Portrait in Linen

Painting my nails and listening to “denim rock”–the greats that make me think of driving the pine-lined highways of Louisiana, through the floating cotton fields, on dusty back roads…Journey, Stevie Nicks, The Eagles, Steve Miller Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd. Allows me to escape the utility of my life for a while and immerse in a muse-laced place where the colors are brighter, the blood runs warmer, passion feels like a good thing.

—

It took me an hour to get across town today, creeping along the thruway like a blood clot. And then pulling into the dance studio parking lot to drop off Squeak, surrounded by Explorers and Navigators and Expeditions and a dozen other Odysseys just like mine, except every other vehicle was paper-mâché‘d in proud-parent bumper stickers: “Lexie–Cheerleader”, “Jordan–Soccer”, “Aiden–Panthers #42″.

I have convictions, too. Probably every vehicle I’ve ever owned has borne the idealistic entreaty, “Live Aloha” and all that implies (though here in 70503, most people think it says “Live (lĪve) Aloha,” as in the opposite of “Dead Aloha.” Yet another profound sentiment lost in translation)–all except this van. Why? Because my deepest Aloha is up in the attic, on the slow march to mold then disintegration, along with all the more complex Hawaiian words I ever committed to memory.

All life is about letting go.

—

Took a look at the novel I started in ‘06. Such a shame I didn’t make it further than the first couple scenes. I must’ve been depressed to the translucent cusp of psychosis, because those words seemed to seep straight from the right brain main vein. I haven’t been able to eke out two sentences that carry the same easy cadence and metaphor. I’m all dried up.

What happened to me?

Ua ha’alele nā hua ‘ōlelo i ka ‘aina malo’o,
i ka ‘ōpÅ« o ka honua.
Ke make pōloli nei ka wahine.
Ke ‘ai nei kona noho mālie iā ia,
mai kona na’au, mai kona ‘ili.