I'll be wearing a sheet, walking barefoot, looped with leis, and carrying a conch shell up to the stage. That's the plan anyway. The conch -- a prized, and blessed, ceremonial instrument of a local community -- has to be blown to call in the spirits, to cast a sacred spell over the audience, to suspend disbelief, to enter the dream realms of the little drama about Hawaiian traditional ceremonies; and that's what worries me. I'm not much accomplished as a conch caller. But I am willing to try, and have been conversing with the conch. "I don't know if I am worthy," I say. "You are a sacred object," I say. "If you are willing to let this work and ring out a nice, resonant tone, I'll take you up on the invitation to join the spirit of the season." It sits there next to me on the seat of the car, a ceremonial fetish not accustomed to negotiating conditions, keeping mum, its secrets very intact. "Meet me half way," I say. "No, less than half way. I'll meet you, if it's amenable to you." Silence. Beautiful, polished pink silence. "I'm willing," I say.
