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August 4, 2012


from Kipahulu
to Hana proved
more arduous than
I expected. Maybe it
would help if I had really
sticky feet. I flip-flopped
2 miles all the way to nat'l
park entrance
before a car finally
stopped. "I don't usually pick up hitch-hikers
because they usually smell bad," Jan said. Luckily
we'd met the night before as she was giving my boss
a massage. I'd gone up to the house to watch some more
Olympics. The coverage made me feel like a German in 1936.
It was not just biased, it was ridiculous. It should have been an
aesthetic delight with underwater cameras for instructive
deconstruction of strokes and please, next time more overhead
views during trampoline events. Instead it all boiled down to
USA medal count and how many tears were shed on the podium
during the one and only National Anthem. Jan was really nice and
               we had a good time on a detour where a combination for lock
                         on a small estate's gate was the year Whitman published
                               Leaves of Grass. The people who move here tend to
                                                                     have interesting stories to tell.
I'm not sure
if the reptile
made it or not.
(None do in the end.)

But before you feel
too bad, please bear
in mind that geckos
eat their own. (Read
Robinson Crusoe.)