The 23rd Floor is in an aging
condominium just off Kapiolani Boulevard, near Ala Wai
Community Park, in Honolulu. It’s where I do my writing and
cultivate a practice of aggressive solitude.
I call it “aging” because it
was built when condos were modeled after correctional
facilities and didn’t look at all like the current
infestation of alabaster and crystal honeycombs cropping up
on every other block.
I have the entire 23rd Floor because of a quirk. The 23rd
is the topmost floor, and it’s really only a unit, not a
floor. The haole
contractor
(Chicago) who built the condos had this idea to give
himself a little crow’s nest of an office, on top of the
building. Before he could finish the project, he went
Chapter 11 and the Honolulu developer who bought the
unfinished business at the Trustee’s sale decided to make
the office a little penthouse hideout and inflate the
normal “per-square-foot” asking price by a factor of three.
The first owner of that over-priced unit was my uncle,
fulfilling a youthful dream to retire in the Islands. Too
bad his retirement was only into the third month when a
lifetime of alcohol poisoning suckerpunched his lights out.
But, good for his favorite nephew who is fulfilling an
aging dream to create dubious monographs on a laptop, while
sitting on a lanai
overlooking
Waikiki.
If any of the above existed
anywhere but in my pineapple inflamed imagination, that’s
exactly how it would be.
As it is, it’s still true enough for the modest purpose of
inventing a backstory for this little web log.
Cheers,
Steve
Gillard