I am a ghost of glee dancing silently, unseen but through mirrored glass. Tucked in jungle cabin surrounded by crickets and Cohen, boar and Borges and outside it’s black as pitch. Three geckoes chuckle as they congregate on the screen to feast knowing as long the light stays on this won’t be their last. My ghost face mirth is bright as I spin, my toe on a square of sheepskin slippery against the bamboo floor. Layers of white cotton I bought in Milan twirl out to here and I am a wedding cake with plumeria petals of confetti dancing down the house. My euphoria grows as I spin, a blonde dervish in rapture, shared solely by the largest crane I’ve yet made. Brown wax packing paper. Soon we swoop backward onto the bed together, that crane and I, in a wing-spanned swoon of bliss.
Kukicha tea brewing in the glass tea pot, the twigs hitting the sides. When I’m not dancing on it, that fleece square is what I sit on to meditate, do puja on. I use my left hand to wave incense, to move energy, my right hand up too. I usually wear things to remind me of people and tonight I wear a broken watch I found in my father’s drawer. It hangs against my wrist bone, tapping it every time I make a circumambulation with my arm. I am a joyous ghost in this nonlinear plane and this cabin is my playground, my house of mirth. The watch doesn’t keep time but this makes sense in the rolling foothills of the Wailua Mountains, where there is only the rooster to wake you and the rain to rock you away.