Smoke along the road to Kealakekua—chickens roasting by the hundreds, barbecued, on spits.
On Thursday the dive boat has anchored offshore, strung with Christmas lights.
On Saturday morning they practice dancing, with the bamboo sticks.
The old Chinese man on the lawn between the Kona Inn and the ocean paints ideographs with a fat brush. I remember the sign for thinking within motion, the self and the journey which is within.
At the Saturday farmers' market we buy a bagful of papayas and flowers—pink ginger, orchids, mixed anthurium, $5.00.
They are fishing off the rocks. The volcano that I feel when I "feel the earth," practicing my Tai Chi, has been taken by cloud.
The second boat whose mast is constant in my view of steeple, mast, and white plumaria went out this morning with a gay striped sail.
I drink a dry white wine from the volcano. Not as fine as Etna or the other volcanic whites, but surprisingly good.
The bonsai banyan trees fit on a shelf.
Dried leis have been left on the statue of the fish god.
From the gardener who gives my mother bags of papayas and little pecan tarts we hear about the sea cave filling up with golf balls.
—Christie, December 1996
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