OUR MOMENT IN THE SUN...A PAINTING.

Last Sunday Buckwheat and I spent the day at our little pier side beach on Kailua Bay.

Beside the two of us; we had brought two beach towels, one beach chair, two books, sun screen, two tiny, 100 calorie bags of Oreo cookies, two tiny, 100 calorie bags of assorted salty snacks, and one bottle of water.   

As we settled down, Buckwheat read and I pondered.

I kept writing in my mind a description of what was around us on this little beach. Earnest Hemingway tries to do the same thing in “A Moveable Feast,” which is about his beloved time in the Paris of 1921. He is supposed to be one of the primer writers in American history, and this book is considered one of the best written books of his career, not for the story, there is none, it is just chapters of descriptions of people, places and thoughts while writing in Paris.

But as I follower along with him through Paris, through the buildings he entered, the Café’s he frequented, the streets he walked, as well as the weather he loved or hated, all with the most mundane of details. But, I’m left with fuzziness, shouldn’t there be more clarity in his painting of Paris, his descriptions seem more Picasso then Rockwell.  

His book is more a personal journal than a book; I’m interested in his writing style, not in a “Who done it” novel. So as I set on the beach, I put down Hemingway momentarily, and become lost in my own attempt to describe my own setting.

The setting around us comes alive in its smallest of details, there are colors, scenes, people, historical artifacts, trees of mass abundance, and smells, they all mean something to me, but can I have them mean something to someone else, will others see a Picasso if I painted my thoughts?

I am drawn away for quite awhile from Buckwheat’s presence, Kona has come alive on my mental canvas, I’m overwhelmed and delighted with my writing, Buck sees me lost in thought, she welcomes me back with a touch, I’m in the chair, she’s on the beach towel to my right, her face lights up with confirmation of my trip, “What are you thinking?”

I’m blessed by her presence, but saddened at the loss of my place at the easel.

Buckwheat’s face is the most stunningly radiant of all faces, I often gaze at her while we are with people, I’m unsuspectingly breathless at her vision, yet this time I want to go back to my painting.

Will I be able to recapture what I’m seeing? Will it be possible for me to write about this moment?

My painting is diminished through the explanation of it.

 If I sit down to paint my thoughts on the canvas of my computer, will their beauty fade, will readers become fuzzy? Is Hemingway’s way, the way we all must go, great to be there, but impossible to transpose, perhaps in the end, the only thing that matters is Hemingway’s satisfaction. When viewing his painting, is he pleased, is he taken back to that wonderful Paris, do smells become pungent again on paper and ink?

Perhaps surroundings are personal vapors, strong, then weak, then lost, wonderful, but personal.

Paris meant so much to Hemingway.

Being on the beach in Kona with Buckwheat means so much to me.

 If one can experience something so warm and joyful, and think them so grandly, shouldn’t they be able to make them vibrantly fascinating, at least for those who traveled the same streets?

For Buckwheat and I, this is our moment in the sun.

SOON TO BE PAINTED: OUR MOMENT IN THE SUN.