A rainy misty morning. I'm here I think. I've avoided blogging in the last few weeks because I struggle for perfection in expression. And I've been questioning every step. I've just been getting through and mourning leaving my home on the island. I was home for a week. The week added up to three canoe practices, rigging the boats and a race Saturday from Magic Island to Kewalo then out to a buoy by the windsock in front of Kaimana (by traversing the face of Waikiki) and back to Magic Island. The race was a highlight. Working out in hotels as I've traveled across and up and down Mainland America and hitting spin classes at Body and Soul during my W.Hollywood sojourns kept me in shape. The Pacific is a brilliant being. Complex, beautiful and furious. I am in love with the Pacific. I am in the university of the ocean these days, so to leave is difficult. I will be on the road for about three weeks. As I write this the sun momentarily breaks through the mist into my hotel window. Another god I am grateful for. The shiny steel L-A-X letters line up with my room.
The week has culminated in the writing of two book blurbs, a treatment for R&D for a film, daily saxophone and voice practice, catching up on business and more business, getting through the mail, sleep and more sleep and then still not enough sleep. And cooking. L. and I cooked an Easter brunch yesterday for guests including L.'s mother and my cousin Tiger and his wife Mary. The menu: sparkling cider, pesto eggs, hash browns, fondue (for L. and the mother who love fondue--the other Hawaiian and Indians don't!), scones, biscuits and hot cross buns (the buns from Liliha Bakery and some from Mary and Tiger and a coffee cake from Liliha from them,too), fruit salad with papaya, apples, apple bananas, mint, kiwi and strawberries, ice tea, water (and what fine water) and for dessert sugar-free peach cobbler for Bill and chocolate chip cookies and chocolate none of us could eat because we were too full. Also, New Mexico red chili sauce I made to put over everything.
Now what's most compelling here I can't talk about because it would cross confidences. Some things are private. I don't believe in the American way of absolute freedom to write just because we can. I refuse to cross dignity. Though I will say that Tiger told the story of a young Crow son of a friend of his who said he understood why Santa Claus didn't come to the reservation. It's because he's afraid they'll eat the reindeer. He also said he didn't understand why everyone in the movie theater cried when the deer was shot because someone got some good deer meat.
More later...and a late last night frustration rambling:
March 27, 2005 Easter evening almost midnight at LAX Radisson
Tonight I’m tired of not having a penis, tired of not wearing a commanding suit with a roll of cash or whatever it takes to get attention. Tired of late baggage. Tired of jammed crowds waiting for the same shuttle, the same flight, the same baggage.
I stand in line to check in at the Radisson. The bellman takes my bags as I stand in line--a perpetual line. It is always there in this hotel. One night it was Japanese stewardesses. Another night Thai. Tonight it’s a male couple traveling together and a Chinese woman with the slimmest hips I’ve ever seen wearing size negative zero jeans and glitter flats and her entourage checking schedules, then me. The flight was early in due to tailwinds, but the gate wasn’t open, and then the baggage handlers must have waited to check in for their work at the time the plane was due to arrive. My bag eventually makes it. When I finally reach the counter at the head of the line, the attendant takes a call from a distressed passenger who has been waiting for the famous black bus of the hotel that is always on its way but almost never arrives. The caller will not be assuaged. I tap my credit card for incidentals. What counts as incidental? Sounds like accidents. He's indifferent. Finally I’m checked in, sign the paper and just as I am being given my key the bellman excuses himself to acquire another client. Leaves my bags. He runs out to a fancy car and a fancy man. This isn’t the first time this has happened. The last time was in New York City. I feel invisible, angry. I take my bags off his cart and wheel them to the elevator. At least the key works to my room, it’s relatively clean. I’m tired…so tired I’m making myself tired by saying this. My back twinges with exhaustion. Now sleep, please.
And today, March 28, 2005 in a waning moon will practice sax (yes, in the hotel room) write a letter of recommendation, go to the workout room, repack, rethink, write down my dreams. Then head to my flight(s).
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