Beloved hit a grand slam when he picked our hotel. a few miles south of the center of kona, the place is nestled between a reproduction of a bungalow that belonged to the hawaiian king david, and the restoration of a series of hawaiian temples, one dedicated to love and fertility.
the water washing beneath the pier where im writing this is a perfect acquamarine, and so clear i can see the fish and the turtles and the eels swimming around. the morning mist has finally disappeared, and the sky over the ocean has just turned blue-topaz blue. through the row of palm trees beside the black ruins of the ancient temples, the mountains rise against a glowing peach-pink sky.
the breeze which woke us chilled around 3 this morning has subsided and the air is balmy. a black bird with a yellow bill and white markings on his wings is pecking at a french fry under the next table. every so often he looks at me and cocks his head and backs away as if to see if i want some.
this morning, while Beloved caught up on killing people in pimpworld, i drank my coffee on our little porch while the stars faded into gray mist. except for the occasional tap of his computer keys, the only sound was the ocean pounding against the reef, washing over the black shore. its a sound i grew up hearing, a sound i find infinitely relaxing, infinitely comforting. this morning it occured to me its a sound that the dinosaurs heard.
according to a documentary the airline showed us, the hawaiian islands are the most remote islands in world, and only 500 indigenious species of plants and animals found their way here. that people did, too, in little boats not much bigger than floating logs, seems almost impossible to believe.
and furthermore, the war will end. blessed be.