I Haven't Forgotten About You

Excuse my absence,

but my year has been full,

Excuse my excuses,

they are empty

like the clouds after a storm,

Hovering above the landscape

wishing they were belly laughing

and not spilling tears. 

Such a length of time has passed

wide and long as the blue space

surrounding these islands,

that I've forgotten

how eventful a year this has been.

Always busy and growing,

even in times of stillness.

All I can offer now,

is an apology

and a catch up letter

and a hope

that in this shifting world,

you will find

your space and happiness

and that no matter 

how insane each day may feel,

you continue to greet the sun

with a grateful smile,

and the moon with another.

"I was raised up believing, I was somehow unique,

like a snowflake distinct among other snowflakes

unique in each way you can see,

and now after some thinking

I'd say I'd rather be,

A functioning cog in some great machinery

Serving something beyond me."

This is for all the people who have entered and impacted my lives.  It's an overdue catch up from my end, and hopefully I can hear how all of you are doing too.

These past months especially, and throughout this year on Maui, I've put myself in the backseat and let others take precedence over me.  Overwhelmed by the beauty of this island and the goodness of most of the people here, who will wave at every local car on the road and stop for a half hour conversation even if there is somewhere else they need to be.  

And in this setting , I'm trying to learn what is important.  How happiness fits into the equation, how purpose is realized, how to spend and proportion my time.   This year has had lengths of solitude - reading and cooking and beverage mixing, and lengths of not a minute alone for days.  Always working, usually on farms or in the kitchen, and trying to camp as often as I can.  This past month, I've not had any full days off and not many minutes of relaxing time in the day light.   I'm coming off of one of the most hectic and inredible months of my life and  I haven't given it thought or attention until now.  

I've had many tests of faith, questioning myself and trusting others.  Lots of car troubles and lots of lessons.  Been missing people who come and go on this transient island and missing those who I haven't seen in awhile.  And while this whirlwind year has budded and grown and branched out like a banyan tree, I've recently felt like I haven't been taking in the full picture - my tree has given off oxygen for others, others have been weeding around me, the sun and the rain have affected my growth through too much or not enough, my branches have been pruned to make room for new ones, my root system is growing stronger.

I haven't watched any new movies, music videos, read any books or magazines or newspapers in the last 6 months.  I haven't gone to the beach in awhile, when I was going 5 days a week before, and I've gone on a lot less hikes too.  So what have I been doing, and is this a fulfilling lifestyle, is what I am beginning to question.

The first thing I examine - is what am I doing sustainable?  Am I taking all my interests and passions into account?

Yes.  This is a sustainable life to maintain and to grow.  There is food to eat from the garden and the trees on our land and all over the highway.  There is a roof over my head to stay dry and there is a small income from the work I do.

And there are many of my passions present around me, but right now I am spread out too thin so I can't focus, or choose to focus on what I want to be doing.  My standards are warped and I'll get them back soon.  The potential in the space I am in now is almost overwhelming.  There is a community of people to always hang out with on the farm and a community of people who were either born here or chose to live in Hana to talk and laugh with, a movie projector and wifi internet, a private and hot outside shower, people to play chess and backgammon with, origami paper to fold, instruments to play, paper to write on, books to learn from, red white and black sand beaches within 5 miles to soak up, winter waves to get rolled around in, one of the most beautiful and unique places in the world is the crater of the volcano I am living on, stars to gaze at laying on the sand or the grass, and a garden to play in.  I couldn't dream of a better fit.  

So what have I been doing?  What equates to all the craziness and lack of free time?

Trying to help the farm and business run smooth and rebuild with a strong foundation when 7 people have left the farm in the course of a month.  A place that generally requires 12 people to run it and we were down to 5.  And being a stand-in manager of the Clay Oven Pizza we run on Fridays and Saturdays.  And in this middle of this a 3 day trip to the crater where we saw a Lunar eclipse, a moon rainbow, hundreds of double rainbows, egyptian ratscrew games, 40 hotdogs in one night, 5 bottles of whiskey over two, and enough laughs to fill up my quota for a year.

My fridays throughout this time consisted of waking up at 6 am to bake banana bread.  Finishing at 11 am and then prepping 80-100 doughs for pizza.  Then prepping the veggies, meats, sauces, cheeses, and salad by 4 pm with the help of one or two other people.  Then 4-830 being open and baking delicious pizzas in our oven which begins its firing at noon, and then cleaning up and closing shop hopefully by 10pm.  Some weeks every day felt like that.  I am not complaining about this though.  I enjoy it.  I love everything about pizza.  It is an incredible space that Alan and Dori created by building the oven, and now it has evolved into a space with dry places to eat, 10 picnic tables, a firepit that usually has people playing guitar and drums around when it gets dark, tiki torches and oil lanterns for lighting at night, breadsticks and calzones have entered the menu, and besides more advertising and lighting, I'm excited to see what will evolve next.  Maybe a pizza and a movie night with the new projector.  We were told by these shrewed tourists from Oregon that they "wish us to never be in any of the guidebooks," and they understood what this space was created for.

Being so busy it is easy to overlook something falling out of your life and it being replaced with something else or nothing.  My computer stopped working 6 weeks ago and I've given it no notice.  So is it important to me?  Does its presence stimulate another aspect of my life that I'm missing?  I had a girl for a little while, and when she was there no longer, it was difficult for some time, then it moved on.  I don't want people and feelings to fall out of my life.  I don't want to get too caught up that the term "old friends" or "from back in the day" emerges.   So here I am, trying to reach out, knowing that not everything in this world lasts, and trying to treasure what is here in my presence and what is out there, out of presence, but not out of reach.

I see now I have been writing all over the place, but forgive me, I am out of practice.  I am going to try to check in monthly.  January 12th to February 2nd I am going to Northern California.  If you are around during those dates I would love to see you, whoever you are.  This is the longest period of not boarding a plane for me in 5 years.  I got my hair trimmed for the first time in 3 and half years.  I'm ready for change, ready to committ to myself to be more present for you and for me.

So I end this with what someone just ended their conversation on the phone with me.  A man who I've only met a handful of times and he says, "Have a lovely day and thank you for your friendship."

Aloha.

All Pursuits Worthwhile: Persistance?

Daily drive and motivation. I lost it. In the war. Against myself.

I haven't written a lick. Haven't strummed a guitar. Haven't even written a full sentence with my hands and ink, let alone given my John Handcock. Haven't touched dirt with gardening intentions, or even swam for more than 5 minutes in the torquoise sea.

I've collected some money to my name and the last however many weeks have passed. That's all they've done. Commuted from some date in July to today. A one-way non-refundable train ride without windows. The seat wasn't paticularly comfortable either, but at least there was some good literature to accompany the indeterminable passage of time.

So is it fair for me to write Persistance as a worthwhile pursuit? Hence the question mark.

A challenge, to myself, to persist. But I struggle writing this. I'd much prefer picking up my Murakami novel and flying through it like I did the last one. Getting lost in his digressions and metaphors, slipping with his characters into the dark and mystical undercurrents hiding below the surface of an ordinary existence. Or watching another Paul Newman movie, where he was young and honorably stubborn, often making a fool of himself, until the end, where he becomes both the hero and the butt of the joke, usually dying.

This post isn't for you, it's for me. And I don't understand why I should publish it. Maybe that is my mode of choosing to persist. If I left it with my countless other word documents, it would remain there, occasionally finding it's way out of the cyber cave when I reopen it months or years later in a reflective mood.

I've been living pretty fully in the present, but not doing much. Zen like? Maybe. Productive? Hell no. With purpose? Doubtful.

What have I discovered? Only what I've known. But a hypothesis remain just that until tested. I've quit my day job, which has turned into a night job. Slaving in front of a 800+ degree oven 6 nights a week, with a few doubles tossed here and there, I'm getting a little burnt out on it, har har.

One Dance

The kiave wood burns to coals,
smoke escapes into the caverns
of our all-to visceral lives
The straw hut compacts the flame
twisting it naturally
into its formless shape
Like our minds,
one door to enter and exit
we balance passion, warmth, exhaustion
And with sweaty hands
we blur comprehension
while gaining clarity
in the red glowing center
One birth, one dance, one death
it is time we stoked the fire once more

This is the end, my only friend, the end.  Thank you for your wisdom  Jim.  5 more nights left in front of that oven. But I'll perservere and await the end only to start over again.

Then a proper week of vacation since... last September? Oh yeah, the family is visiting too.  And afterwards I'm going back to the farm and moving to Hana!  Hana farms! Hopefully will be doing some work in Kipahulu back at my old job here and there, helping run the wood-fire pizza oven on Friday and Saturday nights, baking banana bread and doing some gardening and landscaping on the property too. If this isn't the answer to me feeling more like my previously happier self, then maybe a jewish boy from new york wasn't meant to spend the rest of his 22nd year on Maui.

Well, Time will tell. And Time will conceal.

Off to watch some Westerns and read some more Murakami,

Matthew

Worthwhile: Pursuit of the Inevitable

This man and his burden passed on forever out of that nameless crossroads and the woman stepped once more into the street and the children followed and all continued on to their appointed places which as some believe were chosen long ago even to the beginning of the world.
- Cormac McCarthy


Here before us, is a post that was always meant to be. Brought to you by the creators of the pyramids, Stonehenge, Einstein, George Washington and Genghis Khan. It was meant to be written, and most likely poorly edited, by yours truly, and be read by none other than your very excellent self.

Call it forging destiny or flowing with the current, you choose your words and I'll choose mine, and the universe will allow both to pass under its elastic conscience.

Influenced heavily by the completion of Cormac McCarthy's 'Border Trilogy' no doubt, but also by Kung Fu Panda 2, and everday life, the island culture, the American culture, the Australian outback. An english gal once told me we all share the same sky, which I am not going to argue, and though we too gape at the same moon, the history of our cultures and the landscapes we breathe turn us all onto very different paths.

What we share though, is we all face the inevitable every day. It could be the sun setting, a changing of mind, a settling into a routine, or the end of a phase, a story, a life. We can glimpse beyond this into a world of transience and dreams, but this too ends.

So I propose another worthwhile pursuit, the pursuit of the inevitable. Not to turn your head, not to even necessarily give it your best, but to at least pay your respect and allow a bit of thought of the inevitable to enter into your mind. The mexicans do, as they celebrate the Day of the Dead and have a feast and invite death to their table, preparing a hefty meal because death has one big appetite. The ancient Greeks had, as Socrates proposes "The unexamined life is not worth living."

I've done some thinking lately, more aligned with not distancing myself from the reality of history. That not so long ago, things were entirely different than they are now, and they will continue to rapidly change soon, in America especially, but the whole world too. I've recently lost myself in my phases and my goals and my desires. As each one changes in a conflicting manner, I confuse myself with the question of where to next. Should I acknowledge an accomplishment that I set out to do and achieved though it wasn't what I really wanted? Should I now undertake other goals that I once desired and don't as much now, growing more hesitant with my changing self? Should I relentlessly pursue each new task to justify the title of my blog? Should I sometimes be a driver and others a passenger in pursuit of the inevitable, drawing upon a balance of taking the wheel and enjoying the ride?

I must accept that though I strive to always walk forward, I can not deny I may have slipped and taken a backwards step. I still hope to look up, though the future can be out of focus when you cannot afford a lens. But if you just pursue the lens, then you miss the next step, stumble, and break your camera. Now all you've got is your hands, body, eyes, people around you, clouds, mountains, laughter, running water, sweeping winds and the changing of the seasons. The inevitability of the these is not perhaps the ending, but the beginning or rather the continuance of this existence.

Wishing you luck on your journey, hoping as each day passes we don't blink and miss it.

Future worthwhile pursuits:

Sustainability, Art, Laughter, Music, Exercise, Not quitting your day job, Quitting your day job.

The Way of the Future

I did it. I became a baker at Flatbread Company.

My mission, should I choose to accept it - fire maintenance and flatbread perfection, golden bottoms and golden brown crusts with a slight crispiness to the edges. A thorough evenness of bake through the crust, sauce, cheese and toppings.

I've wanted to become a baker for awhile and I smile now that I have. I smile for the accomplishment (I wrote down in March that I wanted to acquire this specific position), but more so because I can apply past skills that have been tucked away like childhood clothes in the recesses of my memory.
The more obvious skills I draw upon range from building a fire in my camping experiences to baking fresh hearty loaves of bread and knowing when to take them out of the oven by feel, smell and science. And the less obvious skills range from playing lacrosse goalie to drawing mazes and playing video games.

The way the baker maneuvers the peel from the assembly station into the oven, all the while servers, hostesses and guests walk by, fitting up to 10 flatbreads at a time in the large and tightly packed oven, requires a deftness of hand and concentration. The oven on a busy night will average between 800 and 1000 degrees fareinheit. The "pressure" to rotate each flatbread with the right timing to get an even bake while not losing track of the others, all while weilding and spinning the peel brings me back to playing lacrosse. I envision the motion of saving a ball aimed for the lower left corner of the goal, and I would swing the head of my goalie stick perched above my right shoulder across my body, lifting my left hand towards the sky and the right hand attacking the projection of the ball. There is a cause and effect too, to the timing of the flatbreads and spinning them not too early and not too late depending on the temperature of the oven to attain the perfect bake, or make the save.

Sliding the flatbreads around to the hotspots and rotating the ones in the back to the front is very videogame like. I have a feeling I'm going to be playing this level for a while until I master it. Not to mention I'm sweating from the heat of the oven and trying not to singe my eyelashes and forearms. The oven and open kitchen are in full view of the guests so they can watch their doughs being stretched, pizzas being assembled and then baked for 6-8 minutes.

I very much enjoy the marriage of science and intuition with baking. The fire maintenance is the most important aspect of the job, and if the airflow is good, and the log cabin is strong, it is easier to maintain and pile new wood on top in twos as the base burns to hot coals and ashes. If the fire is just right, the bottoms and tops will cook evenly and beautifully throughout the night. There is a sixth sense to knowing the oven, and that can be tapped into when you get into the rhythm of the baking. When you know the one and two spot can be taken out, the three can be turned and the four can be rotated for another 25 seconds before done. I've only baked a handful of times, but finding this rhythm is what allowed me to succeed in this first week. Just as in assembly that extra pepperoni can make the flatbread, so can those extra 15 seconds of leaving it in the oven.

I've written down some other possible futures that I'd like to manifest, and with the confidence in myself and the magic of this island, I believe I'll be able to achieve the goals I wish to. An alaskan fishing boat, a trip to europe, buying land on the mainland and building on it. This writing acts like planting seeds. If the conditions and the season is right, these ideas will germinate and when they form their first leaves, I will wake up and see and feel their tangible presence right in front of me. Another reason to be patient with Mother Time.

Waking up and spending a few hours in the garden or going for a walk/jog on the beach, sweating in front of the oven and eating natural foods from the health food/grocery store have given life a nice boost lately. Taking the time to cook my meals again at home and not just mix together fruit and granola is making me more aware and I can get myself going, but when things externally are clicking, it sure helps me figure things out. I've been in and out of myself the last six months, distracted by decisions, economy, and that which isn't very relevant to myself or the present. I've been in dazes and have misplaced my sense of self in the mix of solitude, broken down cars, helplessness, women, and society. I don't want to say I handled this time period wrongly, but I've learned and grew and find myself here, now. And as a baker at flatbread and par-time farmer, with enough money to pay for rent and good eataing for the time being on Maui, and a trip to Alaska planned in the next year, I've sorted through this clutter that is essential to life and hope to continue on in a positive path. I haven't learned many lessons as important as to trust in yourself. Trust who you are and who you will become.

And trust that the carne and veggie specials this week were mouth-watering delicious.

Carne Special:
Mediterranean marinated chicken, artichoke hearts and diced tomatoes base. Mozzarella and feta cheese melted above, with red onions and pepperoncini garnishing the top with flavor and color. Parmesan cheese and herbs sprinkled.

Veggie Special:
Rosemary cream sauce with spinach and potatoes. Mozzarella, gruyere and roasted garlic. Parmesan cheese and herbs sprinkled on top.

And at home I cooked grass-fed local beef in coconut oil with rosemary, spike, garlic and tobasco sauce. And added that to a stir-fry of onions, tomatoes, zucchini, okinawa spinach and Moloka'i purple sweet potatoes.

Going to get back into baking breads soon, and the more time I spend in the garden the better I feel. I found out recently that Aina is not literally translated to 'land,' but instead, 'that which feeds us.' I'm happy to work in a restaurant that harvests local organic ingredients, both vegetables and meats and uses kiave wood, a sustainable resource, to cook our food instead of gas or electric burners. The way of the future.

- Matthew

Like a Complete Unknown, Like a Rolling Dice.

Life should not be forced. If you're dealt a good hand, you run with it take your chances get caught up make mistakes and do it all over again. If you're dealt a poor hand, you don't discard everything, you play with what you've got. There is strategy, and behind those doors lies a dreaming giant. Some dub this giant fate.

It is 5:30 am and the birds share their liveliest conversation in the humid pink purple morning sky. I listen. Because what else is there to do at 5:30 am? We find ourselves in such a hurry to be productive and measure our productivity in a tangible form. As I've stated before on wealth, listening is building, and lightening your attachments is flying.

That is the setting, and here is the subject. Backgammon. A game I played briefly in my single digit years has recently been brought back into my life on my return trips to Hana. I've been playing on a 30+ year old game, and learning not just the rules again and how to win, but how to properly play the game. I've learned the ettiquette, the betting, and have considered how the universe unfolds similar to a game of backgammon, with a combination of both strategy and fate. Doing what you can and acknowledging what is out of your control. This is easier to recognize when playing backgammon in the jungle in between papaya and coconut trees, where the rainfall is so immense that nature provides food with no human touch necessary except broadcasting some seeds, or in this case, rolling the dice.

Backgammon has been studied by computer scientists and in the adjacent room, a priest and a rabbi duel it out. From ancient mesopotamia to the elizabethan era to 20th century new york city, we play.

Life should not be forced. I've relearned the game and have found new players, new strategies, met people who learned to play in Iran, Israel and Mexico. And now, moved into my new house in Paia, I discover the landlord also has a 30+ year old set. It is my belief that when the frequency you are exposed to of something rises, it is not an accident. So I write.

Like chess, there are many openings and strategies, more aggressive and defensive strategies, and the more you play, the more apparent they become.  But no matter the experience you have playing this game, if you roll the dice well, get doubles and 5-3 and 6-4 or 3-2 just when you need them, you can be at a major advantage.  I was playing for money, low stakes, and was neck and neck with my opponent.  He had a one roll advantage over me and we were matching each other, each not missing an opportunity to take our pieces out.  Because he was one roll ahead, it appeared he was going to win with his two remaining pieces sitting on the white triangle, two away from the exit.  The only possible combination of dice he could roll to not win was a 1-2, a 1 out of 36 chance, or less than 3%, and that was the precise combination which showed up.  Was that fate's gentle nudge, the backgammon gods sweet vengeance, good karma, or a guardian angel smiling?  These are not times to gloat, just to accept and smile because it could very well have happened the other way around.

All games, not just the oldest two player board game, "one dark, one light," add a balance to your life. It may assist you in shedding a layer, adding a new one, or just put the rest of your day into perspective. To conclude, a quote from a book called "The Passion" and keeping with the theme All Pursuits Worthwhile,

You play, you win, you play you lose. You play.

Searching for Inspiration, the Train and the Station

How does an individual become inspired to begin something new? I've found myself stuck, unable to write, unable to create new actions or break habits I wanted to get out of. There are external reasons that attracted me towards this lull, but nothing too strong that I would not be able to combat this internally if I were with a stronger self, one I know I'm capable of becoming. It begins with simple steps, and you'll now witness me examine writing as a way to begin something new.

I had this thought in my head and now I want to transcribe it onto the page. The thought was simple - This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. This repeated itself and I wanted to meditate further on it. This place that I return to each night that I call home is peaceful. It is quiet. The ocean is immense. The wind is consistent. The sun always sets. There is a light rain which makes its way northwest. The hills behind and to the side are green and vast. They shift the wind around the mountain.

The idea of home intrigues me and leads me to questions. When does a new place become or feel like home? Or is home where you sleep at night steadily? Why is a bum considered homeless if he sleeps under the same bridge each night? Is home a roof and walls? Is it a return trip back to one's own country? Is it on a warm beach under the stars or in the deep thick woods or on top of a snowy summit?  I don't know these answers, but I have feelings of certainty about some aspects of what Home is, or part of what Home is to me.

But what if home is imaginary, false, idol worship. Is home only where we are born? Does it not exist without familiarity? Is a dancing pink purple and orange sky only meant for those born under those colors? Does home haunt those who lose it, and can it be truly lost, or instead temporarily misplaced? Is home a desire or is it innate? A want or a need, can it be wholly neglected?

What I think is most important is home is whatever it means to you and that it is better to be thought of positively for health and peace of mind.

Home is

A curving wind brings us a tale
of a breeze that pushed one towards the edge
and a mouse that crawled through it

Under this hole we lift a canvas
spread like unraveled yarn across the sky
depicting a heart at its core

with curved blankets guarding its secular soul
belonging to the blind infant
free to see what matters

While a wild breeze beckons the gopher
to fly towards the sky from the fertile earth
to fill an unused unnurtured potential

The universe awaits us halfway
Hungry is the wolf after months without prety
Hungry is the lion when the gazzelles migrate
Thirsty is the bedouine when the well dries up
Forthright is the soul when destiny awaits
Passionate is the heart who wields the body
Home is where man lives with the land


A writer is meant to speak their thoughts onto the page, uninterrupted, unedited. To write the mind and the welfare of society and the state of the human race. To write of immigrants and nationalists and abandoned youths and wars and enslavement. He is supposed to write what he sees and how he feels about it, unconcerned with everything else. A writer must write and architect must design, and a man must pursue his dreams. And when his dreams are unknown, he must pursue life with faith, or else he will cease. Something must keep him ticking. He thinks too much about Time. Not just now, but the past and the future and how they operate. He does this more when he is alone, but he does it too, when he is around people and animals. He connects with animals as they understand much and care too. He is happier when he cares. He is scared to disappoint so he lets himself appear a mystery to most, even himself.

The Writer
he marvels at the human race
its childlike war influenced comic book imagination
and its conviction
to kill a fellow man and plant a garden
to swim alongside a dolphin
and fly through the mountains in a 747
to hunt meat and prepare it for a family
and then argue about the mundane
to sleep or not sleep for days straight
and more than anything
he marvels at the races ability
to love
and to not love

Quick update of my life:
Moving to walking distance from a town with a population over 1000 for the first time in a few years, will hopefully be able to write about this change, as I find myself more alive and inspired to write when in the state of transition. Reread Kafka on the Shore by Murakami and read All the Pretty Horses by McCarthy for the first time. I'd like to be recommended a living American author who writes better than Cormac McCarthy. Relieved to have sold my Subaru and might be buying a truck soon. Working at Flatbread still and am excited that I'm training to bake this week. Sierra Nevada's Bigfoot Ale and a ginger beer mixed with 10 Cane Rum are both very delicious. So was the Carne special last week, Bleu Cheese cream sauce with bacon, tomatoes, spinach and mushrooms. Am finding myself closer to commiting to spend summer 2012 in Alaska on a fishing boat (unlikely to be crab). Stoked to have an oven at my new place and will be getting back into baking, bagels and challahs and cinnamon raisin breads here I come. Still on the lookout for mainland job opportunities in Oregon/New Mexico/Colorado. Until then, getting back into the aloha spirit that I misplaced for a minute. Congratulations to my friends who just graduated and I wish you all luck on your journey which begins now.

Summertime, and the livin' is.

- Matthew


And an excerpt from All The Pretty Horses on "fate"My father had a great sense of the connectedness of things. I'm not sure I share it. He claimed that the responsibilty for a decision could never be abandoned to a blind agency but could only be relegated to human decisions more and more remote from their consequences. The example he gave was of a tossed coin that was at one time a slug in a mint and of the coiner who took that slug from the tray and placed it in the die in one of two ways and from whose act all followed, cara y cruz. No matter through whatever turnings nor how many of them. Till our turn comes at last and our turn passes.

She smiled. Thinly. Briefly.

(A few pages later)

It's not so much that I dont believe in it. I dont subscribe it its nomination. If fate is the law then is it also subject to that law? At some point we cannot escape naming responsibility. It's in our nature. Sometimes I think we are all like that myopic coiner at his press, taking the blind slugs one by one from the tray, all of us bent so jealously at our work, determined that not even chaos be outside of our making.

Worthwhile Pursuit: Reading (there are millions of suns left)

Not much beats sitting down outside with a book on my lap, the sun on my bare back, and a cold beverage to sip on, taking in the wind, the smell of the salty breeze and the words and thoughts of a dead genius retelling his or her tale.  Reading has become my daily meditation.  I'm in the middle of All the Pretty Horses and The Poisonwood Bible.  Just finished The Glass Bead Game, Norweigian Wood, Jitterbug Perfume, and Leaves of Grass.  I work 50+ hour weeks and these authors have provided my balance.

I'd be a different man without books, without non-fictional and fictional accounts of lives somewhat different and acutely similar to our own. Whether they are set in the future (which might now be the past [1984]), or if they document or satire a time in history, they are all relevant because they reflect the human mind and our constant struggle with our atmosphere. Sometimes the environment consists of its fellow man or fellow animals, others with society, and often it is concerned with seeking its place in this universe.

There is no such book without conflict. Every character, just as every human in this world, is searching. And as these characters struggle, we identify their problems and relate them to our own and we learn. We may not find answers, but we find lessons and stimulation that help nurture our growth.

I don't read self-help books since there is little left to imagination and the authors are generally too confident and self-assured in their approach to writing, therefore not always accepting different approaches and interpretations to their work. I prefer poetry, fiction, magical realism, historical fiction, speculative fiction, science fiction, autobiography, biography, and some non-fiction. I like writing that is interactive and requires more than brief attention from the reader. Just as a good movie should provoke more thought when the screen fades to black and the end credits start to scroll.

I present a list here of some of my favorite writers, a quote from them, and their significance in my life.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.”
I read 100 Years of Solitude when I came to Maui and related the magical realism aspect of life to the island I was living on. He writes the world around him, which may read like fiction to someone from another land, but reality to his. I read the first chapter four times before I continued on to the rest of the novel. His writing style and content opened a world of possibility to me. It exposed to me the sadness that pervades into the lives of old resigned men, and the extraordinary strength that the human mind possesses to impact a seemingly obstinate world. Inventions, Magic, Inevitability. He has great short stories and also reflections on writing. He shares with Bukowski the feeling that if the writing is not pouring out of you, it is not worth forcing the words onto the page.

Ernest Hemingway
"All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”
Blunt honest sentences fill each line of every one of Hemingway's stories. He became unofficial spokesperson of the ex-patriate writers and artists in Paris and filled many pages with his worldly adventures. I respect that he wrote whenever he found time to, in between the wars he fought in, drinking, the big game hunting in Africa, sailing in between small islands of Central America, drinking, watching the bull fighting in Spain, fishing, and more drinking. His books are filled with emotions and often difficult to read because he doesn't skirt around the emotional truths of a messed up world. The arm-wrestling episode in The Old Man and the Sea and the short story A Clean and Well-Lighted Place reflect all the emotions a reader can feel from passion to helplessness and they are written in such a simple form.

Franz Kafka
"Perhaps they are nightbirds, perhaps the first one is armed."
Here is an outline of a Kafka story in a nutshell. A man living an ordinary life wakes up one day and something extraordinary happens to him (he wakes up as a bug, is sentenced to death for a crime he didn't committ). This result is his universe unfolds into a series of unexpected, unfortuitous events and he must react in uncomfortable ways and often not find any resolution within the place or himself. This is an exaggerated aspect of life that doesn't confront us daily, but when something unusual breaches our routine existence, people tend to disregard or ignore such occurence, and Kafka believes these moments are what define us as a race. His writing challenges the reader, not just to think about what if it were me, but emotionally challenges the reader to finish a story that can be very far removed from their own reality.

Jack Kerouac
"The first sip is joy, the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy."
On the Road changed Bob Dylan's life, along with every other American whose read it. He helped start a movement, The Beats. He did this through pouring out his soul onto the page. Each finger beating on the typewriter, each suffering breath he inhaled, each endless sentence describing exactly how he felt in his soul and what he saw was translated onto the page. He found a freedom to live exactly how he pleased. Reading Jack is a release, a breath of fresh air, to share his view of the world. His poetry, Town and the City, The Subterraneans, everything he put down on the page, every word he spoke in an interview, every drunken syllable uttered is coming from a man who lived for the journey and not the destination.

Ken Kesey
"I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph."
Many words can be said and shared about Ken Kesey as with Kerouac. He came a decade later, influenced by Kerouac, but also taking consciousness to a different level through a more direct drug influence and he became more political and extravagant. His road trips and Kool-Aid Acid tests interest me, Tom Wolfe's book is incredible, but his novel Sometimes A Great Notion stands out as his greatest contribution to this world in my mind. The characters and themes and landscape and writing are all so extraordinarily larger than life that the owner of the mind who conceived this epic must too belong to a man also larger than life. He writes of man and his conflict with nature, love, society, America and destiny, and does so in beautiful and manic prose. The reader is able to identify six different voices in the same paragraph of characters' dialogue or thought processes or song lyrics on a radio station without actually pointing out who is saying what, through his succintness in style and voice. The novel is an epic, and the author is a hero.

JD Salinger
"I never saw such a bunch of apple-eaters."
Catcher in the Rye is great, but I'd rather read the Glass Family. A fictional family filled with seven precocious genius children that became more of a reality to the author than the world he withdrew from. For Esme - With Love and Squalor and Teddy are two incredible short stories that exhibit his range as a writer and his progression and knowledge of eastern thought.

And here is an excerpt from Walt Whitman's poem Song of Myself, an inspiration to a few of the above authors, and myself.

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the
earth much?
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Each of these authors is a personal hero of mine. They all had their struggles, their transcendence and their zen. Both the words they wrote and lives they lived inspire me to swim in the waters I am in now. I could write pages on each, but wanted to dedicate at least one post to them as a whole. This is part 1. Hermann Hesse, Haruki Murakami, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan, Kurt Vonnegut, Alan Moore, Jeanette Winterson to come.

(apologies for my uninspired writing on the last few posts, I wanted to keep updating and am trying to discipline myself with deadlines, which is what kept Hunter S Thompson sane, but the quality is in this case compromised.)

Reading Someone Else's Thoughts is like Rolling the Dice

Kerouac:

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

Kessler:

I woke up in the middle of the night and went outside to pee. I was only wearing underwear and expected it to be cold. As a child I always associated the night with a chill. I would rest in my bed and stay indoors where it was comfortable and safe and quiet, sheltered from true and natural things in this world. Oblivious to the patterned chaos that unfolded while I dreamed.

Now as I aimlessly pee on the open lawn, hearing the waves against the cliff like an endless orchestra and the nocturnal animals sharing secrets in thick grass, I stand corrected that a night in May on Maui's North Shore is not cold. And I realize now, the same goes for most nights besides ones spent outside in winter, at high altitudes, or in regions far from the equator.

The night is comfortable. The wind is strong. The moon is two days from full. The brandy, by now, is swirling around my belly and I did not drink enough to make my head pound.

As I sit down outside, I wonder what else has changed, though some is the world spinning, it is more myself growing. We are raised on ideas and principles of the previous generation. We are influenced by our peers, our landscape, our family, our teachers. We are meant to believe that some cultures are better at developing certain qualities in a person. An American child born in the twenties is different than an Italian born in the twenties. Just as a Japanese child is born in the thirties is different than a Japanese child born in the fifties. Our human and physical landscape define us. And there is no escaping that.

I've tried to discern how I truly feel about a person or a place by traveling and attaining multiple perspectives. I've talked and been engaged with people on many different walks of life. I've done a lot of listening and some growing and some shrinking and teased myself with understanding, but that just leads to more questions.

I can go outside now, and feel the night is not cold. Has it always been this way?

Fragranced Fragments

Poem / Short Story Beginning / Moments

Tilted Sky Edges the Marble


Yesterday changed
when today's sun grew tall.
The waves grew and the sun shone
brilliantly.
When the tide creeped onto low lawns
and the air tasted of yellow daffodils,
she smiled strongly
against the sun.
Lips awaiting a bright wet sky
and the air, too, tasted
of her Earth.

How easy it is
to get caught in a web
that is spun by every soul
except your own.

Tomorrow awaits,
patiently
she carries time

we all do.

**

North Brook
A cold blue flame slips
into the jagged crack
of the Johnson's roof.
As the stalking mouse
scorches his hairless underside,
the stalking bird sings.
Below the Johnsons had been
stoking the firepit for hours,
cooking beans and pork
for the fourth straight meal,
totalling eight meals now,
since the blackout struck.
Forces higher than the
white suits and black ties
compelled this phenomenom
to enter the lives of the
underpopulated, and once
quarantined town of North Brook.
Stu Johnson claimed he saw it.
Claimed he saw the lightning
strike not twice, but three times
'Hitting that same goddamn
tree that those kids had been
climbing and throwin rocks at
for the last thirty years.'
No one believed him at first.
But when they saw the tree,

it was hard to deny that lightning
had in fact struck it, not once,
not twice, but three goddamn times.
Stu was a bit of an eccentric,
having left the town and returned
two years later with different
hats and attitudes than before.
But he was raised in North Brook,
and so was his Daddy, and that
made him a part of the tradition.
Imagine a town that puts on a
Renaissance fair once a year
for three days and the character
that embodies the people who
put on the show and not just visit.
This is what North Brook is like
year round, minus the Renaissance
theme and the tourists. It's North Brook.
Where children are respectful
and therefore respected, where
order evolves with circumstance,
but certain issues, like a crime,
or falling a tree in between roofs
with two inches of give on each side,
are done with such an exactness
that error isn't even considered.
The town is surrounded by
great tall, thin needle like mountains,
and two parallel rivers border the town
like poisonous, domesticated snakes.
All the food is harvested in and between
these rivers, East Brook and West Brook,
and the social order of the town
is indicitive of who provides the most food.
Since the town was built on a slope
and the best views are seen at
higher elevations, one can recognize
the power by whose house is built
on higher grounds. It is said that
at the very top of the hill overlooking
the whole town, lives a Shaman inside
the hollow of a tree for the last 130 years.
His spirit is said to protect North Brook.
Assuming the Shaman isn't just a myth,
he'd be the only fellow alive
to have witnessed the quarantine back in the twenties.
Few souls have glimpsed this Shaman
but many children have claimed to.
One child went so far as to claiming
he spent the night in the hollow drinking a leafy tea mixture
and dreamt time behaving backwards.
It was his dwelling, this tree, that
was struck by ligthning three
god damn times, and when Stu
Johnson saw this, he didn't tell
people what he heard, because
the lightning alone was enough for
people to think he was spreading lies.
He heard a sound. It escaped
the tree like a soul leaving its
flesh, and though it was muffled,
slightly indistinct, Stu was fairly
certain he heard the Shaman.
And he heard him say,
I will return in Nine Days.
With light for Nine Years

**

Of the moments:
Movie:
Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Watching soon:
The Untouchables / Kagemusha / Greenberg
Reading:
Norweigan Wood by Haruki Murakami
Reading soon:
Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer
Tastiest food I've cooked at home in awhile:
Spicy coconut curry with avocado tomato carrot pumpkin onion.Tastiest pizza I've made at Flatbread
this week's carne special: The Bacon Cheeseburger
Red sauce, mozzarella and cheddar, ground beef, bacon, tomatoes, red onion, parmesan and herbs.
Topped with lettuce and pickles, ketchup and mustard.
Tropical Fruit:
Jamaican Liloquoi
Song:
Helplessness Blues
Goal for the week:
Stimulate the routine of everyday life.

A Tilted Sky Edges the Marble

May the Fourth Be With You

I have found myself more affected recently by everything and everyone I am exposed to.  I suppose that is true all the time, with each breath being consequential and each action affecting someone or something in this everconnected machinery we call the universe.  But under certain circumstances such as depression, heartbreak, first love, new moon, full moon, finanical crisis, financial breakthrough, mind-altering substances, pleasant dreams, trippy dreams, nightmares, recent death, existential crisis, first snow, rebirth, etc. we might just see this world, hear it smell it and breathe it in through a new set of eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.  I've gone through a couple of these circumstances lately and had my fair share of good luck and bad luck.  What it may or may not come down to, is timing.  I believe in luck and I believe in fate.  I also may not trust either when they turn on me.

One of the things I've found myself more affected by are books.  I've been reading short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Kurt Vonnegut and I too am finding myself in less than usual circumstances and honestly, I am trying to escape these.  I'm sick of having car trouble, and I could use a couple more changes in my life.  I have been writing my blogposts when in a positive state, not when vulnerable, because I would rather expose that side of myself to this world, but reading these authors, I realize that isn't realistic.  Stories require conflict, pain and misery to keep you entertained.  It is refreshing to read some positive thoughts after watching the news, but we can't always neglect the harsh realities that enter this world like an unwanted trick-or-treater on November 1st when you are fresh out of candy.

Now I will share with you some poems that I wrote 2 years ago or now that are without a happy ending, either cynical or ambiguous.

In Darkness

dust falls like rain
under my bedside lamp.
i shiver
when I think
even my blankets cannot protect me.
my mind slips
into the senseless
into what my body cannot fit through nor find.
the world is large
and though
I am small
I cannot hide.
the darkness I inhabit
has no shape
no quality
no end.
in darkness
i am safe
when i cannot see your face.

Organic Food for Thought
　
what is contrived and
what is natural
in regards to unknowns
such as
a collective environmental conscious?　
the trees shrug aside their　
determined lives
precipitation has accepted its
tedious fate
even the wind sways without
a purpose
minutes and hours and days　
and months and years elapse
the ocean awaits a green wind to
concoct a tsunami or (as the antagonist
markets it)
'a natural disaster'　
I reckon when it pummels the shore
it is environmental bliss and　
at the same time　
karma at its finest
　

A Marred Figure

how does one distinguish
good from evil
in the midst of mayhem?

a shadow wishes its master would
sporadically purify himself in water
(for a fleeting abscond)
in return for a lifetime of compliance

the grass contends a drought
each passing day, with zero say
and even less to do
civilians become prisoners of war

lonely children break ancestral lines
billions die over a faulty idea
of an omniscient being
I am confusion personified

true colors

white bird at dusk homeward bound glowing blue
silver tips peircing the snow capped summits
faded into the sky etched into the eternal horizon
glowing orange now she floats onto a gray rock
will i or this rock shatter this sky into white lights
faded into the sky etched into the eternal horizon
she wonders how many hours must one fly
until they too find their true colors and are forever
faded into the sky etched into the eternal horizon

Hypocritically, I am ending on a positive.  I got a job at Flatbread Company as a pizza assembler and my first real job in a commerical kitchen.  Baking in farm kitchens in Hana and Israel were great experiences, but this one is full on.  I'm fully trained and now have a week under my belt, including a hectic stressful day, so I'm learning the inevitable of the kitchen.  Like the woodfire oven that cooks all our food, I'm stoked.  More to come on this front.  Also starting a long short story, maybe a teaser in the next post.

Aloha,
Matthew K.
 

Let's Talk About Wealth Baby, Let's Talk about You and Me

This post will traverse pleasantly as a butterfly will skip from one leaf to another in unforseeable directions at fluctuating speeds.

Just had an intense three weeks of lessons on Maui. I am not through them, but I have progressed in my residency here, both fixing and maintaining my Subaru into running smoothly, working three to five par-time jobs, and moved into my cabin on the water in Haiku (my view is of the north coast's expansive powerful ocean, a castle, and air so fresh you can see the world as it was intended to be seen). I discovered you need to be in tune when in transition to help sift through the new debris which approaches like a meteor shower without end until you calm your mind.

Best to calm your mind when you're feeling too hectic and to take a step back and consider the world outside yourself and not only your current circumstance. You can do it through rationality (everything physical in this world has an end), positivity (good things come to those who wait with honest patience), proactively (trusting yourself to make the change) or instinctively (living through practice, evolving with the environment and letting it show you the answer). Meditation can achieve all this too, but that's a discipline and art one can not penetrate unless fully commited to it.

During my three week absentee from the blog the theme or topic of what I have chosen to write about today, Wealth, has been on my mind. A relevant subject given the deterioriation of the American Dollar since the turn of the century, plus the state of the world at large today in terms of Japan and what is might emerge as a universally recognized new currency. With peak energy crisises where natural resources are shifting towards depletion, we might consider more thoroughly examing what wealth is, what makes a man wealthy and how we might choose to redefine it.

Some people theorize that the debt is going to continue to grow and the excessive spending is actually an attempt to crash the economy back to zero credit (not too far off Mr. Pahulniuk) where everyone will be registered into a computer electronically (and how about that Mr. Paranoia K. Dick). This leads many to exchanging there money for various objects (the ones that some ironically call priceless). Gold and Silver have gone up tremendeously in the past 11 years and those who invested then are surely wealthy now, right? Well in a dog-eat-dog Pirate world where we bleed for our flag treasure is both precious and concurrently very dangerous to own. Then there is land, which if you own, you're safe, just like the Native Americans. All our possessions we will soon value far greater than paper. I imagine the bartering system reemerging in full and market places to trade your extra squash harvest for a kidney are in order. And then there is ohana, family. And sharing food and beauty from the aina, land, with all of its dwellers. A less vindictive, agenda-oriented wealth that I'm going to zone in on.

Goodness Through Chaos

living-now-echoes of a self-sufficient-future
highways silent underground grinners grin
politics are hula hooping for the big black hat
workers grinding hands into Ms. Stubborn Earth
spoiled by the sand sprouting Israelites
she deserted her trees for some goddamn quiet
neglecting sweetness from the vine-ripened fruit
her inside out umbrella beckons the horny bee
who ages and circles hummin' time aint a crime

 So what is wealth? For me it is not measured in possessions and size, but rather internally. Is it knowledge, experience, intelligence? Good health, happy family, a trophy collection? Is it a roof, a newborn, a garden? Passion, love, balance? A series of happy memories to reflect on. I believe each culture and land perceive this differently and create separate truths, though I also think universally we share an idea or two, though often reluctant to admit it when you are at war.

Wealth isn't measured in volume, but in the quality of the sound.  Creating and adding your own imprint on this world through interaction, action, or reaction is another measure.  It is helping your neighbors in the midst of a storm remove their fences so their animals won't drown from a flash flood, it is seeing a monk seal give birth, teaching the next generation how to do more good than harm to this world, and wearing a genuine smile and laughing away a shitty day. Wealth is planting a seed and nurturing it until it starts to produce its own new seeds.

So right now, I may not be rich, and I can say that during the course of the last three years I've had to work hard to live the lifestyle that I desired to live and there were many times where I'd have preferred to have waken up in a different time zone, but I don't wish I spent a single day different, since it brought me here.


What am I doing to acquire wealth now? On the surface I'm living in Hawai'i and now rent/do work trade for my own place that for the first time in a while isn't communal living. I do my work trade by planting food and am going to help build/design a woodfire oven and clay cabin in the shape of a dome (all with attempts to make the property fully sustainable). In Kipahulu I work on sacred Hawaiian land with Kai to turn 7.7 acres into an off-grid sustainable farm with an arts and crafts Hale, a training gym, and a place where a community can gather to eat and enjoy their time with family in the heart of the jungle. It is also an effort to restore many Hawaiian plants and remove introduced invasive species, which have quickly escalated and greatly disturbed the natural eco-system here over the last 15 years. I'm spending time in Hana with friends on red sand beaches, clearing the jungle back and doing landscaping for others, and most recently, I was hired at Flatbread Company in Paia as a prep cook (a big step for me in my culinary pursuit). They sell delicious woodfire pizza and salads with all ingredients harvested from organic farms on Maui. I'm starting to write more (journalistic stories, poetry, and short stories), and played my first open mic a week ago. Right now, my bank account is nearly empty, but I've got jobs for the future, I'm high spirited, I've got friends and aloha and I'm on a beautiful island. But most importantly, I'm alive. And so are you.

My conclusion on wealth is this: You are as wealthy as the world you leave for the future generations. You can measure it by the smiles around you, the blossoming spring flowers, a crying child. I'm trying to do my part by building and planting and nurturing (maybe a little too literally), but why not join me in your own way?

Aloha and Mahalo for reading,

Matthew

Cruising Around in my Whistlin' Subaru or How to be Homeless on Maui

Some reflections and meditations on my 22nd birthday.  Life is good.  Off to camp on Lanai for a bit, then moving to Huelo, where an expansive ocean view and large jutting cliffs await.


Pink clouds give way to the rising sun.
Black, red, and white pebbles
perpetually washed by
The noisy blue giant. 
Kerouac's The Town and the City
and Zen meditations on my lap. 
Alternated with my own
feeble attempts at story and meditations. 
Odd jobs for food and gas money
and some grass to lay on. 
Back come the heavy pink clouds,
weighed down by a beaming sun. 
Then to dreamland I travel
through wet cloud tunnels
in-and-out of the milkyway
en route to inner space
where everyone is a shooting star


Sounds pretty good on paper, feels pretty good in spirit.  What, you may wonder, is missing?  For starters, I haven't slept within 15 miles of the same location two nights in a row.  It's been a loaded week, each day an adventure, each conversation an opportunity, and the only schedule I am willingly tied to is the sun's.

Ode to Running Water

your drawn out breath
lady-like grace
rebirth from the sky
humility of a masked hero
steamy and moist as a first kiss
under
starlit canopy, never unshining
always playing
glowing
silent
always


I've been able to reflect which is, when done healthily, a way to progress.  I perceive my relationships with people and the land and how they've changed and grown.  I see myself.  And I am different.  I have learned and relearned, and will continue to learn and relearn again.  I think of time.  I am uncertain of how each it passes for each soul, but am certain that as it passes for me, it passes for everyone.  I think of city life, and town life, and I know I prefer the town.  I dig elements of the city, the envelope pushers and whistle blowers and poets of the city walls.  But give me traditions, values, familiar, friendly faces (of both animal and human), and a life built from scratch any day.  We all fight our private revolutions.  I'd rather fight mine with the people I care for and know their story, intimately.

destined
to swim
in a never endless
long song
we wait
with infinite patience
and we play
and we pray
to each their own way

We humans are a social mamal.  We know nothing of the lives we pass every day. The beating souls and bone and flesh bodies that share our air.  We know nothing of them.  The same goes for plants and those with many legs and hands, big furry eyes, shiny flourescent fins, and let's not forget the winged-gods that soar in the way the air's breath guides them.  Yet, in this miracle of existence, we share their air.  And above and beyond the infinite horizon - we connect.  We connect to the night sky, the fertile earth, the animals and plants, each other.  We share intimacy, passion, good nature, belly laughs, and ripe fruit.  We share words and music, and we humans, a very social mammal, do so in a unique way.  How is life not a blessing?
I wrote this, below, on the morning of my twenty-second birthday.  It is the raw beginning of a story I am going to see through.

Shalvah

Shalvah sat.  A fierce and wiry looking creature hardened by life's waves of challenges at the age of one.  365 days since his planet shined with the equal light intensity on the date of his birth, where he was conceived at dawn in a cave, a promise of new beginnings.  Each direction he peered: a possiblity.  One filled with ancient critters hopping through tall thin trees, another flat and orange with bumps the size of mosquito bites, another masked by a layer of glistening waving enigmatic blue.  They all would bring him towards his destiny, which was the same for him as any other, an edge of the world cliff where time would prompt him with knowledge of what to do.

Abandoned by his mother after a week of full care and nourishment, Shalvah couldn't conceive of how to live.  Breathing was natural, for he heard the tide in his mother's womb for months.  But as for nourishment, his mother's milk and tiny insects were handed to him.  Until he was 8 days old, the child did not consider how spoiled he was, and only now began to suffer the consequences.  Shalvah sat, peering and brooding, curious and hopeless, til he inevitably fell asleep, curled in the fetal position on top of crackling dry leaves under a banana sized moon.

His sleep didn't last long, for he was on an empty stomach.  He felt ill and cold and miserable in this state of unhealth.  Young and fragile and without energy, Shalvah felt his blood thin and his muscles weak.  In this unwelcome state, Shalvah could only sit.  He fell back asleep with thoughts and images, flashing at first and then appearing steady, on the backs of his eyelids.  An unknown and unvisited reality began to creep its way into existence.  Just as the fire can illuminate the darkness and provide comfort to a disturbed two-legged land dweller, Shalvah felt a new sensation that night as he slipped away. Into his first dream.

Matthew K.

Thanksgiving 2010

A brief update on the happenings of my life and then I'll share something I wrote in December 2010.

Wow.  or Wowwy-wow-wow-WOW, as Christopher Walken would say with his bulging eyes and dancing hands.  This world is spinning, on a strange axis, and its inhabitants' heads are spinning too.  Three weeks after the earthquake and tsunami that shook the world and lent further evidence to certain gloomy theories and ancient prophecies, they begin to ship over concrete to help secure the nuclear power plant.  Three weeks!  Well, at least that tops BP's response time.  I could ramble here, but I'd rather take a different approach and share some stories that were told to me today at a Japanese Zen Mission in Paia right alongside Baldwin Beach.  

The Japanese and Tibetan Zen members congregated to celebrate the Buddha's birthday, right around 2500 years ago today.  One of the speakers was commenting on the initial shock and reaction on the day of the earthquake and how it wasn't chaos that ensued, but instead kindness, grace, and orderliness, three distinct qualities of the Japanese culture.  The speaker shared multiple stories, one of a convenience store that stayed open through the aftershocks of the night and had three clerks to serve each customer.  One to do the money exchange, the other to check the inventory of how much each item was priced, and the other to hold the flashlight, since the electricity had gone out.  There was another story of how patient everyone was in waiting to leave the city in the cars.  Even in a mass traffic jam, there weren't collisions and there weren't obnoxious horns beeping, except to imply 'thank you.'  This is a real admiral model for how to act if shit hits the fan closer to home.

In this very vulnerable time period, we must stay positive and excel and not sink.  It is a time where we need to help others because we will inevitably be needing help one day too.  It is a time for being grateful for what we have, even if it is meager, because whether we choose to believe in what our selective memory beckons us to believe, we can forget how far we've come.

The seed that was planted before my birth is growing and starting to mature in different stages.  This seed is  representative of my practice of Buddhism.  I am not on a path to devote my life to its calling, but I do intend to infuse it into all aspects of my life for calming purposes, to help ease my own and others sufferings.  I have fully evidenced the power of the mind to turn one's life around within oneself.  It was not a week ago that I was in a place in my mind where I was ready to leave this island.  Since then, I've had one of my best weeks on the island, maybe even a future blogpost.  I've slept in a different place on the island the last 6 nights, been around many fires and music and communal gatherings, and have been blessed with opportunities to live and work in many places.  The journey continues.  So here I reflect on another time of being grateful for what is at hand, what is given, and for the opportunity to have an impact on this world.

Thanksgiving Week at Quail Hollow Farm

I've not before celebrated this late November holiday with a tradition as rich as this year. Sure, I have participated in big meals, gotten together with my family, and have been grateful for all the gifts we've received throughout the year. It seems my life on the fourth Thursday of every November has been a slow, but necessary progression to really help me appreciate this year's special Thanksgiving day.

I have gotten over my youthful ignorant disdain for turkey, and no longer eat Chicken Parmesan and a blueberry yogurt. I escaped the cold last year and was thankful for my first Thanksgiving on a farm, being able to eat and prepare fresh produce. The food we ate was not what you would typically find on a Thanksgiving dinner table, but the abundance was awe-inspiring. We celebrated the day with friends and drinks and laughs and my belly has never been so expanded in its adult life.

This year was a different story. Let me preface with the facts. On Quail Hollow Farm the interns receive a book when we first arrive describing a year where a family eats local. All produce, from flour to vegetables to meat, are grown and harvested within a 100 mile radius of their farm in Virginia. In the winter, when the air and soil and weather aren't conducive to growing, they eat preserves. Here in Quail Hollow, they walk the talk.

In spring, the Bledsoes bought 30 day-old Heritage Breed Turkeys. Both Standard Bronze and Bourbon Reds. They were allowed to roam on pasture their first 4 months, and when the coyotes and wild dogs decreased the amount of birds from 30 to 15, we moved them to a pen and fed them organic grain and hay. This Monday before Thanksgiving is where our story begins.

We woke up to frost, only the fourth of the season. The hoses to hydrate the animals were frozen, and the air was bitter. I had an uneasy sleep last night despite my tasty dinner and decided to skip breakfast. I walked down to the farm as the sun was hovering above Virgin's Peak Mts. and little did I know, would not walk back up to the house until the light blue dissipated into a black sky. A desert black sky, sprinkled with yellow, like a child splattering paint onto an unreachable canvas. I was very aware of what the day was to entail, and knew well the reason for my uneasy sleep.  It was going to be a large meat harvest.

In September we processed 20 roosters, so this wasn't entirely foreign to me, but on that day I was strictly plucking the bird's feathers and cleaning out the innards. Today, I wanted to get closer to my food and, to me, that included catching and slaughtering the birds. We started straight after chores, and as soon as we prepared and sanitized the area, we were able to shed a layer of clothing. If the wind stays down, we would be very fortunate to have favorable weather on a day like this. And the day just got warmer as the sun grew taller.

I caught the first turkey and brought it over upside down by its talons, stuck its head through the hole in the bucket, and used wire to strap its ankles in. This bird was heavy. As you may know, birds do not die after their throat is slit, so it is essential to tie their legs together tight, or they will flutter out and run around nearly headless dripping blood for a good 30-90 seconds, depending on how clean your cuts are. Strapping a turkey in is much more difficult than a rooster, mainly due to the size and weight. Our turkeys were enormous. They lived on pasture and also lived longer, healthier, happier lives than your grocery-store bird. They weren't injected with water, or hormones, and were able to grow to their full sizes in time (without speeding up the process).

Our first bird was a big one, though not the biggest. We expected it to be around twenty pounds, but it felt heavier. The feathers were still on, and when we lifted it from the scalding water to pluck them off, we figured this bird was 30+ pounds. Then we dressed the bird. We cut off its feet and head, took off its feathers, and removed the liver, heart, intestines trachea and gizzard. We bagged the liver, heart, and gizzard for the buyers, and fed the rest to our extremely fortunate pigs, who have doubled in size since they arrived. Our first turkey weighed 25 lbs. We had 4 others who were 30 or 31, and our largest bird we cooked for ourselves on Thanksgiving, a 32 pound turkey that barely fit into the oven.

After the first five birds that Monte slaughtered, I found the courage to take the burden off of his hands and kill my first bird. We do it fast and humane and control the blood to spill in a small perimeter. I understood that the slaughter is an integral part of eating meat. I thanked the bird for its life and its flesh and let the bird fly away to its next one.

After the 15 turkeys, including a wild one which was fun to corner and catch since it could run nearly as fast as us and could fly, we moved onto the geese. The bane of our existence on our otherwise, lovely, serene farm filled with pleasant animal noises. (On Tuesday, when we walked down to do our chores and harvest, the mood was so pleasant and I couldn't place it until I realized the geese weren't interrupting our thoughts and rhythm.) Lark caught the first one by the neck, and I caught the next two on the run with my bare hands. This was my fist personal revenge animal and I didn't want the chicken hook to interfere. This wasn't necessarily a satisfying kill when I cut its neck, but it was an easier task than the other birds.

After the 3 geese, one for christmas and the other going to the sicilian head chef of Nora's Wine Bar in Las Vegas, we had to gather up roosters. We anticipated there would be 6. There ended up being 19. When the slaughter was over and the animals were processed and bagged, we hardly had light to clean up the area and I had not eaten anything except a pocketed oatmeal cookie all day. Fortunately, Stephen, Laura's brother had come to live on the farm for a little while and had arrived this past weekend.

Stephen had been living in Paris, playing Bach on the street on guitar every day for three months. He is a true artist, and practices in the house 2-6 hours a day. His robust laugh, great stories, and views on this world make for an incredible presence. He had prepared dinner and after I showered and cleansed myself of the morning and afternoon figuratively and literally, we sat down and ate his meal, all harvested from the farm. Porkchops with an apricot-maple glaze, sweet potatoes, apple sauce, swiss chard and melons. All prepared wonderfully. After dinner, when our bellies were extremely content, we set our first fire of the season in the fireplace (and it feels like it hasn't diminished since), and gathered around it on couches and chairs and rugs and lay there. Basically immobile, utterly exhausted. This is when Stephen brought out his guitar and played Bach, and though he plays it every day, Bach's music runs through his blood and he lives it. This paticular performance, for us, was pure magic. He played pieces that he also performed in a 5th century church in Paris, and we were put into a trance. On Thanksgiving day, this moment passed through my mind as one of the things I was most grateful for this year and it happened just a mere three days ago.  I didn't fall asleep until 1 am that night, thoughts bouncing and dancing around my head like the feathers currently engaged in child's pillow fight.

Tuesday. Woke up at 6 and felt great. Ate breakfast today. We had a big harvest planned for our thanksgiving baskets. There was a great vibe in the air, maybe due to the holiday spirit, our bountiful harvest this late in the year, and the quiet tranquility on the farm. We speak about the eerie calm before the storm, well there is also the calm afterwards, and this specific calm was palpable and soothing. We had more help today as the Bledsoe family began to arrive, and finished in daylight. One of the Bledsoe children brought along their year old Golden retreiver named Walden, and it was great to play with a puppy again. This week our baskets were overflowing. We had a mix of golden delicious and winesap apples, two giant sweet potatoes, a quarter of a large musque dei provence pumpkin (heirloom variety), mesclun lettuce, arugula, radishes, pomegranates, sage, anaheim peppers and broccoli or cabbage. Our shareholders did not go hungry this Thanksgiving, and neither did we.

Wednesday. It was an effort getting the baskets and our extra produce and Turkeys loaded up to go to Vegas for Market and deliveries, but we ended up on the road just before 8:30, starting at 5. Once we set up our stand at market, we went to pick up our new WWOOFER, Nella, hailing from the center of France. It's been a pleasure having her around and to discover all the amazing things she has already done in her life. She is in the middle of a world tour, starting in America and then going to Australia, New Zealand, China, and Southeast Asia next! How the beautiful world opens up when you quit your job in an office. Nella will be here for three weeks and picked a great time and place to enter Quail Hollow Farm. The rest of the day went off without a hitch and we picked up some essentials such as cranberries and nuts for the big meal tomorrow. The rest of Monte and Laura's kids arrived that night, and we had a nice talk by the fire when we got back. Two of their son's brought out night vision goggles and we checked out the view from the backyard. The most incredible part of looking through them was the stars. You could pick up galaxies hidden from the human eye. When most everyone went to bed, I stayed up thinking about tomorrow's dinner, which we were to have at 1:00 pm, hosting 27 people. Laura baked some pies that night, and more were to be cooked tomorrow. We manipulated the 32 pound turkey, basted with rendered goose fat, in the oven at 12:30 am for an overnight slow-roast.

Thursday, Thanksgiving Day!  For the meal, I contributed a cocunut sweet-potatoe pie with a spiced graham cracker crust, a salad from the farm including lettuce, arugula, spinach, walnuts, radishes, feta, onions, radishesand peppers, tossed with a pomegranate viniagrette. And most importantly, a goose. With the help of Stephen, who has managed multiple restaurants, and Julia Child and Irma Rombauer, I prepared the goose I slaughtered for the Thanksgiving table. The candied lemon and fig chutney rubbed on before browning gave it a great flavor. I was very happy that I was able to deliver a flavorful well cooked bird. The project felt like my responsibility and I was proud to see the smiles on the guests faces. After all, it was my first goose. We also had stuffing, pomegrante jello, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, pecan/apple/pumpkin/ sweet potatoe pies (totalling over 12), some of our preserves (pickled okra, dilled green beans, bread and butter pickles), and a 32 lb turkey. Stephen and I also made Turkey and Goose gravy from the innards and juices. Needless to say, 27 people with full stomachs, and still leftovers, though nowhere near the amount we predicted, which means everyone ate well!

A Thanksgiving meal from the farm is a very full experience, but one from the Bledsoe farm, which has such a long-lasting wonderful tradition, is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. After the meal begins the competition. We split up into teams picked out of a hat, with each of the children as a captain, and everyone participated in one of the four events. The didn't do fire starting with a flint stick this year, nor riflery, but the event ended in a tiebreaker, so rockclimbing was involved. Our first event was horseshoes, followed by archery, blowdarts, and wood-chopping (the main event). Two minutes to cut as much wood as you can, that isn't too large, or it won't count. The winner is the one with the most weight. Jimmy, the oldest son, won this year with an incredible 170 pounds chopped in two minutes. The children (23-31), totaled 660 pounds this year in just 10 minutes. There were many other small traditions that they carried out too, such as exchanging christmas ornaments at the end of the day. During that time, we were all thoroughly full and exhausted, but we managed to cut into some more pecan pies by the fire.

Thanksgiving this year was incredible and I slept like a log that night, because Friday was going to be another special day, a day of firsts. We woke up early, did our chores, then bundled up with all the layers I could find, because we were going christmas tree hunting in Cedar Mountains in Utah. This marked my first time in this special state, and I plan to explore more in the future. We spotted one beautiful tree about 100 ft or so off the road, and found another 4 in the area. Monte used a chainsaw and Jimmy used his axe, seemingly his weapon of choice, and we carried them to the trailer one at time with all six hands on some of the big ones. We were trekking through about 3 feet of beautiful dry powdery snow. I had never gone christmas tree hunting before, and I've never been in such deep fluffy snow. It's been about three years since I've played in fresh snow too. I had a blast throwing snowballs at the grandkids and getting tackled by them too. It was another special day, to conclude a special week. But not put a bookend on it, because I'm hoping to ride this holiday train and spirit all the way to the new year.

So now I sit next to the fireplace, grateful and satiated,

Next to a 16 ft. tall pine tree,

Grateful for the balance that exists in this world.

Grateful for the times when I find it.

Coming in from a cold night and sitting next to the fire

With warm cocoa, hot tea, apple cider.

I am grateful that I have found a lifestyle that is nurturing to me

And allows me to be outdoors most of the day.

I am grateful for my family and the friends I have made and wish them well

In their adventures throughout the world.

With every trial you face and every darkness you encounter,

Be aware that there is a light.

Though it may appear dim now,

It grows brighter in the future,

Happy Holidays!

Matthew K.

(I am without a computer so I'll be either trying to update this at friend's places or taking advantage of accessing the the internet through the local library.  I apologize if the posts are a little more infrequent, but I am continuing to write, just now doing so in a more three-dimensional historical sense of ink and paper and not just adding my ideas to the world of cyberspace, where nothing is secure.)