a few things...

sandpiles before sunrise

2012-02-03T16:08:00.002-10:00

goal setting

2012-01-25T09:30:00.000-10:00

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

2011-12-29T10:32:00.004-10:00

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

2011-12-28T12:05:00.000-10:00

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

2011-12-26T13:45:00.000-10:00

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

2011-12-26T10:03:00.004-10:00

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

2011-11-28T13:00:00.001-10:00

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

2011-11-23T16:14:00.001-10:00

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

2011-10-27T06:48:00.005-10:00

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

2011-10-24T09:43:00.003-10:00

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

2011-10-23T09:43:00.003-10:00

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

2011-09-29T08:02:00.005-10:00

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

2011-09-23T07:18:00.005-10:00

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

2011-09-19T11:43:00.008-10:00

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

2011-07-13T14:04:00.004-10:00

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

2011-06-13T14:19:00.001-10:00

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

2011-05-23T13:32:00.000-10:00

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

2011-04-27T15:53:00.003-10:00

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

2011-04-16T09:32:00.000-10:00

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

2011-04-04T15:26:00.000-10:00

destination 360

2011-03-28T09:53:00.001-10:00

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

2011-03-07T09:29:00.001-10:00

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

2011-02-09T13:18:00.006-10:00

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.

2011-01-20T10:56:00.006-10:00

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

2011-01-07T12:12:00.013-10:00

in peace

2010-12-10T11:25:00.002-10:00

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

2010-12-06T14:51:00.001-10:00

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

2010-11-30T15:48:00.000-10:00

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

2010-11-20T11:14:00.007-10:00

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.

Looks Can Be Deceiving.

2010-11-19T13:56:00.002-10:00

a definition of pause

2010-10-28T08:10:00.002-10:00

Your thumbprint on the refrigerator handle haunts me- I fumble around it every time I need a beer, which is more often than not these days. It’s been raining for 2 weeks straight- a hard rain, a rain that means it, that politely requests that I stop dancing in circles around a focused state of consciousness, to open my eyes and deem all of this for the taking. These morning rituals, that awful little coffee machine, flickering through talk radio frequencies, the prolonged contemplation of my wardrobe (does this collection of rags really define me? Have I actually made this many decisions recently? Who do I want to try to be today?), and this- they’ve grown longer; more conspicuous. And as I write this I notice a big, glaring thumbprint on my keyboard and wonder- where did you sleep last night.

driving in neutral

2010-10-25T13:42:00.001-10:00

I had every intention of splitting this ginormous burrito and saving half for dinner, but I am eating the shit out of it. And feeling very, very conflicted about that. It’s going to be OK though, it’s been raining for 2 weeks straight. It’s nesting season, people. Party on, Wayne.

I want to want to paint- I want to want to create. I want to look within again and to be able to balance that with looking out.

A friend of mine posts the weekly teachings of her Indian guru on her facespace page. Last week’s entry said something to the effect of how the Universe looks at you most closely when it doesn’t give you what you ask for rather than when it does. It’s interesting, I’ve been practicing this “tell the Universe what you want” theory out for a few months now, on & off, and while it’s not foolproof, there are definitely some fate/ consequence situations crawling around my current reality as a result. Though lately, as I’ve become louder & clearer with my psychic musings, (and I’ve been doing this in one form or another since a very early age; hysterical memories of writing little notes to God, holding them in front of my bedroom crucifix just long enough for “him” to read them & then destroying them so that they would never be seen by any other eyes, clearly I’m no rooky), it’s suddenly become evident that I am getting the opposite of what I must only think I want or need. And the funny thing is that rather than getting discouraged or frustrated by this, which would be my natural instinct; I’m finding some peace in this little tidbit of information. Growing up Christian, (Irish-Catholic, to be more clear), it was a pretty safe assumption that instances like this were punishment for being selfish or immoral, but I’m suddenly finding peace in the idea that by not receiving back what I’ve put out into the world, I need to rescript & revise rather than sulk or criticize.

And so what I’m thinking is that I’ve had a lot of change in my life lately, and maybe it’s time to cool it trying to change more and more and more and just be thankful for the changes that are. Just for a moment, and then I can move on in a new way that’s maybe just a bit less controlling.

stop i cannot

2010-10-22T13:15:00.001-10:00

ventilation

2010-10-18T18:44:00.004-10:00

I may be confusing empowering with destructive.

I was incredibly aggressive today, which isn’t so far off-base for me, but I’ve been making a conscious effort to cool it over the past year or so, and I’ve just completely fallen into those old habits (lately- however long that means).

Part of me wants to flip the bird to self-control. I come from a place where we pretty much say and do whatever the hell we please, and if you don’t like it you’re the man, and the man’s going down. We punish. We take our vengeance. And we never, ever forgive- especially ourselves.

The other part of me- the one on her way to grown-up’cy, trying so damn hard to be humble and absorbent and master of my freaking domain and what have you wants to flip myself the bird for acting this way.

Such a fine line between being hurt and hurting. Between criticism and blame. Loneliness and selfishness.

And I have so many unbelievably strong, inspiring, helpful, happy, creative people in my life- yet I can’t seem to bring myself to utilize them because I’m so damn busy inside of my own head. Clearly. I admit it- I’m too afraid to burden them with my self-obsessive stage show because I can’t accommodate anybody else’s drama right now, and let’s be real- it’s rare to not be unloaded on when you turn to someone for help.

So why not be a bit destructive for a minute. Why not cast up a shield and block out for the time being. Why does it have to bring so much guilt?

riding solo

2010-10-08T14:49:00.000-10:00

I’m feeling kind of lonely...trying to make this a positive.

I have a pair of goggles that consistently show me my crazy life in fast-forward, but they’re just goggles. Really, I’ve made a very intentional decision to slow things down a bit (mentally) while keeping myself busy (physically), a combo, which seems to work tunefully well together when kept in balance. I suppose that’s the trick, but I’ve always kind of been a strategist when it comes to balance.

There’s this concentrated sense of bi-polarism taking up my space these days, presently instigated by coffee, that leads me from a place of agreeing to participate in whatever life shoves my way and/or full-on tackling the carrots it’s less inclined/ prepared to vs. assuming the “whatever happens, happens” attitude, which for the record is completely lazy and immature. I’m all for kismet, mind you, but I’m more for self-actualization & initiative. Developing, visualizing & actualizing. Boom.

So when I fall into the spaces in between, these lovely little moments of disorientation, I am at first a victim of my own controlling nature and its propensity to shift into the next gear (the one that leads toward one of the aforementioned poles), but then, as I’m learning, I take off my auto-pilot goggles, refocus my eyes and just feel these moments out. Which, sometimes, takes the shape of these few sentences and helps me turn words like “lonely” into “contemplative.”

Get this girl her goggles.

for prosperity

2010-10-06T13:58:00.001-10:00

It’s my 2-week homecoming anniversary, almost to the minute, and I think I just acclimated this very second. Exhale. Oh, hello Maui. You = home, right.

In order to remember: my first order of business upon returning was to reconnect with my quasi-Renegades. What started off as plans to hit the golf range quickly became beers at the elegant Ale House- a real class act. I drank Blue Moon with 4 friends I hadn’t spent any real time with for a span far longer than necessary and kind of slumped head-first into the only item on my to-do list: stay busy at all times with super fun, super easy people. Easy is the key- I need a little vacation from heavy, please. I’ve had enough heavy these last 2 months to last me through the year. You stand over there. My plans mercifully spilled over into the next evening, an opening reception for a ridiculously awesome exhibition at work- marking a continuation of the (what is sure to be short-lived) unconventional string of coolness that has recently found its way into our little gallery. Read: a 3,000+ piece site-based installation made out of recycled bicycle inner tubes that could be a dead-on stand-in should Miyazaki ever choose to anthropomorphize Spirited Away’s Kaonashi. A perfect 10 on the awesomeness factor says me. I was shocked by a guest appearance by a pair of my fiercest paddling buddies who had seen my “come play with me tonight!” Facebook posting and we ultimately landed up the street feasting on Guinness and focaccia bread at Casanova’s. Heaven. We decided to play it forward the next day by lending a hand (and about 17 gallons of blood, sweat & tears) to the Maui Coastal Land Trust; 6 hours of hacking away at the gnarly, sun scorched home of invasive haole koa roots @ Waihe`e Refuge to make way for taro. You’re welcome, Hawai`i. I mean, thank you. The weekend ended with a day at the birthing pools, doing the staring thing that I do, for hours, when I’m alone with the ocean. The unbelievably necessary, therapeutic, grounding, mind-racing, hypnotic, time erasing ocean staring thing. A good end to a good weekend.

What else. Checked in on our mural down at Baldwin HS, which represents a whole mess of goodness, judged high school work for the county art contest with a great girl (reviewing the kind of work that inspired me to get my career to the place where it is today), got back into the freaking boat, stuffed my face with malasadas at the fair, got sucked into the clouds at Haleakala, checked out the Hana film fest (bad flicks, great setup), and camped down at Koki- with a whole lotta invisible people.

Next time: less grocery list, more nutrients- I promise.

home is wherever I'm with you

2010-09-21T03:32:00.001-10:00

Pumpkin ales, golfing with hawks, cardboard clubhouses, BBQ on the patio, a puppy named Dubbs, Gino’s amazing, my beautiful babies, a proper Guinness at Swift’s, one hell of a reunion, photo bombing with Skimey, skyline bagels, the first day of Fall, tights, road trips alongside dino-sized rainbow leaves, Guru, VT style near death experience with a rogue gigantor tire, crimped, friendsy frenzy, big I love you’s, big goodbye’s, super 8 movies, deer party on the lawn, the cinema challenge and you.

growing strains

2010-09-12T22:38:00.002-10:00

I turned 32 yesterday and my head is spinning.

I’ve gotten to this place recently (very recently, in fact) where I’m actually able to look at my life, my decisions, my people, and process an objective, non-personal subtext to inform my next move. I’m letting go.

Analysis of age 31, in 12 steps: 1) New Beginnings. 2) Taking Chances. 3) Acclimating. 4) Celebrating. 5) Planting Seeds (With No Predetermined Outcome). 6) Learning to Say YES/ Binging. 7) Feeling I’m Home. 8) Purging. 9) Shedding. 10) Accepting Assistance. 11) Taking Control of the Reigns. 12) Processing/ Knowing Myself.

There is a lot of sadness to cope with right now- kind of beautiful sadness, which I’ve mentioned a few times recently. I find I’m in a cyclical point of recognition- right on the cusp of learning something very true about myself. I’ve been very focused on everything but me- watching, waiting, analyzing, experiencing, meeting, indulging people and situations around me. Writing a blog about it now is pretty freaking self-indulgent and contradictory, but with the anticlimactic rush of turning a year older (inevitably) comes an (inexplicable) need to seek meaning. I find myself so, so incredibly in love- falling more so every day. There is so much I cannot control; so much that I want to but cannot change- and I’m getting that now. You just have to let go.

Happy Birthday.

the little things

2010-07-08T16:17:00.008-10:00

You ever have one of those moments where you suddenly stop short and think, “Holy shit. This is my life.” ??

I went through a phase when I first moved from Queens to Maui where this was happening to me so often that I subconsciously adopted the sensation as a mantra. As such, it transformed from a thought into an emotion- and a clearly physical and jarring one at that (to be redundant).

There was a time early on after the move when I would whisper “thank you,” to no one in particular just as I was about to doze off into a deep sleep at night. It surprised me every time I did it- just spilled through my lips unintentionally (yet obligatorily). I did this for months, until one day I didn’t anymore. I settled into my new life, I proceeded as is. I acclimated. This has all been very organic, yet (beautifully) sad in a way because while I’m growing and adapting to my new life, I’m also losing that sense of awe and mysticism that once came with the recognition of new weather, new hobbies, new markets, language, traditions, music, choices, values, hues, scents, you know- all of it. The new.

So I leave work early today with an awful head cold. I stop by the Dragon’s Den to pick up a neti pot and some eucalyptus oil. I drive down Haleakala so I can pass through Paia for some (desperately needed) gas. My radio is too loud at any volume, yet I’m completely lost in developing plans for the next big CD Exchange and go on letting it make its great contributon to my cold riddled ache of a head. Before I realize it, I’m turning into my mile-long dirt road of a driveway and tear past a little honor code fruit & flower stand by a neighbor’s driveway. It’s always been there, but it aims fire at me today like a ton of bricks to the heart.

If I wasn’t so damn sick, I could write 10 pages about how freaking beautiful this little flower stand was and what it meant to me in that moment. Like a cold wave of happy nostalgia, it wrapped its little orchid arms around me and squeezed. Obligingly I jam on the breaks, kick it in reverse and indulge.

You are just so, so pretty, life. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

From the "shop"

To the truck...

To my home.

processing loss

2010-06-23T11:55:00.003-10:00

I have this coworker named Kim. She is extraordinary. She was taken on as a temp about a year and a half ago to help out with special events, marketing calls, greeting guests in the gallery- general miscellany- largely because she was the good friend of our bookkeeper but more largely because she has an utterly fearless sense of self and can BS you better than any Blarney Stone smooching salesman this side of the universe. Kim is the type of lady who will memorize the names, resumes, fashion trends and favorite 80’s movies of every person that walks through the front gate and recite each of them quietly in your ear at the next fundraiser in a flawless choreography that is part fun, part business, all sass. She is the only person who makes it her business to walk a full lap around the office in the morning to personally greet everyone here, gauging temperatures and donating witty anecdotes about whatever shenanigans she was up to the night prior- and then applies her assessment to the rest of the day. If the vibe is stress, she adopts the tonality and light touch of her role as mother, if it’s excitement she is the first to attempt a cartwheel in the hallway, fatigue- she’ll sing a “morning is heeeere” song in her most awful vibrato- basically whatever it takes.

Last Monday, Kim’s main squeeze popped in at the office, unexpectedly, to give her a big smooch on his way to go fishing with a buddy somewhere along the road to Hana. She was beside herself with excitement at this unexpected PD of A, thus beaming in the clouds for the remainder of the day. So when she calls in sick the next morning telling the gal at the front desk that she doesn’t know when she’ll be back because her man had a random seizure while he was fishing, fell off a cliff and drowned to death, it’s not just about heartbreak, it’s about losing a vital piece of our little office culture, about sympathy pains and guilt, about horror and what if’s, flashbacks and God, clichés and taboos. It’s about change.

I check in on her a few days later, when I suspect she will be able to hear again (to breathe again, if that’s still an option) and she is sputtering- pouring- she is manic. After the funeral, she takes a group of the boy’s closest friends to an old, abandoned house by the ocean- a place they used to go and drink beers, talk, make moments together. They trudge through overgrown fireweed and tree stumps to the back porch. It’s night, it’s chilly, someone hands her their jacket. There’s slight conversation going off simultaneously within the intimate group alongside that of crickets and birds settling in for the night. It slowly comes to a lull, as it does, and one of the men stands up, looks up at the sky and screams for his friend at the top of his lungs. One by one, they each yell his name until their throats give- screaming together, letting him know they’re right here thinking about him, missing him, mourning him, loving him. And as she’s telling me this story I realize that I have been shaking my head “no” the entire time. Simply put, I can’t. This woman is so unbelievably fierce. Even at the lowest depths of pain and loss she is giving (and giving and giving) so much of herself by telling me this story.

And me, I can’t even get past processing.

Mai for Pixels

2010-06-02T15:44:00.002-10:00

May, you crazy bastard.

Auwahi: the organizing, the thrilling assistance, the million dollar hiking boots that I’ll never wear again, the up-at-dawn to fight through horses to grab and go to damnit- no coffee, the awkward signing of the wavers, the part-flashback part-character inducing influx of the high school squad turned super intense circle of spirit messengers, (the reverence I’ll bestow by saying no more), the farewell to reparations, the lonely gardener’s tales of this & that & I know best, the lava flows, the lonely tree, the burning red Koa bark that is still pouring into my heart at high altitudes, the clash of geology, ecology and history, the passion of a boy I would kill to see inside of for 5 minutes, the heavy tools, the faux-snow hike through gated saplings, the silence and ease of creation, the staleness of PBnJ’s, the decision to bring my boy home and go back for more- to the water- to the Renegades, where I truly felt I belonged.

The Great Hunt: Man, are there some freaky deeky lords of the land up in herrrr. Goodbye, sweet Tan cottage, yee wee oasis on the road through perdition. Goodbye.

Playing with Mud: there is no better sense of liberation than to release the assumption that you are known hereto forth as une artiste whilst doing your very un-best to coax a pound of clay into a symmetrical vessel of plausible recognition. Ceramics class ruled, and I can barely wait for my little pots to emerge from the kiln next week- little bite size versions of their former selves. I am terrible at this medium, and it’s freaking fantastic.

Body & Soul: Paddling, golfing and now tennis have comprised my monthly workout regime (both physically and mentally). I forgot how unbelievably competitive I am at tennis. Virgin ears beware; I am immune to the concept of tact while smashing balls in a cage (wink). My opponent will inevitably become my big brother, who never let me win in the old dueling days when dad would force us off the couch- partaking in our blissful visions of He-Man & She-Ra, and quite literally drag us to Sycamore Park where he would work on his patience while we worked out our aggressions. Racquets were smashed, tears were had, curse words were gruffly mumbled in a Christmas-Story-Ralphie-like manner, and egos were blasted to smithereens. That is until our guffawing father would offer to let us take turns driving in circles around the parking lot, flipping the bird happily to uptight mothers arriving on the scene for their evening stroller jog routine. Oh tennis, there you are. This could get ugly.

Stepping Out of My Comfort Zone: I am really good at being alone…until I’m not. I’ve been burned, as have we all, by incredibly close friends suffering from either an abrupt change of heart or a gold old fashioned case of the crazies. Female relationships, especially, are such a fragile, sensitive enterprise- with rules (like it or not) that are constantly made up as you go along. A few years ago I lost a tribe of the best girlfriends one could ever expect- all at once- all in a day’s work- poof. It was later explained to me that there was no rhyme or reason to the great escape, simply a desire to A) eradicate that which wasn’t necessarily working the way it once had and, B) yield to quote/ unquote “laziness.” For this reason, and others I’m sure, I am not super stoked on the idea of shopping for girlfriends. Also like many, I have anywhere from 2-4 close ladies in my life that I can call to talk about my unhealthy obsession with Jif peanut butter and rant about the BS that is the term “reverse discrimination” in tandem with little to no reservation when answering the question “how are you?”- as simple as it may seem- which, life has taught me, is a rare and beautiful thing. That being said, I have not so recently awoken to the realization that life simply cannot proceed as is; girls needs their girls, and so I have been opening my mind (and sometimes my heart) to a few newbies this month. More on that later.

Hawaiian Things: A trip into a protected mountain slope to plant native trees with a group of Hawaiian Language Immersion Program teens paying their respect to the fallen. The culmination blessing of a 4-month mural arts program at what, here, is considered to be an “at-risk” intermediate school, tackling cultural superiority and race discrimination in what came to be known as the “We All Belong” project. Everything about the race to Alau. Getting the boot from my paddling family for mistakenly referring to them as a family and therefore “knowing nothing about Hawaiian culture,” (yeah, that one hurt), and being accepted into another paddling family the following morning.

It’s been about recognizing & overcoming challenges, hard work, change, and making life happen rather than waiting for life to happen. Please June, take it easy on me. Thank you. I love you.

back to alau

2010-05-27T08:28:00.006-10:00

hello, wonderfulnessness

moving right along

2010-05-14T14:11:00.003-10:00

We are attempting to move, and the universe is conspiring to keep us still just a bit longer.

Know this- I have no desire to move, I love my little cottage in the jungle and my beautiful seaside drive to town every day, but Queens Boy is jonesing for a shorter commute and is presently unwavering in his “get me the crunk out of here” -ness. I don’t get it. I don’t want it. But I’m a sucker for change, damn it, so I’ll go ahead and support it.

The problem is, every place we’ve looked at has something outstandingly awesome about it (a bedroom made out of glass overlooking a gulch overlooking the ocean, 2 acres of open backyard property where we can play wiffle ball and bocce ball with 20 of our closest friends, ridiculously cheap rent 10 steps away from my favorite golf course, a deck twice the area of the house), balanced by something super heinous (mosquito universe, neighbors with 27 kids, single-lane cliff-hanging dirt road 40 mins away from work, psycho Hollywood landlord with a bedroom attached to ours, crank smoking baby momma cat lady). Of course, right?

I am madly and hopelessly in love with one of these little cottages and trying desperately to overcome the heinousity that comes with it. I tend to vibe pretty hard on places I choose to live at- this is incredibly reassuring to me, and I practically fell to my knees crying at this one in particular. Can we make it work is the question. I don’t want to jinx it until I know for sure.

What else.

Off to Hana tomorrow at 5 am sharp for the race to Alau. Man, life is tough.

bird sanctuary

2010-04-22T08:38:00.003-10:00

by pretty little thieves (of whom i hearts)

caffeine, by itsastitch

the happy

2010-04-21T13:28:00.001-10:00

records & spirits

2010-04-12T14:26:00.004-10:00

Coming down from my Hana trip. Intense intense intense.

Two things I have recently taken in:

1. Art is one of the ways we can show we've passed this way- and to make our passing a thing of purpose. How perfect.
2. Although I'm told my spirit animal is a polar bear, I've also taken the opportunity to choose my own.

the deadbeat club

2010-04-02T10:19:00.002-10:00

The neighborhood I grew up in left much to be desired in the way of Places to Hang Out for us little high school and home for the holidays college punks. Even later on when we were fine entering one of dozens of irish pubs and sports bars without getting carded, we were already too accustomed to hiking into the middle of the woods, starting up a campfire and drinking 40’s, Zima, Goldschlager or SoCo instead, either until someone cried, puked or split open their face on a rock or branch hidden somewhere in the shadows. I can remember hiking 20 minutes to the Diving Rocks in Carmel with our usual crew of boys (we were Freshmen, they were all Seniors- kind of heinous when you stop & think about what a huge age gap 3 years was that close to puberty), all of us holding hands following the lead of some dude that knew every fallen tree branch, every stone, every divot in the landscape by count- and we all had to keep silent or face possible repercussions involving a 30 foot drop into the reservoir- until we arrived safely at our little clearing. The trees spread their branches open wide like a giant bear hug, revealing a planetarium shaped patch of sky full of stars we’d concoct into our own personal constellations. The Strawberry Patch or our ode to Tim Williams soon became trademarks of a typical Saturday night out with the Mahopac girls. It was rare for our drinking buddies to have actual names rather we spent most night high-fiving and making out with people like Goat, Chief and Hoon, excellent fodder for the games we’d be inventing all the live long night requiring every remaining inch of our imaginations and, if we were lucky, sobriety, but that usually meant this wasn’t your night. We were complete teases, and it was beyond empowering, and we drank and sang and danced and laughed until our hearts hurt. Everything became a private joke, a language was threaded together that enveloped our friendship back at school in this secret life created by part giddiness, part next-day-campfire-smell-in-your-hair. We created best-of memories like mix tapes, churning them out a mile a minute, each designed with so much consideration and finesse that today’s iTunes subculture would drop dead at the mere thought of such commitment to seamless transition...

it is decidedly so

2010-03-30T12:19:00.001-10:00

My Queens apartment bursted with reds and oranges, with crochet blankets and brown corduroy, bicycles, pots & pans, alleyway art and candle sticks, photo albums and old EP’s. It oozed warmth and cinnamon sticks. It was old, haggard, and splintery, begging us to continually devise clever ways to cover up the imperfections with more junk- to hermit ourselves into a nest a cracked windowpane away from the nerve-wracking bustle of city life. In Haiku we are in a constant race against gecko poop and red dirt-dust. Heavy drops lull us to sleep as they ricochet against our tin roof and palm leaves. Cool breezes navigate their way into our loose T-shirts and bed sheets. We eat crispy salads, nearly every night, after long paddling practices or a day at the seaside golf range, remembering at the last minute the handful of avocados from a coworker or the tree outside the Hui or some mango granola picked up that morning and throw it in- alacazams. The colors are light- blues and whites, coral and khaki, complementing the sea of jungle and ocean bursting through our glass walls.

Niccole leaves me voicemail excerpts from her constant stream of consciousness, barely pausing to answer her own subconscious edits, chuckling through a manic rendition of a day in the life of My Wild and Crazy Imagination, by Niccole Long. Today’s entry was a dramatic reading of her horoscopes: one from her birthday and another from her re-birthday. She drops little life hints, sowing future conversation in the most camouflaged of places that physically knock me back a step as I add it to my mental checklist of Things I Need to Address with Niccole at a Later Date.

My Green Chai is strong, it’s piping, it’s doing everything it’s supposed to be doing. It feels like Christmas and I’m spontaneously bursting into tears- a mystery I hope to solve one day.

chill: the next episode

2010-03-29T09:14:00.000-10:00

I think I’m falling back into that all too familiar territory of becoming almost too accustomed to my most lately lifestyle, dangerously so, and am straining my eyes in search of a little piece of “what’s next.” I do this. It’s in my blood. Part Irish stubbornness part McLean-McHugh I’m-over-it-ness, I manically adopt every inch of situation and suddenly, without warning, my heart changes and I fall into a gap of boredom. Is that even possible when life is this good? Yeah, I guess it is. Most shocking of all, the boy is feeling it too. He’s FEELING his FEELINGS. The other day I caught him wrinkling his brow, staring off into space and asked him, “what’s going on over there? What’s missing?”- and he said, “that’s just it. Nothing’s missing. I need a new goal. I don’t know what happens next.” And he pretty much pinpointed it and we both kind of took a deep breath and held it. And then a ginormous rainbow flew down from space and smacked our car in the ass and we were like “Wow. We are idiots.”

famoola

2010-03-23T14:49:00.008-10:00

Eureka! Dad and MK have just left my side after 10 days straight of nonstop feasting, boozing, beach combing, bottle capping, canoe shredding, golf ballin, road tripping action- and I am dreaming of sleeping to dream. Mmmm, hello Tuesday night, let’s get this sleepover party started, you saucy little minx. All I can seem to think about is cozy naps, crispy salads and regaining a sense of sanity as I stop work every 20 minutes or so to drool over the 400 photos my sister snapped over their spring break gone wild. So. Much. Freaking. Fun. So. Little. Energy. Left.

Purely reminiscent highlights: Latte’s puppies, Brian’s tractor, classroom Heinies, Dad’s sensei, Coconut Cave, my first par, chicken hekka, the most unamazing salad bar that ever lived, John’s speed dial, pouring/ freezing truck rides from the south side, road sodas on the Hana loop, Irish knits on the beach, if you gotta pee…, Alice lives, Wela’s beard, bottle caps, B-dubbs, my winningest horseshoe set yet, sitting 1 and 6 and a quiet yet hard-ass Kanaha BBQ.

I am a very lucky girl.

My baby got sauce

2010-03-08T15:40:00.001-10:00

It’s 7:30 am and I’m sitting in Colleen’s on an uncharacteristically cold & rainy day during an uncharacteristically cold & rainy couple of weeks waiting for my laundry to finish up next door. I’m painstakingly inching my way through Atlas Shrugged, munching on a stale croissant and drinking a cup of watered down java, very much in tune with the sogginess that has slowly, but quite noticeably, enveloped everyone & everything currently taking up residence in this here part of the universe. I am the only customer in what is normally a bustling oasis of morning commuters and travelers about to jump on the bicycle tour of Haleakala and despite all preceding details, I’m smiling, because G. Love & Special Sauce’s “A Rhyme for the Summertime” is playing somewhere in the kitchen. I’m transported to at least 3 different places, simultaneously, the dominating setting being a 3-day sailboat ride through Australia’s Whitsunday islands with a dozen strangers after a long day of playing in the deep ocean and hiking through goanna territory, drinking Toohey’s at (the sickest) sunset (of my life) and trying (and failing) to play a didgeridoo that one of the travelers just spent a week making out in the woods somewhere. G. Love comes on the stereo and we naturally delve into stories about discovering the band or great nights using them as a soundtrack and this cool British girl, Nikki, chimes in with “is that the chap that sings something about having sauce,” to which we all have a chuckle, only to stunningly be met with, “right, that bloke pissed on me once he did.” As it turns out, Mr. Garrett Dutton (aka G. Love) invited our sailing brit backstage after a gig, took her back to his hotel suite, invited her into the shower, asked her if he could piss on her, and when she refused in an absolute display of shock & awe came back with, “that’s too bad, because I just did.” Hi-five’s were had, calories were burned laughing and we all joined in on an epic rendition of “Nikki’s got sauce” (which by the by, he sang to her whilst canoodling). Excellent move, Garret, excellent.

Why I am in love with time

2010-02-09T07:50:00.005-10:00

Because it gives me space for coffee in the morning, as I zap away into the interwebs and peek around, folding over electronic pages and jotting down my notes on baby mac post-it's that will disappear into imaginary trash cans if I'm not careful. Because I can look to my left and see Alaska if I try hard enough; I can look to my right and see papaya, and beyond that a long dirt road that connects me back to the grid and beyond that an entire universe full of possibility that tests me over and over and rewards me for embracing the challenges I have set for it in return. Because it gives me tiny wrinkles around my eyes and mouth, reminding me of all those times I laughed so hard I had to punch myself to spook off disaster, and all the times I've cried so hard I fell into a heap on the floor and slept for hours. Because of moments like Sunday, 2 miles out to sea in a tiny canoe surrounded by humpbacks that were singing so damn loud we had to stop the boat and stare at the sky and wonder, what now? How does this ever get better? Because of the power of will and desire and active concentration and the ability to make distinctions between thoughts and plans. Because of long stretches; lasting attempts to place my palms on the ground in front of me, a place they've never been outside of the bikram studio, trying…just…a-noth-er…inch- and missing it every time- and trying and trying just the same. Because of friends I've neither seen nor spoken to in years that pop into my mind to say hello when I'm not looking and make me bow my head, put my face in my hands and say, "I've missed you, too."

the young and the moustacheless

2010-01-31T11:03:00.004-10:00

Yesterday my old MetLife pal Irene invited me to tag along while she vetted an eco-hike adventure tour around West Maui. I met her at the shmancy Ritz over at Kapalua to catch up for a bit (having seen her last about 3 years ago) before getting picked up by our eeny weeny guide Eric (aka “Flash”), and his well-stocked cadre of optimism, textbook culture facts and witty anecdotes spanning the universe that has become his whopping 2 years living on Maui. Oh, and his little black mustache, too. (Picture ready? OK, let’s move on then, shall we?)

We began the tour with a little brekky at Flemings Beach as the sole beachcombers, save the (naughty, naughty) lifeguards on hand and a plein air painter in the distance, spotting whale spouts and murky clouds. I felt a little silly as he began pointing out different islands, beaches, bays, etc that I already knew about (in & on my own terms) suddenly feeling like a flaming tourist, but so what, it was great seeing Irene so enthralled by the most minute of intimate detail about this amazing place I now call home.

We popped in on Honolua, feeling sorry for the 4 surfers that were bobbing in the flats and squinting to find Lanai in the hazy storm rolling in, then it was onward to Nakalele Blowhole (nearly meeting my end as I slipped and sloshed down a mudslide for a better look), Olivine pools, and Kahakuloa, where we obligingly scarfed down as much coconut candy, warm banana bread and toasted macadamia nuts as humanly possible while doing our best to duck out of the deluge that has become the backdrop of our tourista driving miss daisy adventure.

By now Mister Flash has dropped no less than 27 local names, referring to each in the context of comrade- requiring every last bit of restraint in my artillery not to enter a debate about the burden that tour vans like his pose on these quiet Hawaiian villages to smile and say cheese as they acquiesce to the codependence that has been built by an industry they resent. But no, no dear friends, I simply nodded and bit my tongue and giggled softly later when he high fived his super solid buddy Ululani at the snack stand who cocked her head, wrinkled her brow and said, “who are you, again?”

Onward through the rockslide terrain and pounding rain to stunning views and well-rehearsed stories of warriors at Kahakuloa Head, and Makamaka'ole Falls before stumbling into Wailuku and looping back around Honoapiilani and due Northwest. Luckily, Irene’s corporate card was there to treat us to half a dozen cocktails and $15 burgers at the Ritz pool, just as the sun broke through the clouds and the whales got on their dancing shoes not 200 yards away. We spent the afternoon catching up, trying not to stare at Corbin Bernsen sitting at the next table, who I simply knew as “that washed out law show dude,” and doing our best to act like fancy rich people as we took a look around us and said “Damn. This is our life right now.”

On the ride home I stopped off at airport beach to take a quick dip and shake off the buzz that was creeping in and thought, yep, this is my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

ayn whine

2010-01-18T16:39:00.003-10:00

Despite the propagandist capitalism and sexism and all that other social responsibility mumbo jumbo that comes along with it, there are so many reasons why The Fountainhead wins the freaking intensely awesome book of my life contest. Many years and much self-debating later, I have begun reading Atlas Shrugged, and I think that it is silently ruining my life. So many people have told me that this is the book that changed their lives; this is the book that The Fountainhead was supposed to be. Barf, I say. It's the same exact book with longer descriptions, paler characters and railroad tracks instead of skyscrapers. But I can't stop reading it, damn it, because I keep wanting it to get better, because if it doesn't it's going to mess with my Fountainhead mojo and force me to find a new favorite, aka change the very essence of my being and throw my entire universe off-kilter.

I miss bowling. And watching football on the couch on a lazy Sunday.

project mayhem

2010-01-15T09:28:00.000-10:00

unnecessary boringness

2009-12-18T13:55:00.007-10:00

I can’t seem to bring myself to write anything remotely interesting lately, even though I have a remarkable amount of crazy ideas flinging every which way in my very sniffly, cold riddled heed; I am sick! I am flying very, very far away in 4 days and I am totally stuffed out!

I just spent the morning reading stranger blogs, one of my favorite pastimes, by folks so much more bark over bite than me. Inspiring, yes. Motivating, no. The problem these days is that I need to take a timeout from my laptop. I need to think about presents and fireplaces and cozy time with family I now only see 2 times a year. Presents. Oops. I have to get on that.

The following is a list of items I would be presenting this Christmas would I have been better prepared:

noon on a wednesday

2009-12-09T15:39:00.000-10:00

Up at 6 am, listened to an interview promotion on NPR with Morgan Freeman and Clint Eastwood for a new Nelson Mandela flick, nice to hear 2 old friends have a chuckle at inside jokes as they take the piss out of their clueless host. Do the morning crossword, drink a pot of coffee, head to work. Hit traffic near the entrance to Jaws where epic waves have been breaking 50 feet over the past few days, mend my broken heart for having to miss it, along with the once-every-30-years Eddie Aikau madness happening over on Oahu. Take the long way to work so I can pass Hookipa and see the water, have sudden and burning desire to get better at surfing, stat. Roll into the job to the soundtrack of “when doves cry,” finish daydream about holding a mix-making contest for Martians that have never heard earthling music and giving Prince a gold medal, head into the 100 year old home that is now my office and make some cinnamon raisin toast. Gab with a co-worker about going back to school to learn more about graphic design and start to plan spring break for the kids. Devise art projects based on the theme “A Space Odyssey: Robots, Martians and Moon Boots, Oh My!” before calling a bunch of teachers to sell them on my ideas. Meet with a ceramicist about redesigning a course for at-risk youth, design an ad for annual fundraiser based on the theme “Bourbon Street Ball,” edit a grant proposal for a new web content management system, eat half of a 1lb burrito and quickly regret it.

What's Your Story?

2009-11-24T12:53:00.002-10:00

Last week I participated in National Philanthropy Day at the Sheraton Waikiki Hotel, the aim of which is “to recognize and pay tribute to the great contributions that philanthropy—and those people active in the philanthropic community—have made to our lives, our communities and our world.”

Joined by 400+ colleagues in nonprofit management with missions focused on a wide variety of causes ranging from social justice and conservationism to cancer research and providing safe havens for abused children, this 2-day conference was an invigorating way to connect with what was largely a non-arts group of extraordinary individuals with one important common characteristic: a passion for our work.

It’s no secret that nonprofit workers are gravely underpaid throughout the entire sector, which calls for a staff that very personally relate to the organizational mission. Board members volunteer their time and energy (hence the term “nonprofit”) to govern (what are largely) small businesses and protect the financial viability of their programs & services. Community members step up to the plate to contribute in any way they can. Many constituents donate time, products, services and, of course, money to see to it that these missions are carried out in their respective communities. While many of these people serve very different purposes, they are ultimately exhibiting a strong sense of philanthropy in support of a common cause.

As I networked with conference participants, trained with expert instructors and listened to the inspiring words of foundation panelists and exemplary nonprofit innovators, it occurred to me that the mission of my arts education organization may not be as easily recognized as us nonprofit arts education advocates may think. Example: I have just listened to a health reform executive director describe his latest fundraising effort to install a Skype-like application in the hospital rooms of terminally ill patients unable to say goodbye to their loved ones living thousands of miles away when he takes a look at my name badge and says, “wow, the arts, huh? How’s THAT going in this economy?” Despite the clear recognition that he and I were plainly doing work of a different scale, my response was, “Great, actually.” It seems that many folks hear the term "arts education" and stop short at the word "art" when, in fact, what we are trying to accomplish is so much more.

About a month ago, one of our teen students’ parents called my office to talk about a recent program we concluded with a group that helps at-risk high school students deemed unable to cope in a “regular” classroom environment get back on track, both academically and socially. She wanted to thank me first for offering scholarships to all of the participants and then for simply developing the series of workshops. As we began to chat about the group and all of the progress they made, she broke down into tears saying that the program completely reopened the lines of communication between she and her son, who have not been able to talk without arguing for a very long time. She mentioned that it took some time, but gradually her son came home wanting to describe the projects he was working on in the ceramics studio and eventually, thinking about ways to incorporate the work into his regular high school curriculum. Though it may not seem too far of a stretch for our general constituency of artists, this was clearly a breakthrough for this woman and I felt a sincere sense of gratitude for having touched her family’s life in some small way.

...To be Continued

Master Blaster

2009-10-27T16:23:00.005-10:00

Stevie Wonder said it best when he belted out to the masses and their inebriated selves: "Bet you didn't know you would be jammin til the break of dawn...Jammin...Jammin...JAM ON." This weekend, the boy and I traded our souls to the devil for two days of debauchery on the wee island of Molokai, playing witness to a radical tradition of 40-something-year-old, hard-core paddlers, their love of booze, and most importantly, costumes that beg new meaning of the word "ridiculous."

What started as a group of 7 under-40 cheerleaders quickly became a team of 2 as we woke at 5 am to catch the 7 am from Lahaina Harbor and onto a treacherous 2-hour slap-crazy boat ride to Molokai. Most in their right mind would not opt for this particular way to begin a relaxing day off of work, but with the promise of live music, cheap lodging, free eats, unlimited beers and witnessing our paddling buddies at their worst, the invitation could not have been more enticing to us. Upon our 9 am arrival, we quickly popped open a case of Heineken, the unofficial beer of Hawaii. (From Ireland to Australia to Hawaii, I will never understand the fascination with this beer when there are things like Guinness, Blue Moon and IPA out there, but that is neither here nor there, just a swift diversion from what will surely be yet another "you had to be there" Kelly story). Day 1 was simply about registering the teams, rigging the canoes, checking into the hotels and getting to know our new digs, a neighborhood our friends described as "utterly untouched since the 1950's"- a description rarely heard of any other sister island but quite apparent, even to us newcomers. Town consists of a tiny strip of small businesses where everybody knows everybody, most people buy on the honor system, signs are handmade in all their be bop font glory- even the dogs are well-known, it basically rules. 6 hours of drinking & swimming later, we land at the Hotel Molokai with our cartons of Big Daddy's Philippine cuisine and a hankering to put on our dancing shoes. I want to say the band consisted of 6 huge dudes, but it could just as easily have been 16 they were jamming so hard and we were, all of us, not letting one single note go to waste. What better way to prepare for a 6-mile canoe race in the sweltering heat of morning than by drinking face for 12 hours straight the day before? This is my kind of people. The evening ends with a super sketchy trek down a back alleyway in the center of town knocking on a rickety old door standing in 3 inches of rain water requesting "the works" from a little girl who simply nods, then slams the door in our faces. It takes everything within my power to formulate a swift decision between busting out laughing and making a run for it, but before I can fully weigh the pros & cons, an adorable little baker produces armfuls of Molokai sweet bread and everyone starts hi-five'ing in all directions. Later I'm told it is a very important Molokai custom to do these midnight bread runs at the Kanemitsu Bakery and that all my worries were for naught. OK, this is really my kind of people. (Learn more)

Day 2 had everyone scrambling into their amazing costumes (as all teams are strongly advised, and incentivized, to have one) and trucking back & forth from hotels to the race point. There, we met the beer officials, learned the in's & out's of the race (after each 1-mile leg, everyone in the boat must chug 1 beer. The official turns it over to confirm no beer has been left un-chugged. In the event of such a foul, the paddler will be asked to kindly pop open a second beer, chug, and be on their merry way or face disqualification. Ps, this is really, really freaking hard...which is what makes it really, really freaking hilarious). The teams are OFF and we're racing to the truck to make it from mile marker to mile marker before the canoes do, with Luigi our trusty Italian escort and Tyson, the coast guard helicopter flying beer official in tow. After much hard laughter and 5 mile markers, we arrive at the harbor to greet the ladies team (6th place) and later, the men's (1st place!!)- all about ready to pass out just as soon as they finish bailing the vomit from their outriggers. Instead, we party. Dancing is done, prizes are had, squid is earned, and the last ferry of the day is to be caught, to which we arrive just in the nick of time spilling from the cab of a ginormous red pickup. The ride home is a bit of a blur though I do have a cut up knee to show for it, not to mention a 2-day old hangover. 2 for 2. A nice, even trade for my maiden voyage to the island of Molokai for my first (of many, I hope) Master Blasters.

exactly

2009-10-16T07:50:00.005-10:00

(-indexed)

warren

2009-10-15T07:58:00.005-10:00

i have been quiet

pulling without restraint

devouring silences

storing memories in far less physical spaces

than torn pages and open books

regression

for just the right amount of time

in perfect sequence

offers a second chance (and then, a third)

to take back all the words

replaying moments

and looks that can linger (just beyond the line)

your hands have outlined a story that is dripping with temptation

i've sketched it out in my mind

it keeps me awake for hours after the crickets have gone to sleep

your hands

have done some damage

that i can feel long after you've gone

your mouth builds bridges

that lure me away from dreams

forcing recognition

and solitude

into this breezy calm

sandy eyes

2009-10-06T07:39:00.004-10:00

Dear Coffee, You make me so happy- I don't think I tell you enough. You complete me.

Time to go throw some clay around a wheel. Remind me to gossip with you about the crazies.

Oh, and 52-weeks starts any second now. Me, Jazu & Meredith. Time to feel inspired. Time for a lot of things.

Happiness.

pet project

2009-09-28T09:20:00.003-10:00

My new book.

2009-09-21T17:56:00.000-10:00

an artist's natural responsibility

2009-09-18T12:53:00.006-10:00

Nothing will make you feel more lonely than to enthusiastically tell a new friend about a developing partnership with a site-based installation artist that uses native plants to create large-scale, interactive sculptures to help raise visibility of natural resources, helping others to see beauty in these species alone rather than depending on lead-based paints and harsh photo chemicals only to have said friend go OFF on you about the sacred preservation of said species in response to the very real danger that's been posed to them by non-native, invasive species and to accuse you of contributing to Hawaiian extinction just for the sake of art. Nothing. Not even my run-on sentence.

So, you learn. You start making phone calls to the Nature Conservancy, the East Maui Watershed Partnership and the Leeward Haleakala Watershed Restoration Partnership. You call your friends at the Maui Forest Bird Recovery Project, you check in with the National Park Service and you read, read, read.

You learn: Hawai'i is known as the extinction capital of the world. In the Hawaiian archipelago, no island has had more extinctions than Maui island, and no Hawaiian ecosystem has suffered more losses than the mesic koa-dominated forest of Haleakalā. Leeward Haleakalā has been called the epicenter of plant extinction in the Hawaiian Islands. This is the back yard of your arts center.

And then, suddenly you are hooked and a light goes off and it says DING and the grant you've been writing for 3 weeks to get a super cool nature boy to come make stick forts at your school transforms into a mission to merge the 2 sectors, take away the invasive black wattle that is crawling through Kula, create pieces that represent "invasion," bring in the dudes that actually know about this stuff to educate your community, staff, faculty and to share resources between non-profits to ensure each is respectfully and properly working with the other.

To me it seems obvious: one of the responsibilities of an artist is to offer a visual commentary on the world's most timely & common disaster; to stimulate dialogue; to inspire a sentiment that language simply can't. The science of "the Earth dying" unfortunately is a bit more than most care to take on. The words are big and it makes you think of your future babies wandering the school yard in a gas mask playing in a field of dirt with their Tomagatchi because all the trees are dead and the only available pets require batteries- it's utterly paralyzing. But to bring in an aesthetic; a set of images out into the ether that involves the seer with serious social, ethical and environmental issues; to allow them to develop their own reasons for involvement based on a more sensual experience seems the advantage of pairing image creators with the environmental activists (that, then, become one in the same).

And then the embarrassment slowly slips away, and you're thankful for it, because in actuality it was a wake up call that you'll remember as one of those utterly adult-like responsibility moments where you stepped beyond the world of "awesome ideas" into one of "awesome ideas that make a difference."

If only the grant gets passed.

I wait for the fog in the afternoon. We have become friends.

2009-09-10T09:31:00.006-10:00

The boss lady and I met with the superintendent of Haleakala National Park yesterday, a woman who so eloquently described a life of park hopping & globe trotting that made me, (just for a split second), yearn to be back in the saddle again. As we began talking about the arts, she told the story of a traditional Hawaiian quilt hanging in her office. Hardly a masterwork by any sort of prominent artist or indigenous craftsman, she described muted colors and an unremarkable quality leaning in the direction of a central silversword silhouette, a plant that can only be found inside the Haleakala volcano. She had always been drawn to this particular quilt above other Hawaiian works of art around the park offices, for reasons she could not define. Two days ago, her office received a package in the mail from a funeral home on the mainland. Within the box was a brief letter stating that the remains inside were that of a woman who had created a silversword quilt some years ago on the slopes of Haleakala who had no family and whose last wish was to return to the summit's silversword as her final resting place. The name listed in the letter matched that of the quilter. As my director and I did our best to stifle our shock, we noticed that this woman had gotten lost somewhere inside of her story, looking past us into yesterday's memory. Her hands were cupped in front of her, reenacting the moment of realization that this particular moment had traveled thousands of miles to find her after dozens of years acting as caretaker for some of the most beautiful, peaceful places across the country; the moment came from another life and plugged into her own sense of recognition and indescribable connection to the quilt she had always admired. She then stated that she was planning a proper ceremony with her park colleagues to send the quilter off in style later in the week, thus sealing our partnership of what will surely be a relevant and tight series.

This superintendent was so incredibly remarkable in that every word she expressed held a bathtub full of possibility. Her mannerisms, her adjectives, the calming tone of voice she commanded and the excerpts she selected for our meeting were all so delicately handled in such a way that I could barely concentrate on the matter at hand; instead I was clumsily straining to engulf every bit of detail in order to build characters, story-lines and visuals best depicting the resulting mood.

I keep meeting people like this, but I'm too quick to replace who they are with who I am assigning them to be in my imagination. But with a story like this, how can't you just let your mind wander. What a great story this could be.

bunnies are free

2009-08-31T19:33:00.002-10:00

30-second renditions of the classics acted out by cute little bunnies.

http://www.angryalien.com/

blog of the day

2009-08-26T15:31:00.008-10:00

"There is no joy to be found in the grown-ass woman's drunken sickness, not one iota of the secret pride that a seventeen-year-old feels upon announcing "I'm so wasted!" and collapsing into a plate of nachos. There is only self-loathing and puking. Lots of puking." Signed, yet unbeknownst to her, Mrs. Hilarious

endless summer

2009-08-24T08:44:00.004-10:00

What is there to say that hasn't been said before? Above all else, where does one begin?

Silver Beach 2009 has come and gone, leaving a massive weight of nostalgia and deep imprint of divine character in places meant for moving ahead. I've always been a big baby about leaving the shore, whether it meant bidding farewell to my Bee'est F, miss Amy Quigley, to the freedom of candy shops and mini golf, to the oodles of sandy-pants'ed, sun kissed fellers that combined to form my very own beach romance miniseries, or, more recently, to the plain and simple idea of spending a week devising private jokes and long, lost family stories with the 30+ aunts, uncles, cousins, almost-cousins and so on that have shared this summer tradition for three generations, it's just so damn hard to say goodbye. It hit me harder this year likely due to my present locale some 5,000 miles away, or perhaps to my mid-mid life crisis (not to be mistaken with the mid-mid-mid life crisis of turning 10, aka "double digits," boy, that was a doozy), where everyone seems to be growing up faster, sandy bungalows have been transformed into deserted mini-mansions and lifeguards are ostensibly required to be at least ten years younger than me. In any event, the place, the people, the situation and the memories glow brighter each year and I'm having quite a time saying goodbye this go-round.

Though, lucky me, I got to come home to a broken down car and (with it) oodles of fantasies of what's next! My car has been killed, may the Olds rest in peace. Once again on the prowl for a sweet ride to shovel my arse about town within, I'll be focusing on something with a bit more gumption. Ah, the sweet suspense of the hunt! More to come on that.

What else will I want to remember of August '09 when I read this down the line? A rainy Phish reunion in beautiful Saratoga, watching the mountain man deliver piles of chopped wood to Flatbread Pizza while sipping my Kauai java brew, driving right-sided in a jeep named Nigel, making my peace with the Pacific with Wela at Napili Bay, an amazing opening of the Solo Artist Exhibition with a bunch of old crackers who aren't quite ready for refreshment, reincarnated puffer fish at night the size of King Kamehameha, Brokeback Beach, intoxicating Bear Mountain aroma during a long drive to Mahopac, Amy Q at 9 months, and the silver'est beach Silver has ever been.

Summer, I love you.

family day

2009-07-29T07:11:00.003-10:00

I've been assigned the task of materializing a summer festival at the art center for this Saturday- a task that I am now living inside of, deep down in the belly, looking up at the world from a switchboard of insanity with buttons that say things like amplifier, emulsifier, band, press, budget, and leis. I wait with my eyes squeezed shut for the proper "ding!" to sound when I press these buttons, ranging from "yes, that's it!" to "waaa, waaaaaang" (no whammy no whammy!) Early mornings and late nights in the gallery and studios tell me I love this task, but nightmares and the necessary gallons of coffee that are entering my body through an iv tell a different story- one of a beach somewhere far, far away where everybody knows your name, and they all come to this beach every day staying late into the night, popping brews and talking story until the wee hours when it's time to head back to the outside showers at their little bungalows- little boxes on the beachside, little boxes made of ticky tacky- cool breezes swishing through the stream of hot, soapy water with piles of sand accumulating in the smooth stones below. Oh yes...Silver Beach...my most lovliest lovely in just one week and one day. To be continued...

Family Day News

the smartest kids alive

2009-07-24T12:46:00.003-10:00

you're welcome, america

2009-07-23T18:50:00.003-10:00

http://www.milkyelephant.com/karl/

might i suggest super jam and/ or pee mail...

mouths of babes, eyes of birds

2009-07-22T18:48:00.007-10:00

The pros of having a ginormous picture window overlooking our jungle jane backyard and ocean views are largely self-explanatory, save the evening transformation that occurs upon which it assumes the guise of an aquarium-sized fish tank fluttering with geckoes and moths, nearly akin to watching someone else play a game of pac-man and being unsure of who exactly you're rooting for. The cons, however, are that said ginormous picture windows are seemingly invisible to birds of prey, luring them dead-on into its magnetic, come-hither depths and sending a THWACK through the house the size of a missed heartbeat 2-3 times a day.

Everything smells clean and new right about now, and I'm typing to the sound of my neighbor-landlord teaching himself how to play guitar in some faraway wing of his treehouse while looking out at a view I consistently wonder how I came to deserve. Just got home from the gym, took a long, tangerine-infused shower and am ready for an icy beverage just as soon as I come up with something witty enough to write about.

The kids at camp seems like an obvious choice, because they are just plain ridiculous, but it's the kind of ridiculous that "you had to be there" to appreciate wholly. My friend Meredith is an old pro at capturing these moments with her son, Bodhi. Examples:

Bodhi: Mommy, can you be a real princess all the time, not just pretend? Me: I'm working on it, kiddo.
Bodhi: Mommy, you're a hater. Me: I'm a WHAT? What am I? Bodhi: A hater. Me: What is that? Bodhi: I don't know.
Bodhi: Mommy, this pen just polka-dotted me. Me: Ok, well don't do that anymore. Bodhi: (shock) you think I was doing it?!!?
Me: Where are you going? Bodhi: Outside to rescue everyone from the coyotes! They're out on the yard and I have to fight all of them! Me: OK

Shoot. Can't beat it. Away with me!

the story of my life

2009-07-17T10:14:00.014-10:00

Eddie Would Go

2009-06-30T10:23:00.004-10:00

You know you're old when you tell your hip 23-year old co-worker that you're going to see Eddie Vedder tonight and she says, "what's Eddie Vedder"?

Hi'ya sunshine.

a safari with me

2009-06-28T10:21:00.005-10:00

Yesterday was classic. Up at 6 am to hike down our mile-long driveway and up to the top of twin falls, looking down at the last drops of water flung high into the air before plunging into the pools below, with nothing more in view than a resulting stream carrying forth to the ocean. We walked around in circles and got tangled up in the brambly woods for an hour or so before stumbling upon a hidden yoga retreat center practically in our own backyard: tents with mailboxes, tide pools and pet cows were all a part of this open-plan living commune (at one point we realized we were actually standing in someone's kitchen- oops!) It was like LOST, only we weren't attacked by the others (yet) and I didn't get to make out with Sawyer like everyone else does (yet).

We packed the cooler and headed to the west side where Grandma's was unsettlingly huge for the likes of me and my novice self, met up with two of our favorite paddlers and drove on to Launiupoko to play, surf, snack, swim and try stand-up paddling for the first time. At least I can say I've mastered the belly flop (no feet-first falls allowed when there be sharp coral 3 feet below). After some blood & sweat, a healthy dose of talent & sarcasm, we went off in search of regatta scores at Hanakaoo Beach Park, made the rounds and settled at a little fish house for supper with some cool brews and yummy Mahi Mahi.

It's raining this morning, weather in waves like the ocean not 300 yards away. Somewhere between the natural music of thick drops falling on palm trees, the distant thrum of the sea current and the steady wind bristling through the thick brush that surrounds this house lies the secret to the universe. Or in this case, to a Sunday off at 9 am, coffee brewing, full of relaxing possibility. Mmm.

local motion notion

2009-06-24T12:13:00.003-10:00

It's been an incredibly trying task attempting to delete the term "flip-flop" from my repertoire. A self-proclaimed closed-toes-shoe hater, I've always imagined a world where wearing flip-flops to work would be accepted and people would really listen to your ideas and appreciate your inner genius, wriggly toe exposure aside, and embrace their own inner flip-flop. Here, however, in my new digs, flip-flops are entirely accepted as "slippers," alas, making my understanding of the term "slippers," and everything they have come to represent (cozy winter nights, clean feets after a day on the subway) obsolete. Completely acceptable trade-off I should say.

confession

2009-05-31T08:00:00.004-10:00

when i find things this beautiful and amazing, my first instinct is jealousy- just for a split second- normally accompanied by an exclamation like "damn it!" or "f*!"- quickly followed by surprised laughter (at my reaction), and finally succumbing to "good on you, stranger, that's freaking fabulous."

Current Example: A to Z

young at art

2009-05-26T21:44:00.010-10:00

Two things worth honorable mention:

Uno: M and I were invited to an uber authentic evening of bachata, merengue and bomba in a tiny club tucked behind the water treatment plant downtown, where all the 60+ year old Puerto Ricans meet up once a month and shake what their momma gave them.

aka fascination street.

Dos: I caught the very last hours of the youth art exhibition down at the MACC and was reminded with a BANG why I do what I do and how proud I am to be a part of it.

art maui

2009-05-20T18:09:00.004-10:00

So there's this huge island-wide exhibition coming up showcasing the work of everyone who's anyone on Maui, from novice to emerging to established visual artists - and though I'd love to think of myself included in the everyone, it's been about 6 months since I've picked up my charcoal sticks and India inks and gone to town. I'm hoping to use next week's receiving day as my defining motivation that will reintroduce my brains to a visual lingo, but- but but but.

Race to Alau

2009-05-18T12:10:00.004-10:00

It began just before 5 am, M' on the phone pacing around the bedroom mumbling through mental lists of camping gear, booze and random agenda details as his cell phone is vibrating at 4 minute intervals; teammates already on the road, dragging each other's arses out of bed and affecting adrenaline with every tick of the clock. "You've got 15 minutes babe- I'll be in the car- let's GO," goes the delicately sweet nudge of a wake up call. Awesome. You'll see me when the coffee's ready. The next 75 minutes consist of what may or may not be constituted as driving through the ess-turns and cliffside gravel roads that incomprehensibly merge to unveil the road to Hana, normally a relaxing, scenic 2-hour journey that Mr. M transformed into an epic battle against time and space. Thankfully we crept up on no less than 3 pickups hysterically balancing 40-foot canoes on their cabs, a clear sign that we were right on time, and eventually began to recognize the blurred faces of the drivers we continually passed, good stuff. A short while later we're all at the bay, unloading the boat, attaching the ama, setting up beach chairs, tables, food and snapping away to catch the moment. Hundreds of paddlers are here today, some casual hobbyists, others fierce competitors, all getting pumped for the 6-mile loop around Alau and back that will last just under an hour, a well-deserving excuse to throw back a couple of cases of cold beers and spend the night camping, eating freshly caught fish, and throw just about anything we can get our hands on into the wok, reinventing cross-cultural cuisine that would make even the most finicky of foodies damn proud. I'm one of only four folks in the group not racing today, just here lookin pretty in my gigantor sunhat that should keep most of those around me under a solid fortress of shady goodness. Everyone's incredibly friendly, making introductions and small talk that for once seem effortless, delighted to have an excuse to be here on this beautiful beach in this beautiful town with these beautiful people. It seems every time I turn around there's a new group of relatives swarming, talking smack with a wink and gearing up for their moment on the water. There's an announcement to gather on the beach as a colossal hand-held circle forms for the blessing, asking the spirits permission to enter this space and to keep the paddlers safe- I look around, curious to document the reactions of some of these tough guys I've seen letting their adrenaline get the best of them or the kids that were squealing with excitement not 2 minutes ago, but everyone's heads are bowed in silence; an unspoken moment of respect for this gathering; a shared sense of understanding; a haunting stillness turning this experience for me into something so much bigger than a day with the boys' paddling buddies. It was pretty damn cool. The races come and go, the competitors soak in the ocean for a long time afterward in silence then gather on the beach talking shop, giddily and in great detail- for hours- reliving their experiences moment to moment and calling up the races of Christmas past to compare and contrast. They're simply hooked, and it's impossible not to feel the effect of this euphoric energy. Our group is amongst those last at the bay as the sun grows dimmer; dozens of new faces gravitating to our circle of chairs remarking "this looks like trouble!" and joining in for a pint or 2 before going off to their respective campsites. Eventually we take off to our own, pitching tents, hanging lanterns, firing up the grill, and diving into the ridiculous beauty of Hamoa Bay. One of the boys pops out of the water with a squiggly little octopus, immediately throwing it into the wok and 10 minutes later its in my belly. The saki appears, not unrelated to the disappearance of my sobriety, and the night ends in visions of karate chops and belligerent bocce- an awesome first impression for me to lay on M's new friends. What are you gona do. I wake just before sunrise and float to the ocean, where a few familiar faces are already bobbing about, I watch for a long time calculating the best point of entry before slipping in and peering around underwater. What I thought to be a cluster of coral & rock turn out to be little tumbleweeds of sand rolling in perfect formation around seashells, packs of bubbles and foam, schools of fish, and sun-rays refracting through the current. The water is so clean it erases any sense of fear I would normally tag onto a lone swim at sunrise. I duck under each warm wave hoping to wash away the impending hangover which will eventually overcome my entire day. The early risers are arriving on the beach in groups, faces I can't untangle without my glasses, fellow saki-hit zombies needing a swim even worse than a pot of hot coffee and an Advil. And then it's time to go, back through the winding hangover hell that is the road back home, the one we've taken so many times before but this time with a camp full of familiar faces at our back and thousands of little details that will keep us chuckling all day. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

8 things i did today

2009-05-14T20:05:00.001-10:00

1. visited a homeopath to get the scoop on my sun poisoning. homeboy yanked an aloe plant out of his lawn and handed me a bill for $80.00. that's what you get for being a white girl.
2. designed a print ad for keiki art camp, a magical place made of unicorns and jesus. look for it in a paper near you.
3. fell really deeply into a fantasy while listening to "she's the one" by the beta band on the way to work, to the point of (happy) tears.
4. counseled a friend at work while she panicked about giving birth in 5 weeks, then made her go by me lunch.
5. smothered myself in anything within reach marked with the word "moisturizer" and walked around the house naked whilst throwing back the coronas. i smell like a lavender aloe garden of tangerine coconutty goodness.
6. listened to an ex-Iraqi soldier on NPR blubber on about the stigma affiliated with seeking psychological assistance while in the line of duty, dancing around direct questions better than the stars.
7. washed my hair with new tea leaf shampoo and did a double fist-pump when the tingles set in.
8. joined redbubble.com

laundry day

2009-05-13T21:27:00.004-10:00

Nothing's more interesting than taking a vacation from yourself only to come back weeks, months, years later to discover you were there the whole time, and yet everything's changed.

At the laundry mat, eyes searching for the best plan of action, feet shuffling all around staking claims, quarters bouncing off the cracked concrete, a floor that hasn't been washed for nearly a year. There are characters in here busting at the seams at their conceptual breaking points. Flip flops with socks, tappin that ass, laughing at name translations, bumping into coworkers husbands, playing hard to get with the washers, the swish swish roll and hum of hundreds of dirty socks, all brief visitors to a tumble so many have taken before. The foundation is cracked; all of the baskets have been stolen; there aren't enough dryers to go around; it's about to get rowdy up in here. Somewhere a baby is singing and running in circles while his daddy folds reusable diapers. He takes his time with them, making sure to create perfect creases, turning them over 3-fold while humming along with his son. A teenage boy hogs the magazine shelf, piling more than he can handle in his lanky arm as he thumbs through pages and pages, staking claims on potential winners and leaving those deemed el boringo for the scavengers. He's grinning to himself, very much aware of the presence he's developed as "first dibs." It would be a shame to stomp over there and grab that usa today I've been eyeing, but I'm going to do it anyway. Outside the sun is making its final descent over the mountains; somewhere a windsurfer is riding her last wave of the day, a child is discovering his love of sea turtles and will go on to be a whale watching assistant, answering the same set of a dozen or so questions the tourists will ask of him day in and day out during his post-college years, after while he'll become a captain of a sailboat and die alone a sailboat bachelor with a bottle of Heineken in his hand and a smile on his face.

The rafters are exposed and hang tightly to long chains of fluorescent lights, flickering against the weak stream of electricity leftover from all the machinery.

in the meanwhiles

2009-04-27T15:39:00.001-10:00

My eyelashes are all over the place- I am the wicked witch of the west.

Just cleaned out my inbox and found some terrifically random acts of boom'ness: my rowdiest friend just joined j-date and hooked up 2 dates in 1 day; my most logical friend finally convinced herself to quit her extremely lucrative lawyer job in the NYC to become a waitress in rural VT; my most sexually explicit friend in an open relationship just found out that her relationship may not be as open as they originally planned, after years and years of assuming so; my most entrepreneurially creative friend has completely rehashed her photography website and has reiterated her status as number one human brainstorm.

I've been thinking a lot less than usual lately, likely due to a visit from the moms, a move to no-man's-land and a job that won't quit. It seems silly to me that I work amidst a HUGE group of some of the most creative people I have ever been in contact with and yet I can't seem to adopt any of their artistic energy. I've assumed the position of the gal that promotes art rather than the girl that produces, but that's OK for now. (for now).

what a difference a day makes

2009-04-24T20:17:00.002-10:00

we are free

Happy Easta

2009-04-12T07:58:00.000-10:00

Love your friends at camp

why sunday was born

2009-04-05T11:22:00.002-10:00

I imagine this is what city-life is actually supposed to feel like, this little island experience. On mornings like these I sink deeply into this space. I sit on the couch and stare at the ocean. I humorously consider the "feng shui" of the place. I reflect on the decisions we've made from furniture, to magazine subscriptions, to the netflix on the coffee table to the characteristics of our neighborhood. The sounds of roosters, the smell of freshly cut grass. The imminence of rain, always. My friends have begun to forget about me, way out here. I'm getting to know the politics of the place, the natives vs the transplants vs the 2nd & 3rd generation transplants that believe they are natives, and rightly so, and everything in between. It's interesting coming to a place like this with a set of lenses equipped for such absorption. Everything is research, from the cool kid at the gas station who changed my oil in exchange for a round of beers, to the capitalist landlords who docked our deposit for a scratched coaster, to the revered paddling captain who says nothing with his lips but everything with his presence, to the mysteries & culture hidden in exotic fruits like the soursop, cherimoya and lychee just outside the house.

Always reminding myself to fall in love- of the feeling of falling into a place of almost unbearable self- and being so content with what you see.

settling in

2009-03-31T16:21:00.003-10:00

Nearly April- how time flies! Much has changed since I last checked in with my peeps. Jenny D, for example, has left me far behind in search of her latest challenge, supposedly hiding in the sunny state of Florida. A slue of guests have come & gone, making my time here feel that much more real as I get to play tour guide and show off all of my favorite things. M & I will be moving into our new digs in the coming weeks, a solar-powered catch man- filtered, off-the-grid wee cottage with a view of Jaws you'd kill for. It's going to be a huge change, especially for the likes of us city folk, but we've made it this far and hope to dig deeper and deeper until we find our own little niche of Haiku. I've been working on a website to help boost my new freelance career as I continue to do editing, grant writing and print design work for random folks around the island. Not sure that the web is the best way to get things done around here, surprisingly, but it will be nice to have it as a start. I'd definitely like to have more projects going than my very intense, very non-profit-paying nine to fiver. Other than that, just trying to cook as much as I can, enjoy the sun as it returns to the north shore with the closing of winter and get some sleep everywhere in between. The season has been a trip, and I'm packing my bags for spring.

stay all day (if you want to)

2009-02-15T16:52:00.002-10:00

On a coffee-high cool breezes coming though the French doors macadamia nut brewing soaking into every inch of the house about an hour from sunset everything is painted with a dim shimmer of orange light ceiling fan on wood chimes knocking crossword puzzles strewn across the couch a cute boy cooking arroz con gondules for dinner heating up the grill outside for a BBQ with not much else worth thinking about but platanos, winter sea breezes and frank black.

2009-02-05T20:59:00.002-10:00

Bullocks times one thousand! My new camera that Finn got for me is BUSTED! That's 2 cameras in 6 months on the eve of my very first trip to Oahu. Barnum & Bailey Circus this is freaking frustrating! Add to that the fact that Bromance is over and I'm at a loss for things filed under "awesome."

Sigh.

running on empty

2009-01-24T08:24:00.003-10:00

Nose stuffy, ears cloggy, head groggy, awake barely, I had planned to go home early today and start sleeping off what I clearly brought upon myself- a little piece of hell for which I traded in last weekend to have a night out on the razz with the infamous JD. Nay my friends, nay- here I am running all over town doing the job of at least 3 other people weighing award materials, picking up party invitations, mediating counterproposals all the live long day, with a gas tank coolly reminding me that I’m about this close to put-put-putting my way embarrassingly to the bicycle lane of the highway where I will certainly be attacked by the overwhelming population of hitchhikers that seem to be swarming at every corner these days (guilt! karma police, have pity!), and a coolant indicator practically blinding me as my dial trots anticlimactically beyond the “H” spot for round 2 of “you’re driving a 13 year old cruiser, lady, stop pushing it.” How did I get here?

Tangent: people have been ma’am’ing me left & right these days and I’ve about had it. People MY AGE are ma’am’ing me, “excuse me, MA’AM, do you know where wal-mart is?” Pow. Straight to the moon if you’re not careful.

Rewind, last weekend: JD and I make plans to gather up the “girls” and try a new place for dinner they’ve all been meaning to go to. Who knew this was secret code for “let’s see how many bars we can scare the living daylights out of before closing time.” Also known as, “hey, remember when we were 19 and living in Ireland and drank a bottle of vodka before dinner and THEN went out? Yeah, me neither, let’s recreate the glory days, baby!” And so it goes. I am devil sick.

My friend Pete recently asked me to tell him the story of my oldest pair of shoes. Dublin, cobblestone streets, Temple Bar, my girls, 16 years old, ginormously awesome sandy brown Doc’s, Dad threads on his dog tags from Vietnam, Guinness and milkshakes at the Bad Ass Café, sausages- sausages, pounding port in a county Clare castle getting ready for the ride of our lives, waking to the sound of slamming my head against a tourism bus window. You see how these things are connected?

My 19 year old sister hates college and it absolutely blows my mind.

2009 is the good things

2009-01-12T16:38:00.003-10:00

In search of a BBQ on which to grill away our Sundays spent watching football and generally lazing about, the boy and I orchestrated a tour of local garage sales this past Saturday. Our very first stop was absolutely overflowing with goodies, from trinkets and vintage magazines to lawn chairs and bicycle helmets- and while we did not find a grill, we DID score an awesome tent for a mere 20 smackers. BOOM. It was right then and there we decided to get in the car and head east to test this sucker out.

Thank God for Hana.

It was just what I needed: a spontaneous trip through the winding roads, bamboo forests and thick jungle-like sights to remind me that it’s OK to go away, even though we are already so, so far away. We beached, hiked, swam and chilled out in the central part of town before heading toward seven pools where we set up shop for the night. Having only a couple of pillows and a case of beer to get us through the night, we made friends with some other campers and watched the whales bounce around in the dramatic light of the full moon.

Such is the wonderfulness of a random garage sale one early Saturday morning in January.

a weekend in december

2008-12-22T13:37:00.005-10:00

This weekend, we saw our very first whale!

Found a new place to hike, right in our backyard...

Went swimming in the birthing pools

And running through the pineapple fields

We're finally acting like we live on an island.

alarm call

2008-12-16T07:37:00.000-10:00

I woke up in time for sunrise to a chorus of cockle-doodle-doo, took a long shower with lots of smelly soaps, brewed a cup of tea and stood looking outside at the ocean for a long time. The tea is hot, almost too hot, and I can feel it traveling through my body, inch by inch, as if to say “wake up wake up- this is your last week here!” I find I need to write down the surprising little things that happen to me in a day (picked up newspaper and baby gecko plopped out onto the kitchen counter; was greeted by 2 new kittens during lunch on the porch yesterday who proceeded to have a fierce show of kung fu with the overgrown collection of potted plants whizzing about in the breeze; crushed a collection of lillikoi on my way up the driveway, resulting in an aromatic explosion of passion fruit dank) so as not to get totally and completely wrapped up in work, which of course I am. I love my job, for better or for worse, but it’s quickly and snuggly tucking me into a bed I cannot untangle myself from, so I need to take these little moments and write them down- I need to remember all of the reasons why I am here, not just the one.

Today is my best friend’s Birthday, and I feel lucky to have her. It’s going to be a good day.

wasting time

2008-12-08T17:50:00.005-10:00

My boss gave me the day off today to regain some sense of sanity as we prepare for Christmas (we’re actually allowed to say that word here), winter session and all of the juicy plans we have in store for the New Year. I’m laying on the couch, sipping a Kona Fire Rock, listening to birds and geckos chirp away, and feeling just a hint homesick for my girls at home who would never hear of me drinking by my lonesome- but it’s super jesus damn good, I tell yeh. I’m stoked to see everyone in just two short weeks, though it will be a strange reality spending a week at my folks’ house without stepping foot into the Queens, relaxing, playing with Finn the Duke and being miles and miles away from the boy. What a lucky girl I am.

I’ve been stalking etsy over the past several days building a Christmas strategy that falls inline with my attempt to support all things handmade this season. Thus the selfish beginnings of a Kelly wish list below…I can’t help it…anytime I’m asked to think about fun gifts for others I inevitably find ever funNER gifts for me-self.

3 More examples of heaven:

kelly's wishlist

2008-12-07T09:11:00.007-10:00

working girl

2008-12-03T18:55:00.000-10:00

I’ve been doing a lot of research lately on personal branding for a project I’m working on and am really getting to know my professional self, finally. It’s no secret that I’ve bounced and sampled, tasted, spit out the pits and gone back for seconds in some cases- all the while stretching for a common thread amongst my extremely varied resume, and assuming deep-down that I’m a bit of a career basket case. I’ve thankfully come to realize that this is not the case.

It would seem that resumes are becoming a bit obsolete these days, especially in my field of community arts education & nonprofit arts business management; rather than a ladder effect/ cumulative work history I’ve actually built more of a professional brochure that has built me into a brand,; one akin to big-picture analysis, targeted research and finally, itty bitty action steps to clean up a mess, set clear goals and achieve the results now that for some reason or another were being saved for later. I’m a no nonsense, tell me what you’re trying to achieve, no this way is better, and do it kind of girl- and it’s kind of nice to be settling into this definition of career progress.

So yeah, a lot’s been going on out here (thus the blog laze). I’ve pretty much surrendered my personal life for getting my act together professionally as of late, and while it’s a lifelong (or retirement long, let’s hope) process, it’s certainly one I need to be working on intensively right now- because it’s long overdue and it’s timely and it’s in my face right now, so there’s that.

2008-11-26T07:27:00.001-10:00

i am catwoman

2008-11-21T17:48:00.002-10:00

It’s funny- when I first got here everything was measured in days and weeks: deadlines to my new life progress. Just three months in I’ve already moved on, thinking in broader terms not necessarily about goals or to do’s (although yes, that’s always how my brain will work) but about qualities and ways of being. I’ve fallen into this life rather fittingly. And it’s very, very different just a few miles away here on the north shore than my past life here on the rock in good old Lahaina. People here are living lives, not episodes of their life.

And man, are there a lot of cats.

My neighbor Leili saves strays cats, which is a huge ordeal here on Maui, so we’ve got about a dozen of them at any given time meandering about the place. I, being terribly allergic, regard them warily- eyeing them as they pace back and forth eyeing me right back for any sign of weakness that they assume I’ll inevitably expose and cave to the petting and swarming consideration they’re accustomed to. They’re all over our little private dirt-road/ driveway when I get home from work, they’re lounging on my car when I come out in the morning; dusty little paw prints decorate my windshield, they climb the screen doors and adorn the porch steps at all hours and they mew around chasing chickens all night & day. It’s like our own private little circus here at home, and hey, it’s all new and really very funny to me. It’s like I have “pets.” Man, did I beg my folks for a pet my whole life. Probably why my imaginary friend “Dawn” (yes, yes I know- verry imaginative) stuck around a few more years than appropriate or comfortable for the moms.

I’m kind of falling in love with these damn cats as I write this.

dayman: fighter of the nightman

2008-11-12T08:07:00.000-10:00

While I love that I have the kind of job out here that demands every inch of brain I can manage, I forgot that these sorts of gigs are the same sorts that leave you utterly exhausted by day’s end. Yesterday, for example, we had big plans to venture out on a night walk and get a nice sweat going to help kick off our new healthy-me era, but alas, within 20 minutes of leaving work I was pulling into a smelly dive (yes, they exist even in paradise) and ordering up a three dollar G & T, closely followed by several hours worth of brain-numbing television to ease this little not-so-healthy-me into her 9-hour slumber.

I am your prototypical daytime person. Once the sun sets, it’s pretty much a done deal.

Things I promise to do this month:

Replace my broken camera and post heaps of photos
Sign on at the yoga studio up the hill
Enroll in at least one art class at my school
Work the buns

Time to pick a bloody red grapefruit from the neighbor’s yard without getting caught. If you see me on America’s Most Wanted, you heard it here first.