I can't start at the beginning because I've been having this weekend all my life.
I think it was Friday. I stayed up until 4 AM composing a letter to a dear friend I'd wronged and nearly lost during my darkness these past months.
At 4:01 I sent the letter, and like an apparition conjured by my weary exhalation, the charming and painfully literate Sean invited me to tea the next day. I was late for tea. It didn't matter. Fresh from Paris and light as air, Sean reminded me that we are all of us the beautiful and few. Bad decisions make us perfect. There is joy in wrong as there is despair in success.
We headed out to Kane'ohe for Eden-Lee's Boxing Day party. Many beautiful weirdos in the room -- among them the delightful Peggy, Hans, Rob, Chris -- who incandesce.
I snuck into Walter's house while he was away, I played with his cats, and I stole back a book of mine. Laughter.
Next was Fresh Cafe's lovely event "Last Call," and we talked and talked outdoors beneath the glow of tiny white lights.
I jumped a barbed-wire fence. I stared at my city. I visited a remote beach and watched waves and the moon. I stared at that, too. I can't believe I live here, that I've always lived here; I can't believe I ever hated it here.
I didn't sleep, I didn't need to.
I went to work on Sunday, which means I talked fashion with like-minded nerds and frolicked in a playground of luxury and wearable art. I usually enjoy my work anyway, but this day my feet scarcely touched the ground. I used my lunch break to sleep -- always a sign of a great weekend.
Monday morning came sweet and muggy. I drank orange juice. I had a delightful homemade lunch at Jennifer's brand new apartment. Over the final course of warm-from-the-oven banana bread, Jennifer reminded me that we are all of us OK, not just in the end, but right now. She also reminded me to say no.
Onward to Mercury Bar with Ryan and Sean and Winnie that night. Musings on writing and music. A streetside recording session with words in 6/8 time:
by some constellation of my small anomalies
you have envisaged me brighter than most
oh don't shade your eyes, I'll discard this disguise
'cause I can't have my lovers in love with my ghost
Finally, I summoned sleep after three days, in my big white bed, with all my big white pillows and my big white comforter, my filthy exhausted joyful still-dressed self snuggled right down in the middle.
On Tuesday I lunched with Cyrina at Fresh Cafe. I love business with my lady genius. We are working on something so grand I am about to explode.
My father texts me in French to propose the idea of an impromptu family dinner. Dad doesn't speak French, he just texts in French. We waited 40 minutes to be seated, such was the crowd. And so:
- "Oh good, we finall..."
- "SHUT UP. It's eating time."
- "Mmm... chewing noises... Right."
- Et cetera.
Hit up the Merc again. Kraken and ginger. Hendrick's and tonic. Winnie and Cory and Margot and me. Musings on Honolulu and the inferiority complex, Al Green, and Topman shirts. Winnie pauses to light a fag on the streetcorner and drop this science on me: "I just didn't go back. I didn't need to move. I was already here."
At my first Kaleidoscope for months and months, I was hugging within seconds of ascending that famous stair, greeted by a beautiful Timo and an effervescent Ryan, feeling so lucky and warm. My wronged friend was there, and brought me to tears with a hug and "it's good, it's good."
Lapwing's set was brutal. I danced, hard, with Jason Tom and Stacy and Thomas and other beauties. Then, the Greetings' mini-session. I am in love with "Bounce." The Jason Tom beatbox throwdown. The Kamuela Kahoano mind-blowing offering, many guest musicians, many instruments, many glowing energies. Then, the epic, the historic, the jam of the year.
For this, present tense.
Kamuela doesn't know what to play for the last song. "Just make it up!" I cry. And so, he makes to do just that. I creep over and whisper, "I want in." He gestures openly to the unmanned microphone. My heart leaps in Morse code, what the fuck did I just say?? Kamuela articulates a chord, Jason Tom is making beatbox/bassbox magic. There are two amazing guitarists, an inventive djembe player, a sparkling bassist, and me, holding a warm microphone. I breathe, I open my voice, and my dancing beauties leap to their feet! I keep singing. There is no one not dancing. The music is raucous and fine. Ryan grabs a second unmanned mic and we intone ooohs in smooth harmony... My last phrase before I put the mic down, "I'm gonna dance now, I hope you don't mind, I just have to dance, I hope you don't mind." Ryan and Kamuela take over on vox. This jam is historic.
We made the roof disappear.
In the ladies' room, adorable praise for our "band":
- "Oh! Heh. Thanks, uh, we're not really a band. We were just jamming."
- "YOU MADE THAT UP?"
- "Well, yes."
After, more love and friends. Handshakes. Entreaties. Manifestos. Invitations. So lucky and warm.
Love. There is no measure.
Goodbye, 2009. I'm ready to take this to '10.










