Ink and barefeet

The Curb


The Curb coffee shop. Honolulu, Hawaii. Artisanal coffee. Iced Toddy on nitrous. Skateboarder, jittery, stumbled out, found his feet on board and cruised off. Cast of characters, caring about quality caffeine. Coming and going. For a tiny corner shop there’s quite a scene. Japanese. German. Haole’s and hapas. Speaking of languages and travel. Of a friends mother who speaks so quickly its amazing she is able to breathe.

It’s cool to be able to walk these streets I came to almost ten years ago. This coffee shop between 10th Ave. and Sierra Dr.

Exploring makes people come alive. Makes me come alive. Tasting new arts, new cultures. And languages. Just now, a man, long sleeved shirt, and jeans with a tight belt ran past me on the sidewalk of Waialae Ave. Arms out stretched. Chest thrown forward. Head thrown back. And I, I catch a glimpse of a moment of his journey. My eyes and mind a witness left to wonder. To watch.

I feel my heart beat quickening and see a mans hand through the window next to me shaking back and forth. Pausing for a moment. And shaking again. Thoughts may be accompanying the movement. Maybe aware of his hand. Maybe not. And two people inside, maybe early twenties- are animated. Radiating excitement. And I do that too. Express the excitement of connecting. Putting forth and being acknowledged for our expansions in life. This girls experience of receiving a scholarship because a mentor/teacher applied for her. No effort needed. We share these parts of ourselves and our lives. The parts full of magic. Unexplainable.

So many comings and goings. In a coffee shop. In a city. In one mans life. It’s important for me to get out. To feel this. The expansiveness of life. Of so many people so involved in their own experiences mine doesn’t exist. I disappear.

I cried this morning on the steps outside the house. Steps made of concrete. I  feel judged. Not good enough. Looked at too much. Like the way my sensitivity falls on broken leaves breaking their seams all the more. Unable to control my weight.

But then, I have writing. A confidant. Lover. Muse. Making sense of the insensible. And life is what happens in between.

Enlivening the magic of symbols.

“I come seeking knowledge and you mock me!” A guy inside the coffee shop just shouted, laughing. Teasing. Calling out.


Pirate Adventure

jolly rogers ink

Today we became pirates. Initiated by Captain Hammerhead Allen and Black Sand Bob. We met them days ago after a plot to capture their swords while in their sleep. This was before we met them. Before we found their ship in the harbor. The moment we spotted the ship we were on an adventure. Kallai had Noah and I hiding behind bushes. Questioning their intentions while here in Honolulu. Where they came from. They came from our dreams, you see. And dreams walk to us as we walk to them. But we have to walk to them, you see. And Noah didn’t want to walk to them and follow the ship into harbor. Time holding his feet to predictable forms. Well, I scatter magic, you see. And enjoy watching the hands of the clock dance in spirals. And Captain Hammerhead Allen he saw my amulets and called me out as sorcerer.

El Barco Circular. The Circular Boat.

Closing a circle. A yurt here in Maui. Last night. Packing. cleaning. feeling the presence of friends turned family. It hurts letting go. Heart being pulled out of me looking back with tears. It’s a flow. Tides turn. Boat sails on.

no blown out barco



I return to the Wilderness

The wildness of deconstructed time and echoes bouncing off forest walls and tree trunks. Hollowed trunks.

I return to the Wilderness

The meadow calls. She holds the deer and wildflowers. And bear. And bear forages for berries and tried to sneak into camp for meat and cheese and whatever else it could find. Black bear, brown bear. I scared them away with pots and pans clanging them together.

I return to the Wilderness

The old growth forest. The chambers of hollowed trees and lightening strikes and the lightening storm with my dad and Alon and Noah. And the clouds that day while my dad chanted an old native song to the sky gods as they formed a woman breastfeeding a bear.

I return to the Wilderness

Canyon oak tree who’s support I have for cultivating patience lingers low in my bones. I taste excitement at the back of my throat when the bats come out at dusk. And crickets. Crickets and their noise. Crickets that bite. Crickets I may eat one day. Good protein I hear.

I return to the Wilderness

The wildness of the heart. Freedom of voice and limbs and climbing feet. Candle light at night while drawing and writing with pen. And

I return to the Wilderness

To birth. To die. To dance.

I return to the Wilderness

To let go of false time. Sink into the stars and moon and water over cold rocks and be seduced by their touch as lay in bed at night. Lichen singing lullabies on flesh.

I return to the Wilderness

Cabin built by tree logs by my dads hands and moms and brothers and my own. And turned up iron tools from the turn of the century. And a story of an old woman named Babett who would host young men and seduce them and then kill them. Black widow. And stories for days from the mouths of mountain men. And women.

I return to the Wilderness

Earth and Sky

water puja

Electricity Is

Be a night owl too:

Eyes of fish. Knees down, belly turned up.

I’d rather jump on a trampoline.

Wildness creeps on the fringe.

At the core.

Road kill during rut season.

I have placed my feet and anchored salt

Tossed with bell peppers and pasta.

And DNA holds me there.

Electricity is.


Protecting ourselves.

the unknown

my face sideways on sidewalk

El Laberinto. The Labyrinth.

mondel it


roots RS

Ink and Bare Feet

I whittle the bones of my fuel

Ashes scattered in wind

And smoke.

Death touches life creating the Sacred

And in the end I leave ink

And barefoot trails imprinted on forest roots.

I walk. I write.

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