A novelist friend writes to us as follows from Hawaii, reflecting on this particular moment as so much seems in flux, and we each, in our own way, in our own place, try to get our bearings.
Letter from Hawaii
Here on the Big Island, as the age of Trump arrives, we are celebrating the Winter solstice season on the slope of the world’s most active volcano, at the very end of the road through jungle and papaya farms and fields of rough black unnavigable lava devastation sixty years old—that is, hiding out as best we can from the sense that Mordor is glowing again: one orchic Trump nomination after another; terrifying, casual tweets encouraging a new atomic arms race by the self-described “very intelligent” incoming commander-in-chief almost with his finger on the button; Syria and Yemen and Iraq nearly destroyed; another strongman in Manila terrorizing his own citizens; Berlin shoppers terrorized and murdered; Standing Rock betrayals delayed for a moment by blizzard. Hiding from them or seeking them, these are the headlines of the day.
Here, on the most remote island chain in the world, the lava is pouring down again into the deep waters. You can see the steam pluming up into its own cloud cover just beyond the horizon, white during the day and orange-pink at sunset. That molten threat is just miles away and yet seems to us a lesser threat than the other, farther outpourings of violence.