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| Back to the gardens |
| 05.27.04 (6:58 am) [edit] |
After almost a month of business craziness, I turned in my resignation at the hotel. All the rumors of why no one works for this man proved true. But the headache I've had for two weeks is gone today, so this must be a good thing. Right now it just feels like yet another cycle in island living.
An old friend is coming over from St. Croix tomorrow for the weekend. Last night he called so I could listen to a great guitar player that I've not heard play in a couple years. Steve cranked it up and I got a tinny cell phone speaker version of his amazing classical/flamenco guitar sounds, amid a lot of laughter. How can a place be 50 water miles away and so very far? It will be great to have Joe here. He's bringing a bottle of mamawana, a herbal kick your butt rum drink that Norma makes up in the rain forest. I don't know exactly what is in mamawana, I only know you can't drink a lot of it. Uh huh.
Should be a good Memorial Day weekend!
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| Rain World |
| 05.15.04 (4:00 am) [edit] |
Poor tourists! Poor old people! With the downtown area torn up and rain the past three days, the streets are like some WWII movie, mud and rocks and holes and trenches. If OSHA drops by, the island is going to come to a screeching halt.
Yesterday I got out of a friend's jeep and stepped down one foot away from a 6 foot deep trench where water and electric lines will go - no fence, no sign. They are getting real near one of our two gas stations (don't think 7-11 mini market, think two gas things up a ramp on a dead end street, difficult to go to in even the best of times). Since these guys have hit electric and water mains about 10 times I'm a wee bit worried, as the hotel I manage is about 15 feet away from the gas station. Oh well, if it all blows up I guess we'll get that bridge the mayor wants. Right now the new joke in town is some Clever Dick putting up signs saying PAVE IT AND LEAVE. Great idea!
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| Seriously bewildered |
| 05.13.04 (5:17 pm) [edit] |
I haven't been able to write these days and sort of wonder if I can now. Tuesday was my daughter's birthday. She had to work so I called her to cheer her up. But.
She told me her ex boyfriend, still a good friend, told her that his sister had killed her 3 children. These are children that he and my daughter have held, loved, knew.
The old boyfriend lives on an island near me and I called him and told him to come be with me, whatever, if it would help, because while they are no longer together, we've always been close. He said when he got back from whatever he needed to do he'd sail over and stay awhile. He just kept saying, this is something you read about, this is not them, this is insane.
But it is them, three sweet children who I have watched grow from their births, in pictures from their grandmother (how often we'd say we hoped if we went over it wouldn't be an evening of dragging the albums out, AGAIN, but they were so cute we'd once again be drawn in, cooing), who also lives on an island nearby, an island I used to live on, a woman, another grandmother, her daughter, she is my age.
Insanity. Insanity.
And that mother chicken...she still sits in my yard in the pounding rain, her chicks under her, and it makes me scream. This is what mothers do, protect and love, not destroy because of their selfishness. How how how can a chicken know this, and not a human being? I can't understand, and I am glad of that. Very. And sick. The world is full of horrors these days and I can't pretend in paradox.
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| Mother's Day Chicken Lesson |
| 05.09.04 (3:26 pm) [edit] |
I have a lot of wild chickens around here. They start crowing at 3 a.m. and stop long after dark. They also like to nibble in the garden and because I can't trap or kill them (oh, I could but I can't), I spray them with the hose. Usually it barely takes the sound of me picking up the hose and they run away but this chicken was letting me blast her, basically like a human being hit with a fire hose.
I didn't understand it until I heard the cheep cheep of babies, maybe 8 or 9, scuttling around. She was willing to take that blast to make sure they were safe, now frantic in fear for them but still offering herself as the target. As soon as I saw the babies I thought, it's Mother's Day, you get a reprieve...because. Because there is no one in the world who wouldn't want a mother that fierce, that steadfast, that willing to protect us as children in the event of danger. And how many of us never had that? For such a brave mother - I salute. We mothers love the best we can and hope for the best. Chicken mothers too.
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| Prayer Feathers |
| 05.07.04 (7:03 pm) [edit] |
I didn't know who to talk to but i wanted to talk to family. One daughter not home, so the other, but I got my son in law, who I love for his own self. He is himself, but he is also Potowatomi, and I told him about the prayer feather because I knew he'd understand.
We talked a long time and he told me about prayer feather fans, how I could send this message out, the prayer out, of peace and good, that the community, gathering feathers and sending out the prayer of good for all of us, not just Beau, but for Beau, how healing it could be.
I looked up prayer feathers online and was shocked to see the commerical use of them...you can buy prayer feathers, with no explanation of history or use...sometimes the world really scares me a lot. Sometimes as much as I love the PFM of the internet, I see at the same time the lack of human touch. Love hate...no. I don't hate it, but it worries me, that so much knowledge can be spread in an instant and to find out why...may take so long someone will not follow through.
I love my son in law and bless the universe that he answered the phone. My daughter was pulling up in the driveway with my granddaughter but I was too weary to speak, I knew Ryan would tell them what it was about.
Prayer feathers. This is a simple place, maybe they will understand. That is for tomorrow.
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| A Strange and Terrible Day |
| 05.07.04 (5:48 pm) [edit] |
This morning in the gardens I came across a feather, brown on one side and black on the other. I had been reading a book about centuries old Indians who tied feathers to trees for a prayer and so I picked the feather up and tied it to a tree. I wondered why I was doing it and realized I really didn't know, so my prayer was for the good of this island. I didn't know.
A call came to my job at 12:30 that a friend of mine had died on his boat. Beau...how do I describe Beau? He'd been in Viet Nam, he had blown out his knee right before I met him. A gentle soul, sweet, with a bit of a lisp but not a lisp really, a speech defect if you will, but simply Beau. I'd often talk with him on the ferry back and forth to the big island, where he'd go for VA treatment, laughing about tricking the psychologist about his drinking, which started early and ended late. Beau was a serious alcoholic of the sweetest sort, who was offered *help* many times and chose his own road. He lived on a friend's boat and that is where he died.
When I heard about it I went down to the dock. He was still on the boat and island insanity was reigning. A young cop was there and we were waiting for the ambulance to come back...they'd been there and left, waiting for a ME who had to fly over from the big island. I sat next to Rebecca, we only wanted to insure some dignity when they took him off the boat, but that was not quite in the cards. The cop and some locals spotted a baraccuda and one went to get a spear gun. They shot the barracuda as we sat there, hollering and laughing, while a couple people went onto the boat and looked at Beau (which I could not do, who WERE they?).
We waited...and waited, for the ambulance to come back, more people showing up all the time. The man who shot the fish got his boat and came around to get it and while we sat there, a man dove into the water, got the baracuda and carried the fish dripping blood down the dock - the cop more interested in the fish than in Beau.
Finally it all came together, no ME around. Two ambulances and one truck. They went on the boat with a white plastic bag. They came up, carrying him roughly and laid him on the dock. A man came up to us and said, If you can't give us 300.00 we can't take him to the big island. A woman had 200.00 and I had 100 (bizarre, I NEVER have that sort of cash on me) and we handed it over and they loaded him onto a board and put him on the truck. But there was a moment...Beau's arms stiff...and the cop with his boot lifed to kick it down - my insides clenched and ready to kill - but he stopped himself looking at us - and they loaded him for the trip to the airport.
More bizarre moments, his ever present fanny pack not found, was he murdered? So insane to think of that here but yes, it could happen - but no, they found the pack and all the money and we have to think he fell and hit his head and died. He died. A world without Beau.
Rebecca and I went to have a drink to breathe again. Tonight was a party to welcome a sweet woman to the island and a man who is a friend held me for a long time, asking and saying are you ok? petting me like a forlorn pet....which I needed badly. All night he came to me to do this and finally, after letting Kelly know how happy I was to have her here I had to go, to come home and write this out because...let the prayer feather fly, let Beau be free, but oh I miss him I miss him his sweetness, his being, his silly stories. I miss Beau and at the same time release him...as I did, his body on the dock, be free be free be free, it is not you there, please, you are beyond this now.
It hurts.
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| Hummingbird bath |
| 05.07.04 (4:55 am) [edit] |
Usually when I'm watering the gardens a couple of hummingbirds flit around in the spray, but this morning was different. A baby hummingbird landed on an almond tree leaf 200 times its size and kept wallowing around in the sheen and drops of water there, tossing its little head down over and over again, turning from side to side; just generally having a fabulous time four inches away from me. I kept expecting it to do little hummingbird flips and burst into song, or at least ask for a scrub brush. A banana quit hovered nearby in the spray, watching and taking its own bath in mid-air.
It's already hot and very still. Time for a shower myself, and the hope that I can enjoy it like a hummingbird.
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| What a night |
| 05.06.04 (7:13 pm) [edit] |
After work, going for a drink and seeing two guys I needed to see, one for screens for the hotel and one to clean up the office computer, ending up being invited to dinner, a huge slab of meat shoved into the car window and the instructions CUT OFF THE FAT!!! We went to get another bottle of alcohol and then to Steve's house to start the meal, the guys taking over but Linda and I making a salad. Linda, who for the whole year she's lived her, I thought she was gay and finding out on the ride home that she was nothing close to that. No wonder I likd her so much! Very private on an island where little is private. But she is moving back to the States so maybe it was time to tell.
An incredible dinner, and the guys cleaning up, and home again oh...while I'm writing this a yell in the darkness, MJ MJ MJ and it's another Steve, getting in his kayak to go back to his boat, saying good night. GOOD NIGHT, indeed.
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| Being an American |
| 05.06.04 (4:12 am) [edit] |
Reading the news this morning off the BBC world news edition, which is how I start every morning, I feel completely ill. Completely versus partially, which is how I've felt the last mornings, reading of the American (and British & who knows who will be pinned next?) abuse of Iraqi prisoners. This feeling started when it was announced that Hussein was a target for assassination. I wondered when the laws had changed that Americans now were free to murder *enemies* with support and encouragement from our government. Didn't that used to be the secret stuff of the CIA and spy novels? Something had radically changed in the way we were going about war, and this present, now made public, abuse is simply a follow up of a logical progression in barbaric methods.
And this is my country that is being named. Living out of the mainland US, it is often easy to ignore current world events. I doubt the news that is shattering headlines around the world will show up on page one of our paper here, which isn't even our paper, that comes out once a month and has nothing outside of local events and personality profiles. But sometimes the fact of being an American is unavoidable and I feel a shame as if I personally had something to do with what is happening, guilt by association as it were, despite the fact that I know hundreds and thousands of US military are not involved in such behaviour.
Today's headlines make so much in my world petty and ridiculous in comparison. It may be a feeling that passes, but truthfully, it doesn't ever go away, it just simmers under my daily life, waiting for this event or another to erupt, reminding me of the fact that I can leave America, but it never leaves me. Oh for some news that would make me want to wave the red white and blue in pride.
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| Night riding |
| 05.05.04 (6:38 am) [edit] |
I couldn't resist the urge to go sailing with my landlord last night, knowing it was the full moon and the weather was perfect.
We headed out before sunset to catch La Bella Luna rising full and she came over the cloud line huge and mellow yellow while we whipped along in a strong wind. By the time we got to the bar/restaurant I was soaking wet. Kevin was bartending and as acerbic and funny as usual, while I drank too much wine and The Landlord had a couple of beers. I vaguely remember dancing with The Landlord to some music Kevin put on, and there are no bruises so I must have kept my feet on the floor. A good thing. And now I'm remembering a long conversation about how, if he would just listen to me, his life could be perfect. Ah, the brilliance of alcohol induced thinking!
The sail back is sort of a blur, except that I thought I lost my smokes until this morning when I found them right where they should be in my backpack. Soggy shorts & t shirt on the floor and a bit of a blurry head but a vivid memory of the full moon and fast sailing. Not a bad way to start a day off...now if I just would ignore the news, but I can't.
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| Virago |
| 05.04.04 (2:19 pm) [edit] |
Virago - a woman of great stature, strength and courage who is not feminine in the conventional ways. A bold turbulant woman
I read this word last night in a book called Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady, a true book, the author probably in her 70's when she wrote it. The word was taught to her by her first woman lover, and in explaining what it meant the woman told her it had the Latin root of vir, meaning male. Which of course led me to think of Viagra...but oh how I love the word virago! I am not a lesbian, but they count as amoung my best women friends, which took me awhile to figure out, but I think I have. There is no rivalry in our friendship, no tug of war when a man is involved. We love each other for the reality of intelligence, laughter, cooking together. They know I am hetero and rejoice when I meet someone I enjoy and hope I am well when it is over, but otherwise we are simply friends. I've rarely been close with other women, maybe two in the long run of life have survived the years, maybe two I could say I count on that I met as an adult, both long secure in good marriages, and gleeful of what they call the chapters of my adventures.
Today, a mostly day off, the weather perfect after rain, I walked out to the gazebo to read and walking by the gardens thought how incredibly fortunate I am. The world is insane with hatred and death and I have this small spot of tranquility, whether it is from the staccato of jack hammers working on the new plaza, or the news I devour of the world until I can't stand to read another word, I have this place in the world, water almost surrounding me, herbs and flowers, the sounds of children (sometimes annoying, of course, but usually laughter). I have the waving hands of locals who have welcomed me, the rare night out with expats assured of laughter. But most, I have this peaceful, very simple place. And I can attain to virago...secret to me, but shared in this writing to unknown others, with a grin I hope.
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| Slamming Rain |
| 05.04.04 (4:54 am) [edit] |
The rain was crazy last night, slamming onto the tin roof and filling my water catchers - this morning flowers opened that might have waited days and the wind doesn't stop. An Italian woman from NY asked me, her hair blowing straight back, if this was normal. "The SAND, my GOD!" she kept saying, and obviously it was true, her face was flecked with grains of sand sticking hard. I told her this was rather unusual, though May is a bit of a rainy season here. But it was hard to resist wiping her face...
Now it is grey and blowing still, and while it is 80 degrees the air feels chilly to me. To paraphrase Scarlett, I'll nevah be cold again!
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| Grey Monday |
| 05.03.04 (5:11 am) [edit] |
Right after watering the garden it started to rain. This could put the kabosh on diving for Adrian and May this morning but most likely not. If not, I'll have the hotel on my own today and can make all the mistakes I've been worried about on the computer. On the other hand, it should be quiet, as this is one of the dead times in the year for visitors, though yesterday there were hoards of people who couldn't get on the *last* ferry off the island, sitting in groups on piles of luggage hoping a next one would be sent, which I'm sure it was but I went home. A group of eight came in asking to rent a room for a few hours so a pregnant woman with them could take a rest.
I've never gotten stuck on the other side before and hope it never happens, though I've also never been on the ferry when I don't run into 2 or more people I know coming back to go have drinks with or chat with while waiting and on the way back.
Ah, now the sun is out and I'm sure there is a glorious rainbow somewhere, going to go check.
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| New jobs and other madness |
| 05.02.04 (2:43 pm) [edit] |
I forgot just how tiring it can be to start a new job - new systems, computer stuff, long hours (but four days off after tomorrow - I hope). But in the middle of that is the madness of trying to dislodge the people there from before, whom I only mildly thought about before and now have to listen as they rant and rave because their cash cow is being taken away.
Much better was my daughter's call this morning, as usual at 3:30, so she could read me some poems by Pablo Neruda, who she is obsessed with at the moment. This was one she told me reminded her of me. I told her she could read it at my funeral as ashes go to the sea...and being my daughter, she laughed and agreed.
XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea) - Pablo Neruda
You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.
Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay.
Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.
This is how you become everything that lives.
And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest--
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.
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