Kīlauea and The Curse of The Hula Girl

Saturday, October 12, 2024. Volcano Village, HI 

Today’s card is the Four of Swords, reversed. This seems like a reference to the actual process of vacationing and rest. I will admit that at times, usually in the middle of the night or at stray points, I would find myself fixating on work.


Earlier in the week, we had texted The Child to remind him that we were actually out of the state and in Hawaii. When Mark asked him if there was anything he especially wanted from Hawaii, The Child texted back, “Bring me back a Hula Girl.” While I was smacking my hand to my forehead, Mark was laughing about the Burridge Hawaiian Curse. About this time, The Child texted, “Can I use the car while you’re gone?”

We’re staying in a funky motel; it’s clean and dry and has odd amenities (limited hot water and no screen door). The grounds are cluttered with unused, overturned flower pots. The covered porch area needs sweeping. There apparently used to be a hot tub, but we can only see the impression where it was on one end of the porch. It’s possible a hot tub used to be in an empty rundown shed at the end of a little path. The motel is overpriced, but staying in Volcano Lodge would have cost more, even if we wouldn’t have had to buy water and good coffee. The Hilton condo, with its kitchen, dining area, and living room, was nicer—if a little Disney.

Today we visited the steam vents of Kīlauea at dawn; I felt like I had seen them before, especially the concrete lined vent with the pipe railing around it; but maybe there were similar vents somewhere in Oahu back in the 1970’s. Then it was a six mile hike along the crater floor; I couldn’t help but think of Frodo and Sam’s march along the plain of Mordor as we walked along a dusty trail between lava rock cairns leading over lava flows. This was like hiking into (and out of) Crater Lake, only without the water. There was lush vegetation on the crater slopes: yellow iris-like flowers—Mark enjoyed the red lehua blossoms especially.

Then we toured through a lava tube, which was lit dramatically, but overrated. And filled with school children. The most interesting feature was near the end, where you could see how high the lava had gotten within the tube before it drained out.

Parking for lunch was an adventure in itself. There weren’t any open parking stalls next to Volcano House. The secondary parking lot filled. The rangers redirected us to a third lot, which was also filled or reserved for tour busses. The rangers there told us to park at the vents, which was about a half-mile away. Mark drove back to Volcano House and cycled through the first half of those. “You’re hungry, and it’s hot; you wont’ survive the walk from the vents back here. I’ll drop you off.” I protested a little that I could make it. Then a stall opened up as I was getting out. “It’s parking karma!” Mark proclaimed as he nabbed the stall.

We ordered lunch, which continued the meal trend of costing about $60.00. Mark asked every staff person he met if they had seen an eruption and they all had.

There was a gift shop in the Volcano House, in which we successfully found a dish-towel with an image of a 1950’s pin-up style Hula Girl. (Yes, there was a discussion about getting an image of a totally ripped Hula Dude, but oddly, there didn’t seem to be any for sale.) Due to strategically placed hair and arms, it was only a day or two later that I realized—hey, wait a minute!—that this was a topless image.

Afterward, we walked over to the Volcano Art Center (https://volcanoartcenter.org) filled with tasteful and expensive locally produced art. Mark liked a pyrogrphic piece; I saw a wonderful rendition of Pele, “Pele Sleeps” by Nelson Makua. And there were more of the birds from the restaurant (https://volcanoartcenter.org/product-category/prints/marian-berger/ ).

The Place of Refuge

Friday, October 11, 2024. Waikoloa Beach and Volcano Village, HI

Today’s card is the Eight of Cups, which seams appropriate for our visit (by land, this time) to Pu'uhonua O Honaunau National Historical Park, the Place of Refuge.

We woke up earlyish and went out again to the Hilton Coffee place… which took longer than expected, but did enable us to see another sea turtle and a native Hawaiian heron. We rushed through the museum path, got back and packed, then we said said goodbye to the Hilton Club House #4 . We headed south along the southwestern coast. We didn’t see any wild pigs, but we continued to see wild goats along the side of the road.

Pu'uhonua O Honaunau is a place where defeated warriors or Hawaiians who had broken social rules, or kapu (punishable by death) could flee to for sanctuary. It was also a place where the chiefs could hang out at, once they made it through a gauntlet of defending warriors. Mark had downloaded a walking tour from the US Park Service and we learned about a Go-like game, and lava tree castings, and the importance of stories of families’ relations with the local land.

There is an active shrine on the site that features several large, carved wooden ki’i (an image representing an akua, or Hawaiian god); the ones within the shrine’s sanctuary are different manifestations of the god Lono (responsible for rain and fertility). I tried to photograph the images, and the lighting was not cooperating, so the ki’i were washed out or underexposed. I’m always impressed by the texture of the carvings.

Under a kind of A-frame, we spoke with a woman as she wove palm fronds into baskets, roses, and fish. The fish gave me a Proust Moment, and I suddenly recalled a mobile made of small, black and golden woven fish, hanging in my sister’s upstairs bedroom in the house my parents rented in the late 1960’s.

Mark asked her how long her baskets lasted and she pointed to the first basket she ever made, thirty years ago. The fronds were trimmed to narrow strips. They started out green, and turned yellow-brown as they aged. The fronds were soft and not difficult to work with. She seemed pleased with how interactive we were and we had a nice conversation with her.

We ran into a park ranger and Mark asked about the carvings—they were too large to have come from the local palm trees. The ranger said that a wood carver would work with a priest, climb the volcanos where the rainforests were, and select a tree; the type of tree chosen would depend on which akua was being represented and also what relationship the carver had with the tree. These were guides more than rules, and the ranger indicated that tree selection could be pragmatic.

I can’t help but want to contrast and compare Hawaiian sculpture with ancient Egyptian sculpture. Hawaiian sculpture is wood, spans a shorter time period, and doesn’t have any words or written spells on it. My sense is that Hawaiian sculpture is more textured with bold geometric patterns, whereas (aside from linen clothing) Egyptian sculpture is more smooth. I am supposing that some of these differences come from the Hawaiians not having ready access to metal tools.

If I had to come to a conclusion after an hour and a half of touring Pu'uhonua O Honaunau, I would that Hawaiian religious sculpture is more about the stories between a place or natural phenomenon and a person or person’s family, and that Egyptian religious sculpture is more grounded in a magical tradition. Exploring the similarities and differences between kapu and ma’at is a whole other essay.

Next to the park was a place folks could enter the surf and snorkel, so we did. This was the second bay we had snorkeled in on our Tuesday snorkel tour. Yellow fish swam right at the stepped rocks where one entered the water. There were fish (and people) everywhere. While we were there, dolphins cavorted in the surf.

After snorkeling, we drove through the twisty highway to Shaka Tacoz (the more southern one), a fish taco place where geckos came out of the woodwork to lick up the guava sauce. The food and geckos were great, although the music was bad pop from 1980 (at least our cashier liked it, because she sang along with every tune).

More driving. We made it to a black sands beach where sea turtles basked in the sun. The beach is very black and like Yachatts, Oregon, only with much more lava and less basalt. The sand is more course lava pebbles than actual sand. There were folks in the surf, but it looked much more rough than the other sites we’d visited. I took photos of sleeping turtles. Mark got some excellent mahi-mahi from a food truck; I got an ice-cream bar.

Still more driving. We did not see wild pigs or goats. In the town of Volcano Village, 4000 feet above sea level, we made a food run during the last ten minutes of operation of a quirky market. The market reminded me of Capella Market in Eugene, which is a bad sign: the aisles were even more narrow, and the layout more haphazard. I had low blood sugar or something, so I apparently walked past food I would have purchased and could only find things like nails, hinges, laundry detergent, and third-tier-Hostess-knock-off pastry pucks. There was some sort of episode at the cash register with cheese sticks of insanity that I don’t recall very well.

We had fine dining in Volcano, which included newly discovered Mai Tais. The restaurant was filled with very large portriats of birds. Which looked varying degrees of angry or judgey.

After dinner, we fall asleep to the sound of about a thousand cheeping invasive tree frogs from Puerto Rico. The tourist book warned us about the frogs and the insanity their song could bring, but we thought they were charming background noise.

Hawaiian Seahorses

Thursday, October 10, 2024. Waikoloa Beach, HI

Today’s card is the Queen of Cups. The Queen represents someone psychic and empathic; someone who sees visions based on their mystic connection to the cosmos. Sometimes it can signify a tarot reading that's on target. I suppose that it could also be a woman who lives on an island and is connected with water somehow.

Thursday started out with a photo safari to The Queens’ Garden area. I wanted to photograph some white egrets and I’d figured out that they hung out there. Mark stayed behind. When I got to the garden, I didn’t see the egrets at first, so I photographed some plants. A groundskeeper was mowing a lawn on a rider-mower and all the egrets were hopping around in the mower’s wake, sifting through the grass clippings and hunter for food. They apparently loved the groundskeeper, because they didn’t mind him so much; they tended to fly away from me if I got too close. I managed to take loads of photographs without being mowed over. Then I managed to stalk close enough to a kind of lily where I was pretty sure a gecko lived and managed to photograph it before it hid among the leaves.

I was slightly disappointed to learn later that these were invasive White African Cattle Egrets, and not native to the islands at all.  This turned out to be the case for most of the really showy plants and animals we saw; the native species typically were in hiding.

Then it was back to scoop up Mark for a walking tour of the Hilton property next door and grabbing some coffee, tea, and a pastry. The resort next door is very Disneyesque—it has a monorail between three hotels and a boat ride (closed for maintenance). Trails wound around a sea-fed lagoon and a covered museum walk featuring Asian Art.

We saw, sadly, captive dolphins in a “swim with dolphins” program, and more happily, wild rays and turtle swimming in the lagoon (along with humans). While we watched the turtles from a bridge, a very woo-woo woman struck up a conversation with us about water and turtles and elemental affinities—I concluded that she was foretold by the Queen of Cups card.

Then we drove to Kona fora tour of a seahorse breeding program and seahorse encounter. The program breeds seahorses that aren’t quite as picky about what they eat and which aren’t so monogamous that they’ll die of a broken heart if they get separated from their partner. This allows them to be sold to the pet industry, sparing wild seahorses a slow, sad death by starvation. Unfortunately, they haven’t made a dent in the Asian Traditional Medicine industry, which grinds seahorses up to use as aphrodisiacs and potions for fidelity.

Our tour guide was Erica.  This was a different Erica from Dolphin Discoveries, but it led us to conclude that all marine-biologist-flavored guides on the Big Island are named Erica.

The seahorses were very cool. At the end of our tour, which followed seahorse development from fry to adult, we had an opportunity to hold our hands in a tank and have a seahorse wrap its tail around our fingers. Afterward, Mark wondered if I had a connection moment with them. I said that were cool, but I didn’t identify with them like I might with dragonflies, hummingbirds, or bats.

Afterward, we drove to an archeological site and a sea cliff where some folks were fishing.  The place was interesting, but what I was really noticing was that the wind had died down compared to other days and that both the temperature and humidity had gone way up as a result. 

We’ve come to the conclusion that driving anywhere on Hawaii is like driving from Eugene, Oregon to Bend, Oregon.  Firstly, one can pretty much reach any point on the Big Island from another point on the island in two hours; secondly, the arid lava fields look a whole lot like eastern Oregon (only not as old). 

Manta Ray Night Snorkel

Wednesday, October 9, 2024. Waikoloa Beach, HI

Six of Pentacles, reversed. I’m wondering if there’s something going on with all of these reversed cards. Reversed, this card indicates a breakdown of maintaining support. This could be a reference to Gollum last night. Or the odd rumination about The Day Jobbe. Or possibly this is a representation of the aspect of our vacation that Mark referred to as "Open Wallet, Shake Well."

We woke early. Mark went for a walk and reported the Orion was at an odd-looking angle in the west. We both went for a walk and I photographed birds and plants. Mark went for a hike on the volcanoes’ saddle and a visit to a coffee plantation; I stayed at the unit and wrote (and napped).

In the late afternoon we drove to a Kona marina for an evening snorkel with manta rays. We had originally planned to take an 8 P.M. snorkel, but we were the only ones to sign up for it, so we got bunched with an earlier tour. The boat took us a little north of Kona to a bay near the airport. The cliffs were more basalt than lava. The sun was just on the horizon when we anchored. Mark and I got into the water for some free swim time before things got started, and saw small mantas skimming along the bottom of the bay.

The captains gave us pool noodles which we were to tuck by our feet. Then we were supposed to hang onto a float board decked out with 1000 lumen lights on it. The lights attracted plankton, and the mantas and other fish would come for the plankton. The idea was that one would float flat, breathe through the snorkel, and wait for the large mantas to come and barrel roll underneath one.

At first all I saw was a cone of light with plankton in it. It was a bit like meditating, although I had to stay aware of the water collecting in my snorkel so I could remember to blow it out, and a line connecting the float board to the boat that kept brushing against my foot. I’d say that many of the folks there were not in a meditative mood, and sometimes it was difficult to ignore them. Then mantas glided out of the murky waters and into the light.

They move so gracefully, and at the same time they look more like some kind of airplane than a fish or bird—or they look like a flying cloak or mantle, which I suppose is related to their name. Their horns are actually fins. At one point five mantas came up and barrel rolled underneath us; we could see their white undersides and radiator-like mouths and gills.

Then they’d swim back into the darkness, only to re-appear who-knew-when.  During their absence, I would breathe and watch a whirling spiral of silver fish dancing in the cone of light underneath the float-board.

When we got out of the water about an hour later, there was a smudge of red on the horizon where the sun had been, the moon was out, and Scorpio was chasing after Venus. My teeth chattered as I got out of a wetsuit and rash shirt—I warmed up quickly enough once I toweled off and put on a hoodie.

This really was a meditation on the creature of the deep (despite the idiotic antics of some of our more distracting fellow snorkelers), and I came away from the experience with a sense of having made contact with representative of the waters.

Afterward, we asked the crew where they went to get soup or chowder and they reacted like we were extraterrestrials. Apparently soup isn’t a thing in Kona.

Sunset and Raving

Tuesday Evening, October 8, 2024. Waikoloa Beach, HI

The layout of the resort is passive-aggressive towards pedestrians. The different centers are about ten minutes apart from each other by foot. One can walk, but I think they want you to take shuttles or drive. Or golf.

Since Mark slept through Monday night’s sunset, he offered to walk to the beach to watch tonight’s.

We walked along a golf course and then down some steps to Waikōloa Anchialine Pond Preservation Area, a lava flow filled with brackish ponds. Feral cats live here and we saw ten (at least): tabby, Siamese, calico, white, tuxedo, and black cats. There were very likely more hiding in the underbrush. The Sun was about ten degrees off of the horizon and the Moon was a waxing almost quarter. We got to the shore, which was a collection of dark lava, white stones (coral), and coral chunks. The sky shifted to purple and rose hues. I spotted Venus about a third of the way fro the Sun to the crescent Moon.

The rocky short was spiky and offered few comfortable places to sit. Some sandpiper-like birds took a bath in the shallow water around the rocks. The sun sank some more and I watched for the green flash (didn’t see it). About this time we realized the Marriott Luau must be happening across the bay because lilting guitar and a tenor’s voice echoed over the waters and strings of cantina lights lit up on the far shore. What appeared to be a sunset “booze cruise” sailed into the bay. We looked but didn’t see any fire dancers. About halfway between Venus and the Moon, Antares appeared. The clouds around the sun continued to put on a ruddy show.

About this time we heard someone, apparently on the path behind us, channel his inner Gollum and start to rave in an wrathful and frenzied manner. I think it was one person, but it sounded like a sad person was having a screaming match with an angry person, possibly about tourists and the environment. By this time the sun had completely set and it was dark enough that Mark started using the flashlight on his mobile. I wasn’t quite sure if Gollum was coming any closer or not, but Mark and I agreed it was time to move along.

After some stumbling off of and back onto the path, we made it to Lava Lava Beach, which was lightly populated. As we watched, a skiff, presumably from the Booze Cruise, discharged a gaggle of bridesmaids onto the beach. By this time Scorpio was bright and undulating through the sky.

We navigated around a large zooey Hilton pool, around a pickle-ball court, through a parking lot, and back onto the main pedestrian loop. Mark wanted to see the milky way, so we sidetracked back through the feral cat sanctuary at Waikōloa Anchialine Pond Preservation Area. Mark found a patch of unbroken pavement between the lava flows that was on a dark part of the path and we traced the Milky Way fro Cassiopeia through the Summer Triangle and Delphinus. Scorpio was still up, so Orion wasn’t.

We made it back to our unit and contemplated spas and day-trips for the overmorrow. 

Underwater Videography

Tuesday, October 8, 2024. Waikoloa Beach, HI

Today’s card is the Wheel of Fortune, reversed. Generally, this is a good card, but it’s not a fabulous card, the meaning of which can be summed up as, “Pay attention to what you can learn from when things don’t go perfectly.”

I must not ask, even as a joke, “Did they film Magnum PI here?”


Today we got up early—mostly because we’re still on Oregon time—and tried to see the comet (again) and generally get oriented to the skies. Then it was off to Dolphin Discoveries in Kona to snorkel.

Originally we were to go on a dolphin tour where we would observe dolphins from a boat, but that package was cancelled and we were rebooked on a double-snorkel trip. All of the passengers on the boat were pleasant and the Dolphin Discoveries crew (Erica and Captain Raj) were laid back and knowledgeable.

Our first snorkel was in Kealakekua Bay State Historical Park, a bay against a cliff where there is a white obelisk to Captain James Cook (British explorer and jerk). The water by the boat was a deep blue, then green, then a washed out turquoise, then white as it became more shallow.

Clutching a rental GoPro Camera, I plunged into the water and promptly had my snorkel come out of my mouth. The water was warm (again!) which was a nice change from the cold water off of the Oregon Coast. Undaunted, I began to video fish. What I hadn’t taken into account was that when I wear my contact lenses, I’m very far-sighted, and the GoPro has a fairly small screen: so there was no way I’d be able to look through the camera’s finder to see what I was imaging. I more or less held the camera at arm’s length and pointed it in the same direction that I was looking. But I really didn’t have an idea of what kinds of video I was getting, other than that I probably had a good shot of Mark snorkeling.

There were tons and tons of fish, and they seemed to be used to people. We saw a purple and gold striped boxfish (probably) and a blue and gold spotted tang and lots of trigger fish. Slate-pencil Sea Urchin lurked among the (mostly) cauliflower coral and (some) finger coral. It was difficult to get close to them, though, because they were about eight to ten feet below the surface and swimming down—even with fins—clutching a GoPro in one hand and holding breath was hard; I kept bobbing up (I guess I should be thankful that I’m much more buoyant than I used to be forty years ago). Mark felt the water pressure in his ears when he tried to swim to deeper depths.



After an hour of floating and diving and pointing the GoPro camera hopefully, it was off to the waters around Pu'uhonua O Honaunau National Historical Park, the Place of Refuge. We snacked on delicious pineapple en route. The ocean continued to be calm and the sky slightly cloudy.

On the second dive, I think my and Mark’s gear got swapped—my mask was leakier and the bite on the snorkel felt off. Despite this difficulty, we sited a spotted ray. I was so intent on videoing it that Mark had to pull me back from swimming out of bounds and into a dolphin sanctuary! Afterward, we saw an eel and more of the other fish. Mark liked the majesty of the second dive site, but I had a better experience at the first. Mark says I should have switched masks with him—but I was trying to make thing work.

The GoPro seemed to be turning itself off, so I got fewer videos of this spot. After forty-five minutes in the water, it was time to leave. On the trip back to Kona, we stopped by a rock formation that looked like Pelé lying on her side (the old chiefs used to have their priest light fires in the formation’s “eyes”). At a second stop we visited a former hill that had collapsed into a caldera (sort of like The Devil’s Punchbowl in Oregon, only navigable by boat.)

Afterward, we changed into dryer clothes and went to downtown Kona. The captain (Captain Raj) had recommended a place to eat (Mark asked) which turned out to be right on the ocean in Ōneo Bay. Mark had really good fish tacos, and I had a “Luau Pizza.” Our waitress was a hoot, and had strong opinions of how disruptive the Ironman competition (or “Underwear Run,” as she called it) was. We did a little bit of shopping, looked at Hulihee Palace (closed for a private event), and then drove back to the resort.

We both noticed that time seemed to be stretching out. Mark’s fairly active anyway, so we weren’t just sitting around on a beach day drinking, but it felt like we’d been on The Big Island forever. Possibly not paying close attention to what day it was or listening to the news and limiting social media time helped. We also never really got off of the Oregon time zone; so we frequently found ourselves up around 5:30 A.M. and being actively engaged with the environment—and being tired and ready for sleep by 8:30 P.M.

Orienting to Hawaii

Monday, October 7, 2024. Waikoloa Beach, HI

7:00 A.M. which means it’s 10:00 A.M. at home. This morning’s tarot card is the Three of Pentacles reversed, which I’m thinking is me worrying about work and writing craft and vacation.

Today is a recovery and orientation day. Despite wanting a bit more sleep mentally, my body was ready to be up at 5 A.M. After a brief attempt at more sleep, I got up again for the day.

Mark was already awake, and I stumbled about our condo trying to see if I could see Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS, but I think it’s too close to the sun. Also, it took me some doing to locate Polaris, and there’s a shield volcano in front of everything, and the ocean is to the southwest (not the westwest). I think what’s confusing me the most is that I’m not in a valley oriented north/south.

We’re staying in a Hilton resort village made up of three or four properties and shopping centers. Our unit is nice. It’s on the third floor of a blocky mansion-style building with a red tile roof. We’re on the northwest corner, with a spacious balcony that gets a lot of late afternoon sun (and late-night geckos). The resort is on the southern coast, just below the most western tip of the Big Island. The saddle between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa is east of us. I really should have looked more closely at a map, because my directional sense, never my strong suit, is especially scrambled the entire trip.

The grounds are well maintained and manicured—sort of like Disney World, only without all of the branding. We’re in a part of the resort that isn’t zooey. I’d say most of the folks in this section are white, middle-class retirees and their families. There’s a smattering of folks from Asia and India.

I’d say it’s a toss-up which is the loudest: the birds, the local water features (I jokingly referred to the artificial creek running around our unit as our moat), or the air-conditioning unit across the street at pool. I suppose that staying at the resort must be similar to being on a cruise ship, only without the ocean travel.

If we wanted to drop a lot (more) money, I could have a day spa treatment and massage and we could swim with enslaved dolphins.


Mark has disparaged (rightly) my humming of “Mele Kalikimaka”, and so of course my brain has switched to the song, “Puka Shells.”

In the morning, we went to a local access beach about fifteen minutes east and tested out the snorkel-masks Dad loaned us. I would say the most surprising thing about the beach was the sign warning folks about unspent military ordinances and to not touch anything that might look like a grenade.

The water was surprisingly warm; throughout the trip I had to keep reminding myself that we were in the tropics and that the water would be much warmer that the 50F it is off of the Oregon coast. A turtle buzzed Mark while he was swimming underwater. There were lots of triggerfish. Mark found a semi-secret cave that one had to swim to above the rocky cliff on the east side of the bay; it was a little too public for making out in, and we had to settle for a quick kiss around snorkels.  I absorbed too much salt water my third time out and suddenly felt sick while still out in the surf—luckily, I wasn't too far out and it was easy enough to float back to the beach.

I also wasn’t expecting to be out in the sun so much and got a particularly awkward and ugly sunburn: the tops of my pecs were bright red and I had white streaks underneath, which made me look especially saggy; I’d unevenly applied sunscreen around my neck, so I had red “straps” running down the sides of my chest and a white bib-shape over my sternum. I looked like I was wearing a Holly Hobbie or Marie Osmond dress made out of sunburn.

I'm thinking that today's tarot card should have been The Sun, reversed.

Flying to Hawaii

Sunday, October 6, 2024.  Seattle, Washington.

We’re on our way to Hawaii and are currently laid-over in Seattle.  It seems a little unreal…partially because we’re going in October and I’ve been focused on work.  Mark has been reading at least three books about the islands and has already booked several snorkeling excursions.

Mark has never been to the islands. 

I was there last in December of 1977 over the Christmas Holiday.  My family spent about a week there.  What I remember was a dingy-looking pigeon in a dark, stone, Honolulu Episcopal Church on a rainy Christmas Day… I remember collecting rocks from a crashing surf with my sister, Julie, while my folks walked the beach…  I remember visiting the Pearl Harbor memorial and seeing tiny oil droplets rising from the rusting hulks beneath the water. I remember going to a cultural center where my mom and sister put on grass hula skirts and Julie’s mortified expression when I took their picture.  I remember the the public was invited to taste poi; the docent there was complaining that they had to use ineffective toothpicks now that the Health Department had ruled that tourists couldn’t scoop up poi the traditional way with their fingers.  I remember Hawaiian dancers on a floating platform….  I remember trying to photograph every “tiki” I came cross and also being in a competition with Julie to buy the most resin tikis “made with real lava.”  (The “Love Tiki” with glowing eyes was an especial hit.)…  I remember island-hoping from Oahu to Kauai and there was some problem with the plane’s front landing gear (it was stuck up or down? the tire had fallen off? it was turned sideways?) that had everyone anxious.  I remember stifling my laughter and not making eye contact with my sister as we were sitting in a restaurant while two elderly ladies several tables over pointed and asked their waiter “Did they film Hawaii Five-0 over there?” (My parents were also wearing their straight faces.) The biggest impressions made on me were from a (dry) book of Hawaiian Myths and Legends collected by King Kalakaua (“Hina, the Hellen of Hawaii”, and “The Sacred Spearpoint of Lono”), and the infamous “hula girl”—also “made with real lava”—I brought back on the request of my grandfather before our Christmas travel (“Make sure you bring me back a hula girl, heh-heh.”).  

About two hours in the air—four more to go.  We’ve been separated from our roll-on cary-on.  The other passengers appear to be drama-free.  The sunset is slowly pulling ahead of us as we fly southwest.  When we took off from Seattle, the sun was on the horizon, but it sprang back into the sky as we ascended.  Over the hours it turned the clouds into a keystone shaped stain glass window.  

The ruddy glow has dimmed, leaving behind a honey-agate glow which turns turquoise and then cobalt.  The ocean below was a gradient greyscale beneath silvered clouds, but it’s all inky now.  

There should be a sliver of a new moon, but I can’t see it out of the airplane window… maybe it’s—oh! We just banked and now Venus and the new moon are visible!

We’ve been flying over darkness, but in the distance we can just make out glowing city lights.  I thought at first that this was Hawaii, but most likely it was Maui.  Of course the song “Mele Kalikimaka,” or rather, the first line of it, which I’m butchering into something like “Mala Kamiki maka” is playing in my head.

The most surprising thing about the airport on Hawaii was that it is open-air.  Gates, agent counters, and luggage are under structures reminiscent of huts.  Incongruous flat-screen flight monitors cast blueish light on palm trees.  Everyone says “aloha,” which was expected.  What was surprising is the use of “mahalo,” the meaning of which I thought was somewhere between “thank you” and “respect,” but which appears to be used for something between “thanks in advance” and “your forbearance and compliance with this procedure, which should be common sense to you, and which may be bureaucratic or mildly annoying, is appreciated and expected.” We retrieve our cary-on luggage and go to the car rental. 

The night-time drive to the resort is uneventful, although we do wonder which live animals we should be watching out for on the highway.  

When we arrive at check-in, Bud, the guy who greets condo owners is out for the day.  The women staffing the front desk are a hoot, and when we say that we were expecting chocolate covered macadamia nuts, tell us that we need to march into Bud’s office and pound on his desk for them.  “Here,” says one, “you check him in and I’ll tell this one about how to do things.”  My instructions boil down to use common sense and don’t trust Siri to get you places because she’ll steer you wrong (“I told them we wanted to take the exit, but did they listen to me...?”)  

It turns out the wild animals that cross the highway at night are goats and wild pigs.

Dog and Comet

Obligatory Dog Photo. We had a lot of rain the previous week.  This has cooled things down from the high eighties to the mid seventies—that's still warm enough for the dog to want to play in a local reservoir.  

The last few mornings, I've been looking in the east for Comet A3 Tsuchinshan-ATLAS.  I haven't seen it:  I think it's been too faint, and it's low enough that the hills to the east hide it before it gets too light.  I expect that I'll have better luck seeing it in mid-October.  

Apparently, there's another one, comet C/2024 S1 (ATLAS) waiting in the aisles; that one might be as bright as Venus a few days before Halloween.

It would be exciting if there were two comets visible in the sky at once. Finger's crossed; comets are notoriously hard to predict. 

Virtual Eye vs. Virtual Ear

Lately, I’ve been self-indulgently going back through old blog posts to take a look at their structure… and (true confession time) to have an LLM generate a pod-cast on them. I’ve come to the conclusion that spoken analysis of some of my blog posts from an LLM feel less virtual than written analysis. Also, I’d say that there’s still some garbage-in/garbage-out going on in the analysis: since I’d fed it fifty different posts, the LLM doesn’t quite know how to deal with the wide-ranging topics, and defaults to statements about personal blogs being like a diary or a lexical exploration of how to live one’s life. My sense is that if I focused the source documents around just one topic, the output would be less general.

The virtual podcast is fairly amusing — the male voice sounds a little like A Martínez from NPR, the female voice sounds like the character Roz Doyle (from the sitcom Fraiser), and the script seems like it was lifted from a Radio Lab show. Occasionally, filler phrases like “totally,” “one-hundred percent,” “exactly,” “absolutely,” “of course,” “fer sure,” and “I’m here for it,” become obtrusive. Probably the more jarring moments are when one virtual host will talk about “clicking through the posts”: which you know couldn’t have happened because they don’t have a body.

I’d also say that two virtual hosts speaking about what I’ve written — at least when they aren’t looping through the same script for the third time — somehow feels more validating than reading a generated analysis. I’m pretty sure the hosts have been primed to offer emotional judgements (e.g. “he’s so vulnerable writing that,”) over the textual analysis. And the synthetic voices have fairly good (if sometimes glitchy) tone and inflection.

Jane Yollen was right, the ear and the eye are different audiences.

Equinox Ornithomancy

I spent the weekend of the Autumn Equinox recovering from my latest COVID vaccination (not so bad, I guess, but I could do without the fever and chills).

Between naps, I quickly read two saucy man-on-man murder mysteries set in a magical Victorian England (the “Charm of Magpies” series, by K.J. Charles) and finished up a re-read of “The Mists of Avalon” (which says less about imagined British Paganisms and The Goddess than I’d recalled, and could be paraphrased “Morgaine and her certainty are the common factors in all her failed, betrayal-filled relationships.”)

So this Equinox there was no dancing in a magic circle, nor harping under moonlight, nor meditating while incense floated around me.

However, on the Equinox, Mark and I did go for a long walk along the Willamette River and to Delta Ponds. As we were walking along the gravel path between the two bridges on the south end of the Ponds, I looked out on a strip of water running between two marshy beds of river grass. It was a little after the sun was in its meridian. A dark egret stood on the eastern bank, facing a white heron on the western bank. The two birds facing each other put me in mind of the Middle Kingdom hieroglyph for the horizon 𓈌 , although I believe two animals back-to-back more commonly hint at it in Egyptian art. Still, it was a striking image — almost like a tableau from tarot card — that seemed to signify the Equinox. I stopped to pay better attention to it; fixing the curving the shining water between the green grasses, a shadowy neck, white wings, narrow beaks, and the symmetry between the birds in my mind.

And like the tarot, it was telling me something I already knew: the day was the day when the balance of the season would shift into shadow.

Song and Magic

I’ll confess that I watched the first two episodes of “Agatha All Along,” and now I’ve got the “The Ballad of the Witches’ Road (Sacred Chant Version)” playing in my head (written by Kristen Anderson Lopez and Robert Lopez, the same folks who brought you “Let It Go” and other Frozen songs).

It starts out in A minor, which is obligatory for that old time Child Ballad feel. It steers away from simple arpeggios just enough to keep you guessing, and there are accidentals and parallel fourths thrown in to break it out of a rigid pentatonic structure. The lyrics scan, with (mostly?) iambic hexameter in a rhyme structure AA (BB)C (DD)C for the verse and EEE(FF) for the chorus (which lends itself to a round of “down down down down / down the witches’ road”), flirting in 6/8 between a waltz, a conga, and a polka while still staying a chant.

The words mostly work. Since it’s a soundtrack from a work of fiction grounded in a Marvel franchise/Disney show, it’s not exactly a hymn to the Goddess nor a aria to the seasons and Earth processes — even if it does reference “Maiden, Mother, Crone” — I’m trying to decide if the folk references in the song constitutes cultural appropriation or not… and I think the chant is geared toward moving a story with Marvel/Disney magic in it more than stereotyping real-world magical practitioners.

At least it’s better than "Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.” And so far, there haven’t been any references to “Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth.”

To be honest, I wish more of the traditional NeoPagan chants and poems I’ve encountered were half this good, and I can easily imagine using re-tooled variations like “down the autumn road.”

Dream: The Dance Student and the Ocean Horses

I was an art student of some kind; like a dancer. I might have been a young girl, but during the course of the dream I became myself (probably idealized to be in my forties). I was attending one school (possibly Reed College), had been accepted at another school. The schools were along a long curving bay. The school I wanted to go to was away along the coastline, to the left; there were lights of small towns along the bay, and the school’s lights shone like small blue lights over the water.

There was a side-scene where three or four female councillors were discussing my transfer. They were all wearing narrow dresses, in a business-academic style. One councillor was championing me; I forget the details of the discussion, but there were some rules that would have to be relaxed or bent to allow me to go. My champion concluded the argument with “Well, at least my ass has a cleft in it,” (implying that the others were tight-assed), and “Excuse me; I’m being a bitch.”

Back at the beach, I stood on a high dune or loose sandstone cliff about eight feet high overlooking a lower beach and the water. It was twilight; there was enough light to see the sand and the water, but the lights were still on in the distance. I climbed down the nearly vertical embankment and realized that I’d left my backpack in the beach grass at the top. I started to climb back up, which became extra tricky—I moved as if through treacle, the cliff was suddenly extra crumbly, hand and footholds became inextricably difficult. The tide surged in, and I got wet from my feet to my knees.

After some effort, I made it back to the top of the sand embankment and my pack. I looked back down at the beach below. Suddenly, three white horses with rippling manes were on the sand below; I have the impression that they came out of the waves. They wove back and forth in front of me; they whickered at me, pulling back their white lips and showing their not-quite-as-white teeth. They wanted me to come with them, but there wasn’t a way for me to climb down and I told them so.

Old Skydiving Memories

We’re cleaning out the garage, straightening out the old boxes of holiday decorations, tools, tents, furniture, books, and old paperwork. In the course of this, I found a manuscript of my 1995 skydiving memoirs. Oh. My. God. I was so earnest at twenty-nine, half a lifetime ago.

At the time, I wanted the memoir to be exploration of the questions, “is truth a static thing to be discovered or revealed, or is it an evolving thing that one grows into?”, “what are the boundaries of self, and when am I not-I?”, “how does one navigate and integrate different cultural groups?” and “what have I got to show for my thirty years on this planet?” Reading the account now feels like a collection of description-lite, barely-strung-together situations.

It mostly works on a mechanical level, but it doesn’t seem to work on a cathartic level—part of the problem is that I am not giving the reader enough background information. If I were going to write it again, I would introduce some of the folks more thoroughly. I would look for and emphasize repeating images and motifs in the descriptions of the jumps. I would address the elephants in the room: Arcosanti, my burgeoning queerness, and my failures at finding True Love and Romance. And I would add the last skydive I ever did, by myself, a few days before I returned to Oregon.