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It’s the first day of my birthday month.
This year, I’ll be 46. I never thought I’d make it to my forties, or my thirties for that matter. I distinctly remember driving around Olympia, WA with a friend, circa 1999, smoking weed, both of us confessing that we doubted we’d make it to our twenties. This was back when I’d stop at Jack in the Box during our mid-morning break and buy a Dr. Pepper, only to dump some out and replace it with vodka. I wanted nothing but to escape my life, my all-consuming anxiety and depression, but also to feel cool, as if I were rejecting the straight world. Secretly I loved school, loved learning, yet I could never keep it together. You know– undiagnosed ADHD and autism. Even as a teenager I had CPTSD. I don’t even think PTSD was a term back then. Now that friend has a daughter who’s older than we were at the time. Life is pretty incredible.
This time last year I was living in Tallahassee and anticipating the release of my first book, which had already been mentioned in the New York Times. That was such a wild ride. Things feel as different from a year ago as they do from 1999. Some people say you can stagnate as you age, but I think stagnation is a choice. I never want to stop learning and changing and more fully becoming myself.
Yesterday the clouds were galloping across the sky, trade winds whipping through the palms, winds strong enough to move solid objects. In the afternoon my friend picked me up from my apartment in the Mōʻiliʻili neighborhood of Honolulu and we drove to Kaimuki, parking in the lot I’ve come to know intimately over a decade of summer teaching in Honolulu. We walked to Da Shop, one of my favorite bookstores. I bought two books: Snaring New Suns (a collection of speculative works from Hawai’i and beyond), and Six Memos For the New Millennium, by Italo Calvino. Then we went to Plantoem, a tea/coffee/plant shop, where we worked together for a while, laptops open, before chatting about teaching. My friend is the reason I’m here. We met over a decade ago at the Tin House Writer’s Workshop, and he helped me land a summer teaching job at Punahou School.
On Monday I have my orientation, which lasts three days. Then school starts the following week. I’m excited, slightly terrified, sometimes worried about the workload (I am still finishing up my PhD). But mostly excited. The routine will be good for me, as will a steady paycheck. I can’t wait to meet my students and get to know the other faculty. I know I have a lot to learn, and I love learning.
At Plantoem I bought a succulent, remembering the summers I used to spend at Esalen, in Big Sur, working on the landscaping crew, tending to the plants and writing in the rustic cafeteria, soaking in the sulfur baths in the afternoons and evenings. Then we walked a few blocks to a Thai restaurant. It’s been a long time since I’ve had good Thai food with a good friend. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I am somewhere I can call home.
I arrived home after dinner and sat outside, near the pool, writing in my journal, holding down the pages to stop them from flapping in the wind. Unrelenting wind; the kind of wind one experiences while seafaring, standing on a ferry deck while crossing a large expanse of water. It felt as if I were on a large ship, as if the island itself were an immobile vessel resting in the center of the ocean, which it is, in a way. The island remains still, caressed by the sea and wind. While I was writing I heard the booming Waikiki fireworks, a weekly tourist event.
I love the sky here in Honolulu. On our way back to my place from dinner, I drove my friend’s car. He’s lived here for several decades, but as I was driving her became concerned about the route I’d chosen– did I know my way around? I reassured him, driving the back way to my place, past the giant half-constructed housing development I can see from my lanai, down Date street, finally pulling into the loading zone in front of my building. He was impressed. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’ve lived here for a long time and never would have thought to come this way.” I glowed with the compliment. Before moving here I sold my old Kia Soul and, because my rent is expensive, decided in advance that I’d live without a car for as long as possible. I walk everywhere, using the map on my phone but not the navigation. Until last night I hadn’t realized how well I’ve gotten to know this place. There’s a map in my head now– Waikiki is a thirty minute walk towards the ocean; Ala Moana fifty minutes. My walk to school takes a little under half an hour. When I get restless in my tiny apartment I just go walking, past the park right next to my building, where several folks have made makeshift homes with tents and grocery carts, down King Street or Beretania. It’s a ten minute walk to the local health food store. Fifteen to 7-Eleven, where I can get a surprisingly decent sushi roll for less than four dollars. The matcha place I like is across the street.
It used to be like this in Seattle. The walking. The exploring. I didn’t realize how much I missed being in constant contact with a city, an impossible task in Tallahassee.
As I write the the wind is still going. My mug of green tea is empty, the tea bag’s tag fluttering. The wind is a kind of music, palm fronds singing, the ringing of a bell somewhere far away, the sounds of people in their homes talking or tapping a metal spoon on a pot, the sometimes obnoxious whine of scooters or loud mufflers. Someone coughing.
In my twenties I had a dream of living in the country, where it’s quiet and private. I think this was my mother’s dream. She always complained of being in close proximity to others. I love living in a city. It took me a little while to adjust to the noise, but now it doesn’t bother me. It makes me feel I’m a part of the world, rather than apart from it. And nature is everywhere. Sometimes I’ll be walking and pass under a giant plumeria, the warm, floral scent wafting over me. Sometimes there will be a pile of trash nearby, or the remnants of piss, and I’ll smell that too. This is what life is, I think, and it feels more real to me for the beautiful things to be in constant juxtaposition with what we often deem as distasteful– the human refuse. Our waste, the evidence of our existence. Honolulu isn’t a tidy city, and I’m okay with that. It’s a messy place. Especially my neighborhood, where many folks have been displaced due to the exorbitant cost of living. It’s also an incredibly diverse and complicated place, and my being here will likely feel complicated forever, because Oahu is occupied by the military, because so many Native Hawai’ians have been displaced from their homes. But that’s all of America, too. After writing my book, after so thoroughly researching the colonization of the United States, I see it as an occupied country. The whole country. Yet this country is also my home, and I can only try to be respectful and do good work. Teaching and writing very much feels like a part of that.
UPDATES:
I am currently migrating this newsletter from Substack to Patreon. But I’ll keep posting here! Here’s the deal– I’ll be resuming paid subscriptions for Gathering, but I don’t want anyone to subscribe through Substack. Instead, become a member of my Patreon, and I’ll comp you a subscription here. That way you’ll be able to access all of my posts here, but you’ll also have access to everything on Patreon, which will also include some regularly posted videos, worksheets, and tutorials. The only reason I’m resuming paid subscriptions is so I can paywall my posts here.
So, if you are currently a paying subscriber here, you’re welcome to keep doing that, but it will be cheaper to end your subscription here and instead become a Patreon community member (tiers currently start at $4 a month).
Based on feedback, I have decided to start an analog newsletter/mailing. This is also a tier via Patreon, currently priced at $30 a month. I know that seems steep– but the analog version of the newsletter consists of one letter a month, along with a creative bundle sent via snail mail every two months. These bundles will include a rotating blend of artwork, beads and/or beadwork, prints, tiny zines, physical worksheets, books, journaling and inspirational prompts, literature and film lists, cyanotypes, pressed flowers, scanned annotations and poems…all sorts of cool stuff. Membership to this tier is currently limited to twenty people, because I want to make sure it’s sustainable.
If you’re an author or artist who would like your work featured in a bundle, please reach out to me at revirybles@gmail.com.
So: go over to my Patreon! Feel free to end your paying membership here! If you recently became a monthly paying subscriber, I’m happy to transfer that over to Patreon so the pricing evens out. Remember, everything here will be paywalled, but if you’re a Patreon member you will be a comped member and will still be able to access this newsletter and all the archives. I’ll be posting here frequently in the form of Cloud Reports, but that’s all that’s going to be happening here.
If you’re a member who has paid for a full year, or is paying at one of the top tier prices for my Substack, email me at the above address and share your mailing address, so I can comp that subscription by including you in the analog mailing list.
Why am I moving to Patreon? Because I’ve wanted to leave Substack for a LONG TIME. Or at least stop giving them money. I’ve been here since the beginning, and things have changed a lot. No shade to anyone who is here or stays here. Like, at all. There are no pure choices under capitalism. And I’ll still be here– just not in a paid capacity.
Okay, that’s all! See you over at Patreon! I’m excited to see how things unfold, and I can’t wait to start building the first physical bundle to send out.
Confused? Leave a comment with any questions you may have. And thank you immensely for your continued support.