Good tidings

Oh, hi there!
It's been awhile...


Life on this island has been keeping me happy and busy. In fact, lately, maybe a little too busy.

I'm teaching ESL at a language college, and while I adore my students and most of my time teaching, I am a bit too preoccupied with my occupation these days. I'm working on not working so much. Let ya know how it goes.

The good news is, I am madly in love and happy as a pickle in a jar.

Also, I hung two paintings in a downtown restaurant today.

And, my friends fell in love.

Annnnnd...
I loaned my bass to a pretty fancy little bass player, and I'm hoping he'll come back with her for another jam session soon.

How are YOU?

Plans, and The Way they Change

I was a tornado in Atlanta, a helping hand in St.Francisville, an idiot in Baton Rouge, a flash of light in Austin, a warm memory in New Orleans, a sight-seer in L.A., and now a new fish in the pond of Honolulu. I was planning on riding through the states until my fumes were gone. I was supposed to go back to California for a minute, then on to Denver, Seattle, Las Vegas, Arizona, Dallas and New York if I could still afford the ticket.
That was the plan.
I thought, maybe, after it all, I'd have made some decision about what to do next. Maybe I'd have finished a book. Maybe I'd get a teaching gig in Thailand, or maybe Brazil. Who could ever know such things?

Now, what I haven't told you is what I wanted.

I wanted to find a place that felt like home.

It's been a long search: This trip was a big hungry attack in the dark. But from where I'm sitting, I believe I've found that magical place I was hoping for- What luck!

I can't explain this place without explaining the people. Do you know what the people do here in Hawaii? All the time? Everywhere you go? Including Costco and gas stations? Do you know what they do?

They smile.

They are happy people. They are surrounded by lush, green jungles, magnificent mountains, and blue ocean for miles and miles. Gentle ukelele music hums out of overhead speakers in every grocery store. Drivers slow down and let one another in. People like their lives and each other.
I try to out-friendly the guy behind the counter at the 7-11, but I lose every time!

I wake up with the sun here. I follow it out to the beach and pull a mask down over my eyes, stick a tube in my mouth and flippers on my feet. The water's always cold at first, but only for a moment. I look down and watch the most stunning fish swim below me, shamelessly boasting bright yellows and reds, magnetic blues, and neon piping. They make any negative feelings seem foolish.

Every detail of this place is inspiring.

The air smells like flowers and ocean. I drive a scooter (safely) down a park street with trees so beautiful they're distracting; arched above, creating a canopy. This place is so stunning and wonderful and perfect, even the Spam tastes good.

What could I do? I got a job. I am staying. Which is to say, I am not leaving. I won't be finishing leg two of my scheduled travels, but they'll be picked up soon enough. I'll get vacation time somewhere down the road a bit, and I'll get to Denver and Arizona, Louisiana and Atlanta, Seattle and California, and even you, New York.

But for now, I'm settling in for a new life in Paradise.

City of Angels

I won't be long explaining this experience as that it was only a week, and the events are much less important than the feelings. I stayed in the warm company of my dear friend, Richard, and my new friend (his lady), Angelica. Richard took me as I was the day we met and has never let me down in any way. He is genuine, sensitive, giving, and artistically minded. Angelica is as pure as a person gets. My visit was not so much to the city of Los Angeles as is was to the world these two have carved out for themselves there. This means, I slept soundly and was surrounded by real beauty. There were carefully sculpted gardens and parks for the neighborhood to use. There was street art. Aztecs danced around a giant oak. There were rope swings, tree hammocks, buckets of paint, strange movies, giggling, hiking, caring for the community, kids playing in boxes, team efforts, shovels in dirt, group art projects, unbelievable home cooking, snuggling animals, bare feet, natural remedies, generosity, acceptance, big eyes and big smiles. I don't know what other people feel about L.A., but it felt almost like home to me.

Almost.

Big Easy and the Sunset Limited

Humidity be damned; New Orleans was a breath of fresh air!
Two evenings rolled by there with my old college chum, Damian Tatum. He's a gentle spirit of a genius (an aerospace engineer)- always excellent company. As chance would have it, our mutual friend and genius from another mother, William Winters, was also passing through (so perfectly timed, I even got to catch a ride into town!) We ate at a po-boy stand and sat on a patio along with several new friends to discuss it all. We were even graced with a brief hard rain. It lasted only ten minutes or so, but the leaves and roofs chatted about it for the next hour while we forged on with too many topics to count.

At the Amtrak station I checked one bag and carried on a back-sack and guitar. My seat was number 4, an aisle seat, and in seat 3 was Herbert......
(It just came to me that number 4 should have been the window seat... it doesn't make sense for it to have been the aisle.... that man stole my seat! I could have gotten sleep after all! Darn you, Herbert!)
Herbert is a gray headed 60-something who lives in a retirement community in Long Beach. He was journeying home from visiting family in New Orleans. He bought me a cup of coffee right off and I listened to his stories (some pretty funny) for about two hours. He has an excellent laugh and will live a long life, I am certain. For the rest of the trip, Herbert pretty much stayed in that seat (my seat?) and I stayed in the observation car.

Next, I met Thomas and Shorty. Thomas is a gabber and a tile-layer from L.A.. He'd spent a year in New Orleans cleaning up a messy situation for his sister and was eager to get back home. He's the same type of silly that runs in my family. When the train took a 2-hour break at 4 a.m. we walked together to the Denny's in SanAntonio. At our booth, he folded the to-go menu into an airplane and went on about how good his kids are and how he's looking forward to getting home and biking mountain trails. His enthusiasm about life oozes from his pores, and sometimes causes dry patches on his elbows. I loaned him lotion, and he thanked me ten times.
Thomas brought a Slamwich back to Shorty, since Shorty couldn't make the 4 block walk himself. Shorty is a big man, build like a CMU balanced on popcycle sticks. I don't remember his real name, but his height is exactly the height of the train's interior, so he had to walk around with his head slightly bent. He told some great bad jokes.

There was a couple on their way to a wedding, a mean old lady bent almost in half from carrying around so many bad wishes from people she'd cut, a 20-something named Matthew who opened his own paintball fantasy camp in Arizona, and some brilliant children. We all watched the landscape passing by and changing, and made light conversation to kill time. At one point, on the second day of the journey, I pulled my guitar out and gave the crew some entertainment- and the crew sang along, provided back-up vocals and table-top-beats, and were, to date, my most captive audience ever.

I loved walking back toward my seat from the observation car. On the way, I got to see the sweetest sleepers; couples using each other's shoulders as pillows, babes grabbing each other for warmth, infants asleep on their mothers' breasts. It was beautiful.

Around 10 p.m. on the second evening, a kid named Andrés boarded in Tuscan. We hit it off fabulously and stayed up til the wee hours talking about and sharing music. I liked his company the most out of all my train-buddies: Hope we manage to stay in touch. Maybe when I'm in Arizona visiting Staci I can swing by and jam with his 9-piece band; make it an even 10.

My only regret is checking that one bag. For, you see, inside that bag was my toothbrush, toothpaste, long sleeves to protect me from the vicious air conditioning, fresh clothes and undies, facewash, and a travel pillow... all things I lamented not having with me for that 47 hour trek.

And then, there was L.A.

(to be continued...)

it's the final countdown~

best day of my life.
lots of coffee, steak for lunch. fit everything into the official carry-on-size bag. guitar, check. uke, check. camera, onboard. even got a handful of brand new panties: nothing's better on a long journey than knowing you've got plenty of clean panties.

it's weird not having a plan for more than a couple of months ahead, but weird in a good way. tonight i'll see old college friends in new orleans. wednesday morning i'll get on a train. thursday night that train should pull into union station in l.a. and i'll see a friendly face. i'll do my pal's bidding at his nonprofit org., acla, and may get to teach a workshop of my chosing! jealous?

then on july first, i'm flying to honolulu.
oh, ok- NOW you're jealous.
but don't be sad-- i'll take you with me.

texas roses

uncle alvin, "maddog", was a pipe-fitter and a sailor, and aunt siss had uncle alvin in her pocket. from the first time she met him, she was smitten. it took a little convincing for him, but soon, she says, he was equally taken. then they spent their lives together. they moved from town to town, state to state, finding work and renting apartments, but calling each other home. they shared secrets instead of keeping them. they shared meals and dreams, worries and beds. they have a million stories to tell you about their adventures and each other... every one is beautiful.

hearing some evidence that the 'real thing' can survive outside of fiction was invaluable.

as for the rest of austin, i dug it. it was refreshingly colorful and unconventional; though the weirdness factor didn't hit me as hard as i expected... but i've always been a weirdo, and now with years of atlanta's crevices underfoot, i'm likely a difficult audience for that sort of thing. the people were friendly, anyway- and there were lots of tacos, guitars and thrift stores, so i could certainly survive there.

chad bankston, one of my favorite old friends whom i haven't seen in years, kidnapped me for one night and we played wii (he played, i struggled) and watched "drag me to hell" and generally refused to surrender to sleep until 5 a.m. or so.
i like how time looks like such a fool in the right company.

Some people believe that Louisiana is full of ghosts. I can't say for sure, but I certainly wouldn't outright disagree.
It's my guess a lot of these old souls just don't know where else to go once their clock's up. Personally speaking, out in these deep, deep woods and bayous, the rest of the world quickly gets to feeling like it's a million miles away.

There's a language here, a song, a supper... that just doesn't exist anywhere else. Besides which, there are so many things you have to learn-- like who's got the deed to the old Wilke's place, and who's having an affair with the sheriff's married son, and why that young family from Shreveport never steps foot outside before dusk. Maybe these aren't broadly appreciated facts; maybe not pieces of conversation exchanged at the royal wedding or what-have-you. But, locally, these scraps of information are stock knowledge...and it's a lot to keep in one head. Hell, it can become a challenge remembering certain other counties exist (ok, parishes), let alone countries. So, sure, I suppose a dying body might not know what other directions to offer its departing soul after a lifetime of étouffée and crawdads, fais do-do this and chootem dat.

Or, maybe we're all just spinning tales out here because we're imaginative and a little bored.

Alas, ma chère, it is what it is and it is where I am. Back in the homeland for a moment. Things move slowly and people like to talk a lot about not too much. Why, just this Monday, one old-timer sat beside me and pontificated on a riverside veranda whilst sipping a long-strawed bourbon and coke that perhaps folks move and talk in such a leisurely fashion down here due to the often suffocating heat index... and further suggested that would we move any faster or get to our points any sooner, stroke and heart attack victims would shortly be taxing the public welfare system.

What could I do? I'm slowing my roll. I'm not waking early and getting things done; but I'm not being unproductive. I'm enjoying my dreams, daydreams, and downtime. I'm sipping the coffee so slowly it's getting cold halfway down. Yesterday I had the best lake-swim with a very dear friend. The sun kindly took it's time and made a real show of its setting.

There are spotted dogs in a pin in the back. I leave the fan on over my bed. I can see my climbing tree through the window of my bedroom, but I can no longer see its top. I have a date with some wild horses and a friend with a convertible. The night air is vibrating with crickets and their rowdy friends. My little cousins are fast asleep and I'm thankful they'll have one more little memory with me in it.

I love a lot of people here, and I wish I could be around them more...
But, my lord, Louisiana... I can only handle this pace for a little longer, and then I gotta stretch my legs again!
Ya'll don't want my ghost hanging around, playing tricks on you anyway, do you now?