Vigorously abiding in each moment is the time-being. A dead eel in the shore break isn't banal; nor is the styrofoam cup shard, the panty liner half-buried in sand. In one's 50s, abstraction trades places with the particular. Not a shell of, but a shell my daughter holds up, three black dashes on white. A white fish with one black dot on its mid-section swims beside a coral head. Some boys scramble over rocks, find another dead eel; its spine & teeth show yellow on black rock. Three boys & then another killed in Israel/Palestine, horror to counter-horror. Trauma's memory without screen, unlatched door in a wind storm, flapping without brake, or interval. Each moment in its time until there's only protea stuck in a stump at Punalu`u. The image of these flowers can abide, refresh, return. Involuntary key stroke, happy typo on a sea wall.
--5 July 2014