The Faux Pas Press #48
By Jason Fresh
Hawaii is a desert – not a dessert at a Chateau Marmot, not an escape from the meat and potatoes, not a release from your fears but an encounter with the Hawaiian gods waiting to break you. All the world points at paradise for a great release, all the world struggles with space-time to find it - like a well-dressed commoner fighting with surroundings to find lunch in a trashcan. Yes, all the world points to paradise as salvation from the Self. What is paradise for the few is purgatory for the many. What is escape for the West, what is escape for the Japanese tourist sporting western brands made in the East, is a workshop of dreams for those caught in the magnetic center. It is hell for the local, the military man, the servant, hell for the family pumping lifeblood into the machine to build it. Paradise is our construct. It is sand hauled in from the desert. Hawaii is a desert. It is volcanic protrusion covered in the illusion of autonomy, pure culture vanquished by competing empires. Hawaii is the last great stand. So, alas, it is here that I stand, it will be here that I swim, here that die. I am convinced that no free persons exist, and pretend as we might, every man has got pay the devil his due, pretend as we might, freedom is the joke smoked from the pipes of Samoans – desert weed in the belly of the Pacific.
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