Friday

Such as the sugar mongers who paced this land throughout the 19th century, the powerful elites continue filtering through this island with martyring hope, rubbing their stubby hands together in anticipation of deep pockets. Whether a sugar monger or a current capitalist, each ego understands the fine balance of exploitation, that line continually straddled and played with and pushed.

They push and they yell… can seal into their faces their most convincing smiles and try selling us this concept of “community greater good.” And so, we push our machines until smoke plumes start steadily leaking out.

and, against our better judgement, we can push the machines and cut the trees and try keeping up with a pace no one really understands. 

But everything has a price. Everything breaks eventually. 

Yesterday (Thursday), was a sad, hard day. Twelve monkey pods and one mango. Trees that have withstood every weathering storm for hundreds of years, watched generations of keki grow and come back. They are most certainly dead, hollowed out from bugs and larvae, but the neighborhood who loves them don’t know this. 

Tree guys put up a good fight, but we still found ourselves at the mercy of profit and push. Machines can only be pushed so much. People can only be pushed so far. 

This morning, with three trees cut to the ground, an oil leak, a busted hose... hands are tied under the carefully devised demo plan created by one of us. This is a blessing.  

Now I find myself on standby, at the beach, musing the complexities of this island. Nothing now but to wait. Maybe the machine will work. Most likely not. The tree guys are secretly relieved, as am I. Did the island gift us more time? I don’t want to return to floating.

Now we can let the ohanas know, warn them that the trees have died, have been dead since the fire ten months ago, and will soon all be gone. It will be jolting either way, for them to drive home no longer welcomed by century old trees, but maybe we can pad the initial shock.