Exploring The Metaphysical Limits Of Disorientation

Sometimes life comes at ya’ fast. Sometimes it comes at ya’ faster. Sometimes events fuckin’ avalanche your position. Your plans and rational thoughts are buried, burned, shredded, churned like a roto-tiller, hurled it into the void, bent, folded, spindled, and at some point in time they no longer represent roadmarks so much as you stand there punch drunk and wobbly; thinking… “what just happened?”

It is the fifth month of 2025. The most eventful of an exceptionally spastic year. It shuffles toward the exit. I remain. Still standing. Not only standing, but absolutely astounded at how well things have worked out.

Any of that make sense? Don’t worry, all lives are occasionally out of control, the specifics of my chaos are boring. I’m only logging on to say:

1. I’m here and haven’t forgotten ya’ll.
2. Despite eleven zillion things happening, it’s all for the good.
3. Sometimes one must drop the optional (including a much loved blog) simply to grasp at the shore. When this happens, it’s only temporary.

As thanks for your patience, here’s a little story:

I mentioned, almost a month ago, that I was in Hawaii. I also suggested I’m the sort that considered Hawaii only slightly less attainable or realistic than Nirvana. (I’m referring to the Buddhist state of enlightenment and not a defunct grunge band from the 1990’s. Incidentally, I’ve been to Portland; the place where the young go to retire. Nothing about Portland or grunge music or anything in the vicinity is mystically unattainable to anyone.)

Let’s pick up my story with an interesting moment in time.

There I was. I stepped out of my room onto a little porch. I was on the 12th floor of a hotel the sort losers like me can’t afford. The waves lapped slow and steady, relaxing even at the remove of 12 floors. The sun was setting. The tropical air smelled sweeter than any ocean breeze I’ve ever experienced.

I was completely and thoroughly jet lagged. I’d left a bit of my soul behind in the claustrophobic tubes of commercial flight. I didn’t know what time it was, or how long I’d been flying, or when I’d last ate.

I remembered there’d been three planes. I remembered dumping $120 on a taxi ride. (I’m not complaining, the plane had been free-ish to me!) Beyond that, I was thoroughly disoriented.

I didn’t know what time zone I was in. I vaguely grasped enough mental state to remind myself this gentle sweet rocking caressing ocean was the mid (or south?) Pacific, which explains why it seemed so unlike times I’d gazed on the angry surging hypothermic misery of the Puritan’s North Atlantic.

My phone chirped. It was a text from Mrs. Curmudgeon.

“Where are you?”

This is what I know now.

I know that Hawaii is not merely a state, it is an archipelago. The thoroughly modern city of Honolulu is on the island of Oahu. If you say of Honolulu, “it’s in Hawaii”, you just said something stupid. Another, and my favorite of the small number I sampled, is Maui. Say it with me… Maui is an island and not a city. You aren’t on Maui so much as you are in a town that is located on Maui. Ironically, the biggest island, which is clearly and reasonably named Big Island, is not where the action is.

Maui has dozens of places and they all have unpronounceable names. This includes the airport’s home town of Kahului, which lay $120 to the east of where my hotel was located. I dimly registered riding past Lahaina, the scene of a terrible fire two years ago. My hotel was nestled just short of Kapalua in the equally confusingly named Ka’anapali.

I know all of this now. Then, I couldn’t count to ten without six cats and a monkey to help me. I was utterly confused.

“Not the plane. Taxi. But then done.” I texted, capturing the true nature of my mental state.

Then I had another thought. I could neither spell nor pronounce Ka’anapali and had no real proof I was anywhere. I’d had no idea what plane was where. I had retrieved my luggage in a daze. I hadn’t the slightest clue where the taxi had driven me.

I could be on any island anywhere.

How was I to know I wasn’t, for example, on Puerto Rico? My addled mind would probably have better luck piecing together Spanglish than something originating from entirely unfamiliar Polynesian roots. Clutching my cell phone, I looked out at the darkening horizon. Not a written word to be found. Just the ocean breezes and strange Polynesian syntax. I could be anywhere! I could be in Tahiti, or Fiji, or American Samoa. I had a passport in my pocket. Had I used it?

For a man like me, who navigates the emptiest wilderness with considerable confidence, I was adrift. I’d gotten on a plane, I went wherever the fuck the plane went… and I was so very tired.

I looked at the phone. Mrs. Curmudgeon was probably getting worried. I ought to say something.

“I have not the slightest idea where I am.” I texted, truthfully.

“Enjoy your vacation.” Mrs. Curmudgeon texted back, but I didn’t get a chance to read it.

I was already asleep.