I am surfing waves in a safety raft on a sea of swirling movement. In a straight trajectory, forward motion will eventually bring you back to where the journey started. Where the loop began. This circular process would also take the traveller to the edges of many unforgiving waters, arid deserts, treacherous mountains, partying college kids, monks praying silently in the chokehold of the wilderness, angry civilians revolting against tyrannical ruling class and tourist-hating gangs of Haitian youth. They are the ones who do not attempt to sell you little flutes or shiny turtles. They endlessly circle the beaches, rooting around in the sand for glimpses of shining, shimmering opportunity, we mask ourselves in the allure.
Soon surrounded by enormous leaves and gigantic flowers. The colors will be lifelike, moving paintings. Culture, buried, will resurface and count for something more than a generic subtle head nod of approval. ‘Huh. that’s kind of interesting.’ I can imagine the horror if dead hawaiian king perked his rotting ears up to the surface, to hear such utter indifference. No worse fate than feeling the lethargic reactions of greasy white people to your honorable traditions. Back in the day, they would be gutted like fish for view on the front the porch. Wooden bed frames and sexual squeaking. Flannel and kaleidoscopes, belts worn out and string lights, and lamp lights.