Painting With Mai Tai Vomit
I totally don’t have a cold.
I totally don’t have a cold.
I totally — oh, goddamnit, really? Do I have a cold? Again? In Hawaii? This totally happened last time, you know. Got a cold about halfway through the trip. I’m going to just go ahead and pretend it’s not true.
LA LA LA LA. I can’t hear you, phlegm monster that lives in my throat. LA LA LA LA.
Outside, the dark ocean is punctuated by white lines slithering to the shore.
We went to Waimea Canyon today.
We did not feed the nene. The nene is a goose. A Canadian goose, in effect, that wandered astray from his migration patterns and got lost here. About, ohhh, a million years ago. And now the nene looks like a tropical mutation of the standard goose.
We did feed the chickens.
Kauai is the Land of Feral Chickens. As I understand it, when Hurricane Iniki came through and mouth-raped Kauai back in 1992, it “let loose” all the chickens that were cooped up in various farms. And those chickens, once free, thought, “Well, this is nice. We can eat anything we want. We can go anywhere we please. Further, we can bang the beaks right off each other.” So, the chickens bred (Ye Olde iPhone tried to change this to “breaded,” which sounds delicious, but is inaccurate). And now they’re everywhere. I mean that — everywhere. They, and all the other birds on this island, are very aggressive. You get some crumbs in your hair, they will peck out your eyeballs.
I’m not drunk tonight.
I didn’t say I wasn’t drinking, though.
Something called a “Tai Chi?” Which is really just a Mai Tai with some other juices up in that biznitch.
I have a kick ass book in my head about Hawaii. Myths and legends. Isn’t that the writer way, though? We go places, and suddenly — “I HAVE A BOOK IN MY SKULL.” And then it lives there and only comes out to play if we make our fingers dance (and dance and dance). Damnit. Such is the way of the writing thing. To make the words, you gotta work-em-work-em. Imagine a techno-beat when I say that. UNSS UNSS UNSS, work it work it, yeah, nnnngh, do it. Write that book. Eat that cheese. Pluck that banjo.
Today I stood atop a — what? Mountain? — and watched clouds pass 100 yards to my right. Tiny waterfalls, miles away, trickled down canyon walls. Even further below, cerulean blue tides crashed white on ragged rocks.
We saw this older couple from Wichita accost a young Asian couple, and they told the girl, “You look just like the daughter of a friend of ours! Except, she had white blonde hair. You’re like the Oriental Betty Sue!” Oriental? Wow. I wish the girl had responded with, “Perhaps *she* is the Pasty White Peckerwood version of *me,*” and then Karate kicked the old man off the canyon edge.
Is it racist that I said “Karate kicked?” I would’ve said that even if she were, like, German. Or a Moon Person.
Do not feed the Nene.
Do feed the chickens.
Drink more Mai Tais.
*cough cough achoo*
I AM NOT SICK SHUT UP