Thursday, April 3, 2014


The moon looked down and laughed. It wasn't a mean laugh.

Andy. The axiomatic depressed Hawaiian artist. A cool blue pacific Greenwich Village. Tales on the Wind. What's french for "a trick of the eye"?  Trompe-l'œil. Andy?

Maui. I miss giving you guitar harmonics. Off they'd fly, incandescent doves into the evening air, where they'd shimmer momentarily before the wind spirited them away. I miss the feeling of the air. That clean feeling on my skin. I miss the highway down the base of the volcano. I miss the upcountry horses and the paniolos who tended to them. The azure blue. The perfect symmetry of a bamboo forest. Life on the outskirts of a pineapple field. Wading through grazing cows to reach that private beach. The red dust in my freezer. Impossible to combat. And the way it fried my motherboard twice a year. I miss Oreos laden with paprika, a good humor prank from Mike and Ken, the dawn patrol brothers. I even miss Lizzette, before it sucked. I miss backward runs in the surf and surfing on my stomach. I miss LAN sessions of Red Alert 2. I miss hearing tales on the wind. But mostly I miss the air.

Maui, here you go.

I'll bet that someplace, somewhere else, a one-armed pianist is taking to the stage. How could he not?

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