Salvation

I started to add up the "Bric-a-brac" stickers I collected on my wall one night while I waited for the paint to dry on yet another canvas, during yet another (alcohol induced) "creative break-through." I sat there doing 3rd grade arithmetic, adding the one dollar and 50 cent stickers as if they were prizes. Some days, they were prizes. These small purchases kept me from going crazy on days when reality wasn't real enough; on days when I needed to play make-believe in order to feel like an actual human again.

I made thirteen bracelets that night from the old belts I bought from the Waipahu Salvation Army - and that's only the beginning. When I first moved to Waialua, this is where I got everything I needed to feel "home." Even though they mostly came from the "Brick-a-brac" section and were used, abused, and even broken, I bought things that I felt connected with - my dark-stained four-drawer wooden bureau, my leather mahogany smoking (swivel) chair, my gold framed Victorian (plastic) mirror, and my never-leave-the-house-without-it navy blue and gold Air Force hat (to remember my grandfather). All the things that make up my new everyday routine, have came from this small thrift store right off of the H2.

Tucked away at the first right hand turn before entering Waipahu - and before hitting any real traffic - is my Salvation Army. My muse, friend, inspiration, and comfort, all packed-up into one gently used store front decorated with purple, orange, and yellow price tags. It's behind these walls that the items live. They sit on shelves with their colorful stickers and made-up price tags with stories and past lives that could be as diverse as the island that they live on. The soldier, the single mother, the farmer, or the family of eight; Japanese, Hawaiian, Chinese, Haole, Filipino, Spanish, Africa American, or Hapa. Inspired by the possibilities, I give them all creative owners with interesting stories. I'll pretend that the navy and gold hat belonged to a retired Vet with too many stories to tell in one night, and that the leather mahogany swivel chair belonged to a famous writer, bookie, or someone's grandpa - in that order. But regardless of their past and previous owners, I will love them to death for their "now." I will love them to death for their presence in my life and their ability to give me the inspiration I need, regardless of what happened to them in the past.

And let's be honest, how often can you find a sexy, mahogany, leather chair that doesn't have a past? Plus, I feel pretty damn fly while drinking a whiskey on the rocks with it hanging around...