Intentionality – intense

International incursions, forays that inspire intentions.

I’m right at the finish line, panting with pace to ace myself…finally.

I figured I found aroha in the form of another, and I did. Our encounters are encouraging, Earthing me to my connections that reach beyond the stars. Starting each day with him/her in my mind and heart is warming.

Warning – do not get lost in love.

I’m listening to Elton John’s Tiny Dancer on my 60s 70s and 80s Pandora mix – this radio station reminds me of that guy in Hawaii, what a cute fulla – uncomplicated and chill. He must’ve thought ‘what the fuck’ when we did our dash.

So many different energies being bound up in this thesis, sometimes I wonder who lived all the lives I describe in its pages…in part they are mine but in part they belong to huka.

He’s a good kunt huka, but he does limit me within the pages and projects of my PhD research. I’ve enjoyed performing him sometimes, other times I have hated his guts because in performing him I lose bits of myself that have always been important.He’s more human than I – he’s quite primal in fact, a fiction though he really is.

I’m letting go of him as I write this other body of text where the words count, have deep meaning and will ripple outward with integrity.

Strange to have to perform a trickster to trick myself back into living.



Mowing down the verge of the horizon lines to be crossed and marked with an X, treks to another rising but not falling.
I want to drown out some misery and rebirth, rehearsals are over forever.

I walk along the path.

I travel.

I sleep.

In my dreams I saw dinner at some foreign table, in the middle of a cramped huddle. I forgot to tip the waiter. In the water, the colors of yesterday faded to a gloss. Mostly, I wasted away to the brink of my bones, a trading type of insanity at last. The glass was broken, but filled with sand.
My hands are sore from holding on too tight, so now it is time to let go.

I drank acorn mush yesterday. It tasted like the wind, and I imagined the years blowing softly as I looked out onto the trees and hills beyond the table. It was a hot day, and the people around me talked happily about life and death and all the things that make the days go by. A young man asked me as he passed, “were you playing with a poi ball?” I nodded. I saw him a few years ago the last time I went to the Patwin village. Next to the table was the pit where the tribal meeting house used to stand, long since burned and dismantled. The dust made me think of those dazed existence memories, settled into the dying odor of new growth. People talked story and I listened. It was one of those ways when I couldn’t really find the words in my mouth. My shark’s teeth and bare feet spoke for me.

Why do I fly? Why do I always wake in the shared stories of a thousand years? I sometimes wonder if my feet will ever feel the sea again. For now I swim in my imagination as it sets alight to the glowing embers which were just about to die. I cry, but I never feel the tears dripping from my chin. The story is sad but always the same.

I ate fry-bread, and then some rabbit. I had never eaten rabbit before. I saw a rabbit today at the park. Some Mexican children had brought it with them. It was strange to see them slip it down the slide, and cuddle it as they ran about chasing each other.

As I shift and change my body grows into a large mass of water, and I immerse myself into the cooling; I need to because the heat has torched my skin and I no longer recognize myself.

Rising from the ashes I glow with new feathers, and begin to remember how to sing love songs again.

Serenade me. I need to hear my heart beat in the chasm of my consciousness.