And who knows which is which and who is who
Up and Down
And in the end it’s only round and round and round
Beach In Retrospect
Keaau, Beach
July 29, `73
I just got back from playing my recorder down on the rocks, close to
the breaking surf. It felt like I was playing my horn for the first
time, I mean, really playing it. I got high off the music. I broke out
of the scales that had hitherto defined my music. My sentences had
always been short and sweet; today they became progressive and
sensual. It was as though my horn was playing itself while I listened
in appreciation. I hoped I could continue to play like that.
Time on the beach had remained consistent; as soon as it appeared, it
vanished. Days slid into weeks, weeks into months, and nobody kept
track. It may have been July 29, but it could just as easily have been
March 2. The ocean, trees, sun and breeze, not to mention the whole
beach scene, remained the same. Looking back, nothing had changed. Had
I really been here for eight months? The calendar's face was blank.
Actually it was a shame. I had had so many good times, but it was like
they never existed. My happiness remained in the present, always. Upon
leaving this place I would be propelled back into the sequential
world, a world that moved without exception into the future. It
would be almost like I had never come to Hawaii. What a strange
feeling that is!
If I were to go back and read the stuff that I'd written in my
journal, I am sure I would be reminded of all the bad times; the
violence, the ghetto experience, and the raw fear. I have witnessed,
or otherwise been affected by, ten fights, five rip offs, scores of
tough guys, and of course, that unfortunate affair with C.S.; all
that's behind me now. For the record, though, I want to put in a plug
for the Hawaiian people.
The Hawaiians sure know how to have fun. Families flock to the
beaches on weekends, and if they didn't come to the beaches, I'm sure
the authorities would have thrown transients like myself off the
beaches long ago. Because they--the authorities--can't take beach life
away from the Hawaiians, they can't deny the rest of us either. Song
and laughter can be heard across the parks during the weekends. I
might add that I have never met a thirsty Hawaiian--his cup always
runnith over. A contrived gathering, a forced gathering of friends and
relatives, like so often happened back on the mainland, is unheard of
here on the islands. I'm guessing, but the atmosphere of "let the good
times roll" could very easily be a result of class structure, or maybe
I should say lack of structure. The majority of the Hawaiians seem to
fall into one class, the class of the "common people." Everybody
drinks together and has a good time together, and when the Hawaiians
have a good time, everybody has a good time (even haulies, unless the
Hawaiians are of the "hate haulie variety," of which there are many).
For the past couple of weeks things had been good for me. I finished
reading Sartre. I couldn't tell yet if his stuff was digestible. Maybe
it was like a python eating a pig. It would take time, but I would
eventually get it. My beach routine had gotten back to the basics too,
eat, walk, sleep, work and then sleep again. Work, by the way, had
gone from so-so to great. My boss was a friend now. Come closing
time, I had the run of the restaurant. They stopped locking things up,
too. I got to eat like one of the customers after that. At night,
alone, I kept the sound system tuned to KIKI radio. The most peaceful
moment of the night came at around 4 a.m. That was when I mixed a
Grenadine and ginger ale and sat on the balcony overlooking the ocean.
In those quiet moments, all that could be heard was the sound of the
breaking surf. Last night, however, I had Pink Floyd's, Dark Side of
the Moon turned up. FANTASTIC!
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