) a tug-o-war of extremes. I wholeheartedly invite the day when I can just be constant. Not necessarily predictable or routine, but solid and right. Sound as a pound on the ground.

Today I’ll be launching my 8th attempt at a collaborative creativity blog, this time with a fiercely affecting woman who will (for the first time) share a commitment to the quality of motivation I’ve demanded of every likeminded project. It’s all about the recipe; about trial & error and understanding what it takes to make it work (and that that will always change).

This is the song that helped me uncover these words

triggered by a sweater

It’s cold on Maui today. Heavy sweater and Irish coffee cold. The receptionist is blaring Christmas tunage downstairs, notes happily bouncing off the walls that have been painted red and silver for our holiday house exhibition.

Thanksgiving was pretty killer. This is the first time in 4 years that I have actually gotten to spend it with family (as the kid sis moved to the island last week), and we went all out: maple caramelized carrots, garlic butter crispy string beans, homemade naughty buttery mashed potatoes and cranberry stuffing, sweet corn, apple sauce, Guinness and fried chicken. Just the way it was meant to be. More than a dozen friends came through the house that night, bearing gifts of the pumpkin pie and casserole variety- each adding a healthy dose of awesome to our tropical holiday.

Three years ago I spent the holiday at the boss’ friends’ potluck, featuring 20 some-odd old folk that looked down upon the boy and I as if we were grubby little orphans. We made the best of it, letting it go when our homemade dishes didn’t make it to the dinner table and opting to hang out with the puppies in the garage over the yuppies in the giant estate. We counted our blessings, fortunate for the new experience which taught us just a little bit more about right & wrong, about how we would treat future expats we’d come into contact with, and for the raging personalities we would mimic for weeks.

Two years ago I was sick. Borderline deathbed (blood infection) drama sick. The boy hit up a paddling-buddies-potluck and brought me home a plate of turkey and rice. We watched Harry Potter movies and tried not to panic about my recovery. He was worried, which never happened, which made me worried. And so, so in love.

Last year was my first solo Thanksgiving. I met some friends at the beach and drank beers from the cooler while rooting on a silly surf competition before heading to an Upcountry potluck. I didn’t know anybody and it was dark and cold and rainy. Almost immediately I spotted a familiar face and was introduced around. Everyone was incredibly friendly & gracious, and I left feeling, well, thankful for the kindness of strangers.

Good, cozy holiday memories for a cold Upcountry afternoon. Happy Monday.

thanks

I am obsessed with love at the moment. With connectivity, really, and all of the strange impulses that are affiliated with its cause & effect (and affect).

About a year ago, I separated from the person I had been sharing my life with/ living with for 10-11 years. Parting ways with such a tangible part of your segue into adulthood is a physically painful process. Cannon's fight-or-flight theory states that animals react to threats with a general discharge of the sympathetic nervous system, priming the animal for fighting or fleeing. (I am a fighter). This response was later recognized as the first stage of a general adaptation syndrome that regulates stress responses among vertebrates and other organisms. Associated reactions include acceleration of heart and lung action, paling or flushing, or alternating between both, inhibition of stomach and upper-intestinal action to the point where digestion slows down or stops, constriction of blood vessels, inhibition of the lacrimal gland (responsible for tear production) and salivation, auditory exclusion (loss of hearing), shaking and loss of peripheral vision (tunnel vision). 

During the one-year-plus that this separation has lasted, I have exercised some fucking formidable tunnel vision. I have recently learned that I have an unbelievably slow emotional reaction time; like a fine wine, I need to inhale, swish, swirl, sip and savor my moments before I can appropriately respond to them. I have a 100% success rate of mismatching my immediate reactions and my actual feelings toward any given situation when it comes to affairs of the heart. In short: I don’t know what to do.

Why I’m recording this in such a public place is just my way of airing out an idea that has been draining me for many years. I don’t know that we need to “just work it out” or “just move on” it these situations. It feels more like what we need is to just feel them with all of our senses and to let them be exactly what they are: experiences (not traffic lights).

In the context of living today on the cusp of Thanksgiving, it feels appropriate to acknowledge the surprising, lucky, intense, and genuine love (in all its forms) that I have been offered this year. And to put it out there in the Universe that I’ve really, really tried to treat that love with as much care and respect as can be expected from such an emotional synthesizer as myself. The pain has receded, the forgiveness has made its way closer & closer to shore, the cheek has been exercised, and the sub textually referenced people have been eternally preserved in this little blog post that I’ll read as the years go by.

Long live love.

today

Good morning, Maui. It’s time to make that change.

The thing is, I get to decide what my life is going to be like today. Sure, I’ll run into 50 some odd friends, colleagues, acquaintances and strangers along the way that will challenge the statement- but if I can hold on to the belief that “today is going to be a good day,” I believe I can battle it out where necessary and absorb the goodness in between. I am a lucky, lucky girl. No more pity party, lady.

I’m going to add pics to this post throughout the day to mark my progress. Today I am setting an example for myself.

6:30 am: View from my lanai = GOOD

8:30 am: Drive to work = GOOD

3:00 pm: A quick breather in the gallery with Swoon = GOOD

More to come...

instead

Freedom: packing up your weekend with all sorts of chores, activities, soirees and other plans and then throwing it all out the window for a quasi road trip and tons of snacking instead.

Last week was all about surrendering control for the sake of peace. And it worked. Work has been so unnecessarily bananas stressful, with special consideration owed to the fact that we’ve just pulled off one of the greatest triumphs in the institution’s history. Whether the current weather conditions of the office are a coping mechanism for the swift depression in action or the management’s means of grabbing & maintaining the sense of power derived from success is yet to be determined. Communally conclusive is that the strategy for an escape route from the mess called for a completely asinine approach to kiss-assyness- an art form I have neither mastered nor ever care to, but assumed for the sake of my wits. And why the sudden willingness to preserve said wits? Quickly: I almost drowned last Saturday out in the open ocean; I gave up trying to come up for air, and the next day (while drowning my sorrows in a marathon of HGTV and E! instead), I decided to stop being so damn stubborn for a week and do whatever I needed to do to survive. (And it worked).

I was on a such a high all week. I can’t even begin to describe the wave of negativity, the complaints, the criticisms, and the incessant whining that attempted to bring me down (repeatedly). You make a conscious decision at these moments to either give in and join the negativity council (the weak choice) or smile, nod and say something to the effect of, “we can only do the best that we can do,” (the difficult choice). Easy is a cop out, no matter how you slice it. And once you make that decision, you get to ride it like a wave- with no idea of how long it will last or whether or not you’ll lose your balance and eat shit in a gnarly wipeout.

And so, when I woke up Saturday to the action-packed menu I had fixed in advance for myself (based on the superhuman level of mind power I had acquired throughout the week), it was such a sweet surprise to find myself instead the passenger of an old jeep riding swiftly along the cliffside roads of Maluhia, Kahakuloa and Hololua. And then, to turn right back around a drive to the north shore for a midday cocktail before heading back through the neck of Maui to the south shore for a walk along the beach at sunset. Then, surprisingly hearing the voice of a friend singing at a bar down the street and to wander in and share a few beers before quietly heading home and calling it a day.

It’s Monday again, and I’m praying for the strength to continue.

News

This past Monday, Jets’ player Darrelle Rivas makes a stink on NY radio station WFAN about a questionable call on the field. That same day, a 34-year old pregnant woman dies at PS 298 in Brooklyn shielding a group of children from gunfire in front of the school. One story is about a disgruntled athlete, the other about a tragic act of heroism. Guess which story made its way from NY headlines into HI?

i'm shipping up to FALL

Is it strange that I save orphan art from the keiki program and hang it in my home? Right or wrong, it makes me happy- so barf on your face.

Once again (tip), I am super ready for a big change. A few of the girls and I have been mansion shopping for about a week now, finally convinced that living together in style trumps living solo in a shoebox for the same amount of money. Don’t get me wrong, privacy is (and always will be) my most valued possession, as they say, but living single over the past year has taught me a very valuable lesson: being bored sucks. I know I will be eating my words 3 months from now when I come home from a long, stressful day at work wrangling 25 children and even worse, their rich annoying parents- all cranky and tired and everyone will ask me to do my tricks and I’ll put them in a headlock one by one until they peacefully go to “sleep,” but until then, I am focusing on the fact that I have a nice little to-do in my new daily ME that seems like a nice stand-in for “big change.” Vee shall see.

September is slowly (yes, slowly) slipping away, and I find myself jonesing for a trip back east to check out the gigantic orange cornucopia that is fall in NY. Interestingly concurrent, my boss all but handed me a ticket to Boston for November to check out a conference I’ve had my eye on (thrown by my old employers, attended by my potential new employers if I play my cards right) and will be sponsoring the whole ordeal for me: ridiculously generous, I must acknowledge. And so…

the unbeatable power

German chocolate cake, million dollar orange juice and a French coffee press for brekkie: happy last day of Dougherty to me! Granted, I have 25 keiki to entertain this morning with the promise of nature-art, gallery tours, stick demos and a meeting with the master stick guy himself PLUS a full day of stress bombing over this evening’s 200 person event to celebrate a sculpture that has yet to be finished, (T minus 10 hours til show time!), not to mention all the mind numbing, time killing BS that is my day-to-day to boot, but knitta please, I got this.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Right?

One of my new favorite friends has decided to be happy. Just like that. She made a very conscious decision one day, after a particularly BS-filled workweek, to show up all the haters and fight back with the unbeatable power of awesome. That very same day we crafted together a little website fully devoted to all things awesome and how each relates to how double-awesome we, in fact, really are. It’s been an inspiring (and important) addition to the daily grind.

I’m going to need to put my foot down at some point and proclaim myself an independent.

Here’s to Friday- the sexiest word in the English language.

Farewell yee lost summer

What can I say, blog? I have been a shitty keeper-in-toucher. My bad.

Life has largely comprised of 2 main features during blog hiatus 2011: work & paddle.

I spent a good part of July seething with quasi-polite scorn for a handful of keiki camp parents that insist on telling me how to do my job, (“you know, you give these children way too much freedom, I would really prefer to see more structure, I pay good money” vs. “I am very displeased to see how structured this program is, you really should consider allowing youngsters to express themselves in more of a freedom-nurturing environment, I’m paying good money”). Thankfully, this horrific experience, (not exaggerating, I allowed these high-maintenance stay-at-home moms to get to me so much more than I should ever allow), was momentarily balanced by a super-awesome-teen-intensive-graffiti-workshop with a sweet, adorable, intelligent, talented artist from Oahu who runs a nonprofit dedicated to using large scale mural art as a tool for neighborhood de-gentrification: pretty much what I want to do with my life. And while we didn’t get as tight as I did with my visiting artists from last summer, it was a great reminder of the potential my little nonprofit grants me to create the job I want to get paid to do. It requires an exponentially greater amount of energy (and volunteerism) that directly correlates to the amount of satisfaction I come away from each experience with. Score.

Meanwhile, I paddled 50+ miles from Maui, around Lanai & back again, exactly one year after doing it last year (though we covered about 20 miles more the last time around), finished up the regatta season and raced from Maui to Molokai this past weekend. Fill in the gaps with 3-4 days a week of grueling practices and exhausting pau hanas in the harbor parking lot and you’ve got yourself a summer.

The snapshots paint a much prettier picture:

My campers, tricked into sitting still for more than 3 seconds with the promise of perpetual fame.

PRIME & co, showing up the haters overseas before a classic night out.

A quickie at the Jersey Shore with my lush loving famoola: beer, babies and beer.

Post Open Women race, aka our punishment for consistently losing the Novice A race.

NKE wins at States- classic.

Harvesting invasive eucalyptus in Polipoli alongside Dougherty, MISC & DLNR- a ridiculously awesome experience and project I've been working on for 2 years.

A snapshot of the Stickwork sculpture in week 2 out of 3 of the big build. More to come...

hue cares

Wednesday afternoon. The colors have been stunning around here lately- almost to the point of overkill, which I’m guessing is a dangerous thing to admit. I’m in a ridiculous funk- everyone in my immediate life seems to be dealing with some kind of huge life challenge right now and, while it’s incredibly flattering that they are coming to me for help, I’m about to break. Generally I consider my life richer when I can be of use to someone else- but when they all come to me at once (and, as I’ve mentioned before, scoff or change the subject back to themselves when I make even the slightest attempt to unburden myself of a few troubles), I begin to fall into this dimly lit space of SOS. And so, I find myself concentrating more than usual on color.

Not so bad.

work hard play hard

Too early to get up just yet. Keawakapu. Vegging out.

My ridiculous work space. The Children's Studio. After a long day of regattas.

timeLog

I live in a constant state of what’s next, down to the moment. At home alone on a weekend, insanely beautiful sunshine pouring through the glass doors, deliciously cool wind bouncing on & through the curtains, the delicate flower petals, sheets, clothesline- I so intentionally ask myself, “I this a reading moment or a sitting and staring moment? Is this a writing moment or a phone home moment? What’s next? How do I make this count?” Nine times out of ten my moments are sit-and-stare moments. I’ve spent hours relishing in these places, focusing on a time and place where this will all disappear, either by motherhood, tragedy or life in general and speak softly to my mind, saying something along the lines of “soak it up sister, this is it.”

A weekend worth remembering: missed the canoe haul on Friday, caught P at her front door and spent 4-5 hours on the sauce, seed pod centipedes, phony diet journals, couple’s therapy and nachos made out of fries. How does this happen? Tracked down the paddlers down the way, called it an early one, up at 5 am for a loop around Molokini. This is our life, in the middle of the Pacific splashing around a crater with a bunch of blackies, says he. Tasted a very real sense of fear on the backside, anticipated yet unwelcome. Spoke to the sea with my electricity. Turns out it works. Brief BBQ & beach beers, lounging, easiness. Moments that I want to grab onto and mold into something more present; a somewhat lost opportunity, but a good lesson in holding steady. I don’t always have to be in charge of everyone’s energy, I need to learn to live with that. Big outpouring of emotion later that night (it was inevitable, really), a wild ride around the island on Sunday morning in search of closure that never comes with a hot side of bad news in terms of energy outlets. Cool new Mexican joint with a couple that’s falling apart, a cooler full of ice cold beers, new beach discovery, surprisingly engaging, silly, relevant conversation and a classic crash landing back at home base.

I’m making a conscious decision to take more photographs. I want proof.

settling in to place

Six weeks ago I necessitated a move from the Haiku-Huelo border, a border I teetered on for more than two years, to Waiehu. Country mouse to city mouse, just like that. It was a money thing, a can’t-deal-with-the-ghosts-a-minute-longer thing, a mosquito thing, a maintenance thing- but mostly, it was a rebirth thing- which I all too often crave. Over the course of the two years that I lived in that little jungle oasis fishbowl puppy palace beautiful isolated rainy living portrait of the life I’d come to expect upon leaving New York, I crafted an impressive (to me!) collection of work fully dedicated to this newfound sense of place. To the place itself, really. I was enamored of it’s simple beauty.

I’ve written about this before: it is so important to me to jive with a place I’m expected to call home prior to such assignment. I searched and searched, high and low, for my next place- and in the end, I settled. It’s important to mention that I did at one time aggressively seek out for-rent signs in the neighborhood I landed in. I was drawn to this place well before Huelo. I would drop off M at his Sunday morning paddle practice and tuck myself far away into side streets and beach roads until I would, repeatedly, fall here, under a tree, against the surf, and phone home for hours until his reemergence. I came to connect the idea of home; the one of unquestioned love and simple conversation (2 things I surrendered when I left home nearly 3 years ago) with this sense of place. This place (really). And thus, later when it came time for us to move into our first Maui home together, I initially thought of Waiehu- of my mother nature phone booth and its vicinity to the cheap little golf course I had begun to stalk. The idea quickly sent packing its bags when we stumbled upon the intensely original border home; la casa de Ken, Mel and Sandy dog.

I walked into my little ohana last night, after a long- somewhat stressful- day at work and a few errands, and caught this incredibly intense wave of nostalgia. If sensations could talk, this one said, “Guess what? You live in Hawaii.” And I actually flinched and looked for the little ghost feeling’s face to respond, “yeah, I know that” before realizing that I did actually need to be reminded. Needless to say, this was a very strange sub textual conversation with myself. What this means: my current reality is seriously challenging the reality I envisioned for myself when I decided to de-NYC myself. I was weak, and I landed on something that was handed to me rather than something I consciously worked for, which is, unfortunately, the only way I know how to fully appreciate something: I need to earn it. The home I lived in before was a dreamscape. The home I live in now is a waiting room. It’s just such a damn pretty one that I forgot who I was for a minute and let myself get swept away in ocean breezes and free cable. Why does this bother me so much?

I’m going to work on this one a bit more.

rise

Life is funny that way

One moment, you feel you are in control

Like a lucid dream

You can say, “Now, FLY!”

And off you go

The next, (in a wave of whiplash)

You are tumbling through space

Completely out of control

Directionless

At the mercy of consequence

Almost as if the world is asking

“Are you sure?”

And what on Earth are we to say when the only thing to ever be sure of

Is that life is just one surprise after another?

there's always tomorrow

destination 360

I’ve been jonesing for a trip to Hana. There was a time in my Maui life when I made monthly treks to this place a regular part of my repertoire; a touchstone in a deeply rooted lifestyle attempt to stay grounded and keep my eyes open to what’s beautiful and worth slowing down for. A trip that has become more and more of a feat factoring in work & paddling schedules along with my 2011 propensity for immune system meltdowns (which I’m told is a vog thing, but I’m guessing it also has something to do with the move, the laser eye surgery, the breakup, and all the wild-child-like-behavior in between). In any event, I clicked shut my laptop at 4:15 on Friday, waved adieu to all the wee keiki here on spring break, aimed east and put my pedal to the metal, stopping for no one or nothing until I hit my mark. I’ve come to know these twists and turns in the 36-mile highway like a fingerprint. A familiar piece of my new heritage that seems standard at first, until I lean in more closely and give my eyes a chance to gobble up all the dips and dives, the reflection of light off each projection, the way colors bounce in fragments against leaves, flower petals, raindrops, and headlights paving the way to a new Hana each time I lead or am led the way.

The most perfect one yet, this weekend’s visit, as I had no expectations, no list of to-do’s, no direction, not a single care except to be there- and just be. And as the rain came pouring down that night, the floodgates opened and welcomed in my ghosts of the past by the thousand.

Three rusty, decrepit lounge chairs where me, Miguel, Jenny D & a boy named Sky once played charades while roasting marshmallows over a Westin uniform chemical fire. Small talk with a bad rep that earns $5 discounts and hard smiles, inevitably. Airplane with Mali, ukelele with Renegades, drunk girls trying so damn hard to impress down by venus pools, the way Luke crouches down low (down low) when he surfs at Hamoa, Sean F proving he’s a man with a paring knife and bad jerky, stunning revelations at Waianapanapa cabins, Mary-Kate’s pig sounds, the clicking silence of the bamboo forest, death mornings at Kipahulu, whales & beers for dinner, an orange peel minutes before sunrise, holding hands at Getzen’s, dancing at the Bay, an ice cream bloodline to Howth (and one in me ear), and so many (so many) ghosts- in whatever form you choose to name them.

And in the end, I did just about nothing- swinging gently in a hammock built between 2 palm trees, covered from head to toe in beach towels staving off mango sized raindrops, peeking through the wrinkles at an elite assembly of wave riders and beach dogs, sipping on Pacifico and relishing in nostalgia. As I so often do.

broken resolutions

I’m sitting on my cozy sofa, feet up, still in my pj’s, surrounded by crumpled up Kleenex, cold teabags and magazines, listening (from the ear that works) to the windy ocean, the sway of long, overgrown grass outside my lanai, and the wind hitting the house at odd angles that make whistle and ghost sounds as it whips against the screens and through the cracks into my face, like a nice cold glass of water after a nightmare. The cough syrup the doc promised would knock me on my ass has yet to take effect, so I’m killing time indulging in my-return-to-the-grid luxuries like cable television and eggo waffles on a rainy day. For the record, I had no idea that Charlie Sheen was in so much shit that he’s currently the main event on no less than 6 different channels. In fact, I had no idea that Charlie Sheen had done any acting since Major League, never mind My 2 Dad’s, II.

I’m nesting.

art & the alpine cinder desert

For me, finding success in a career is about being consistently challenged and to consistently be learning; to always have the opportunity to study, do fieldwork, talk to other actual human beings face-to-face (as opposed to phone/ email, etc) and to co-develop creative solutions. And then, of course, to celebrate those solutions, in whatever form that may take.

I’ve been designing an artist residency program for 2 years that would enable me to take more risks as an artist personality and stretch my day-to-day administrative tasks into a more cerebral, out-of-my-comfort-zone opportunity for big learning. Last summer, for example, I spent 3 days studying the differences between socialism and communism in preparation for an artist that was to come work with our teens creating screen printed political posters- wanting to be able to talk the talk during our planning conversations about how local issues can be developed into templates for larger world causes. It was a slightly embarrassing process, this political studying, mostly because I was surprising myself daily with how little I knew about what the hell is going on in the world. I’ve always considered myself to be completely apolitical, largely due to my self-adopted fact that anything making its way to mainstream media, aka the news, has been utterly stripped of objectivity and presented as a ploy, conspiracy, or whichever source government’s tool of choice is at that given moment. How can I believe this stuff unless I’m there? But I soon learned how lazy, apathetic and hipster this was of me as I uncovered new news outlets on a small scale that stay just well enough under the radar to be able to speak what appears to be the truth (evidenced by linked tribes expanding on focused issues with general foolproof collateral). I’m making this sound more simple than it is, because it is. You have to always be studying to analyze the trends, and that’s where you get your news from: your own personalized filter for bullshit. Trust that.

So this year I have a ridiculously exciting residency program going (is what I’m getting at) that’s been a longtime in the making. (Reference this post). What started out as bringing in this hotshot stickwork sculptor to build a 6-story high tree fort strictly for the purpose of being super cool, turned into a full scale collaboration program that raises awareness about Maui’s claim to fame as the eco-extinction capital of the planet. Talk about out-of-my-comfort-zone; suddenly I’m talking science with phD’s on invasive species, Hawaiian cultural conservationism and peace studies feeling like a total tool as I say things like “yeah, art super matters too.”

This post is already getting too long to really interest me later, so let me reference this blog post that I wrote for work to help illustrate all of the ridiculously awesome nonprofits I’m getting chummy with and move right along to the most recent highlight of this whole process: an invitation to plant Silverswords atop Haleakalā during a once annual trip with the State of Hawaii Department of Land and Natural Resources. Love love love.

Knowledge drop:

The Silversword, classified as an endangered species since 1986, is a Hawaiian endemic plant that scientists believe originated in North America several million years ago. This plant is only found on the island of Maui in Haleakalā National Park in and around the crater at elevations greater than 6,500’on rim summits, and surrounding slopes of the dormant Haleakalā volcano.

In the late 18th century, ship captains visiting Hawaii intentionally introduced sheep and goats to the island that drove the plant to the verge of extinction. Since the 1970s the State of Hawaii Department of Land and Natural Resources has eradicated many of the feral ungulates on the mountain, and begun reintroducing the Silversword, largely in fenced in exclosures. The plant will only flower once in its lifetime, with flowers appearing mid summer to early winter at the plant’s full maturity. After the seeds disperse, the whole plant dies. Since Silverswords sometimes grow for up to 40 years before flowering, it is relatively rare to see a Silversword in bloom.

The Silversword plant is well suited to its harsh, high altitude environment in that the silver leaves reflect the sun's rays and its compact shape prevents moisture loss and protects the more delicate center of the plant from predation. It has a large taproot that helps to anchor it to better withstand the high winds of its alpine cinder desert habitat. It is a plant that has made incredible adaptations in order to be successful in extreme environments. Conditions in this crater would be fatal to most other plants. It is extremely dry in the crater, temperatures drop below freezing at night, and the sun is extremely harsh during the day. The Silversword is yet another great example of an organism exploiting an extreme ecological niche in a limited and easily defined geographic area.

The plant has been strictly monitored and protected by the government since and is considered a successful conservation story, although threat to the species remain.

I'll let the science speak for itself. This was one of my best days, and for that I am thankful.

haunted.

I can’t seem to find the angle from which to approach this bit I need to process. Just going to stumble upon some words here and come back later to milk a little sense out of it.

My mornings generally consist of automatic snoozing, regardless of need, 3, 4, 5 times at least in a panicked attempt to silence the ghetto-ness of my vibrating, robot smooth jazz toned cell phone; a peek and a wave outside at the ocean as the bird calls find their way into my consciousness, seeping through any sense of cranky to smooth out my wrinkled brow and remind me of where I’m at. I drag ass across the carpet of my bedroom onto the cold wooden floors in the kitchen, fully on auto-pilot toward the coffee pot: rinse out the remnants of yesterday, empty the filter, 3 cups of purified water, a long, deep inhalation from the canister before scooping out the morning crack, click, plug, switch and crackle. Onward to the front porch in search of the shower where my 6 minute routine is part science, part freak show. I’m slowly coming around just as the scent of tangerine and cucumber come rolling through the fog, shooing away geckoes and mosquitoes, changing focus to the leaves dancing through the glass to the beat of the morning rain. By the time I’m through, my coffee is there to greet me. Hello, lover, let’s get this party started. I fumble for the laptop for a little NPR to keep me company, never expecting this to be a pleasant comradeship, but an effective one just the same. And this, generally, is where the story of my day begins.

2 weeks ago a man in Arizona opened fire at a shopping center meet & greet event for an Arizona congresswoman, killing 6, wounding more. Amongst the dead is a 9-year-old girl- born on September 11, 2001.

It’s worth mentioning that us September 11 babies have an unwritten protection clause of and for one another. On 9/11/02, a handful of my closest friends timidly asked me if it would be all right if we celebrated another night, to which I replied, “Yes! Jesus-of course!” before moseying solo style to a small dive, perfectly content to keep it low key. What the majority of people born on one of the other 364 days don’t know is that the majority of the minority of non-NY’s-finest pitching it to the old watering hole on 9/11 are there celebrating our Birthdays. Never did it occur to me that this wasn’t OK. That day in 2002 I encountered at least 3 Birthday personalities, celebrating quietly, respectfully as others in the bar toasted the fallen. I can clearly remember one girl celebrating her 21^st, wearing a plastic “21^st Birthday” tiara, hooting with her friends in considerate whispers and understated giggles suddenly noticing that I’m (trying not to but can’t help myself) gaping. For a split second I watch as she froze with a pang of guilt- a deer in headlights- before accurately distinguishing my “me too!” smile. She lets a holler rip as we both tilt our glasses in toast and turn back to our respective spaces. Others looked on nervously, visibly confused as they process which emotion to go with- anger, aversion, tolerance, apprehension, sympathy or approval, before taking a good extrasensory look around them and realizing they’re probably here for the same reason- to celebrate a life, not to mourn a death. The 9/11 Birthday brigade has grown exponentially as the years progressed, crawling apprehensively from the privacy of homes and soft revelry to seek one another out- to find more like us that know what it’s like to encounter more “I’m so sorry”’s than “Happy Day!”’s. To be with others that also feel conflicted by the guilt of wanting to joyfully observe a new year and new beginnings on a day that brings with it such a profound sense of loss, pain, terror, and hollowness. Others that are just as content to stay home and recognize all that the day symbolizes to the masses, but always battling that itching sense of lawlessness ingrained in us all from a very early age. Ten years later we have it down to a science when crossing paths in social circles or chance encounters, “9/11?” (high five, brother).

When I first hear the update on the radio, that this is the day of the first shooting funeral, I kind of half-listen, bowing my head trying not to get too attached (as I normally do, hypersensitive to these acts of violence, never understanding how one person can do these things to another). The next detail is the victim’s age: 9, followed by her birth date. I stop at September 11, assigning the recognition; quickly developing that instant connection, leaning in a bit more before zeroing in on the year: 2001. What. The. Hell.

I instantly wonder about this child’s parents. How that day in 2001 was for them. So far amplified from the rest of us, so hopeful, so dreadful. Who am I to ever know- and then this, only 9 years later. This sick person that felt empowered enough to take her life away, to claim it. How do these things happen? I’m utterly stuck- I’m lost- I’m so, so taken by this story about a girl I’m hearing about on the news. And it’s not mine- not even close, but there I am suddenly mourning a loss for the world.

I focus back on the mirror in front of me. Brush out the tangles, shake free the drops, chuck my towel on the bed. I try on 3 different outfits, which I haven’t done since I’ve lived in NY, and quickly leave the house. I turn the key. And start my day.

2010 for the Eyeballs

in peace

I’ve been dreaming about an old friend of mine for a few weeks now, on and off, off and on. Waking up to the thought of “hey, that’s bizarre, I haven’t spoken to that lady in years,” and yet feeling incapable of getting in contact with her on a conscious level. Until suddenly, I do- and the very next day, her mother passes away- and I’m given this information by yet another someone that I haven’t spoken to in years who in the next breath asks me, “but hey, how are you?” and I’m frozen.

I take a deep breath and look out of my office window. A little cottage where I’ve gotten lost inside of (figuratively) more than once sits uncomfortably close to me, wrapping its little nostalgia arms around me; tempting reminiscence. Beyond that another cottage, this one belonging to an old man wrapped up in political work BS that is breaking his heart and his spirit and keeping him away from a place he is internally tied to by phantom roots and past lives. Still beyond, bamboo, mango, horse fields and ocean. Surf, humpbacks, wind and Alaska. Snow, fire, grizzle, and dust.

Refocus for a minute on my coworker who has been asking me if I’m alright for- I’m not sure how long- but I just heard her in rewind and wipe a few tears away so I can get out of here. I walk out of my office and sit on the front lawn in the hot sun, listening intently to the hum of traffic somewhere miles away. Instantaneously I’m driving to the funeral home and it’s just us and I grab her and tell her I love her and then turn around, leave, and drive right back to this spot. And though she’s 5,000 miles away and I’ve done everything within and out of my power in the last 10 minutes to escape the news, it inexplicably ties us together for- oh, I don’t know, let’s call it 3 seconds, and then lets us go on our way.

A strange thing about death, about cancer- we always find a way to direct it back to our own lives, no matter how far removed the victim or those they’ve left behind. We tap into a human continuum that seems so outlandish otherwise and create linkages between memories, states of now, and the idea of being. And how jarring it is to reapply that affect back to ourselves. How selfish these things make us in a time of sacrifice.

sunburn, sea sports and the sauce

Pau hana with the ladies, down with the dirt in Paia, early morning paddle with zee Germans, cracked my first brew at 10 am, breakfast power slam before heading to the west side, salvatore the stinger soul mate, a windy nap at airport beach, a yummy snack at mixed plate, beers with the illegitimate baby brother of the Wilson brothers at java, spanish guitar solos by an iranian wild man whose (thankfully) back on the sauce, brown chicken brown cow on the south side, crash landing in huelo, stand up paddle boarding and sea kayaking back in kihei, thank goodness for the chinese, and a Hollywood blockbuster in bed. This is the stuff dreams are made of, people.

i'll be right back

Screw it. We’re going to talk about this thing. This unattainable bit of bite that you so eloquently describe as honor. This heroic pause defined as transition. The great lengths you go to to ensure there is no proof of your presence here, in my todays. I want to bite you on the neck and make you scream. Then we’ll laugh it off and go on, and on and on we’ll go.

My Life in Color

A year of self-portraits is coming to a close. It's true, you never see yourself the way others see you. Still, there they are. The tiny new wrinkles, the just-had-my-coffee buzz, the never-smile-with-my-teeth tendency, the need to be self-analyzing. Note to self: Stop taking you so seriously. (Oh, and, maybe time to make the conversion to green tea. This coffee addiction is getting serious, dude).

San Francisco. Walking kegs. A parade just for us. Amazing: A-Maze.

I don't know why this text insists on being hyperlinked, but so be it. No link to be linked. Above is my 2010 Summer in 9 shots. A trip to the Big I to see my Skimey, a farewell to the Renegades, impromptu hike up to Swinging Bridges, the summer AIR program (plus plus plus), my boys and their Mimi at the shore, a much needed Queens night with my Nitzy, chasing hawks with the Pops, Birthday bash with a motley crue, and celebrating my first paddling medal with the never-to-be-duplicated TMI.

Fall 2010. The wedding, the Buddhist Monastery, an awesome park in the Bokes, contemplating fog @ Haleakala, camping at Koki, from 1 Reyes to his cuz, hoops & TMI's big night out, and lost in San Francisco. 5 states in 3 months. Not bad.