I can no longer sleep when the night is quiet. I've gotten comfortable with nightly ruckuses - the constant pounding of rain on my roof, incessant screams from lost roosters, the dopey cries of affable, dimwitted cows. Peaceful silence now sets me off, jolting me from dreams of pirate ships and giant whales and tree houses. Last night was far too quiet for a good night's sleep. This morning, as the sun rose and my room slowly roasted, I begged for rain or clouds or harsh winds, anything to rid me of the horrid heat and allow me a few more hours of sleep. The island heard me, as it tends to, and just as I was sitting up to climb out of bed, "plappity, plap, plap, plap," the sky knocked on my roof. More than once I've been told, "this island is scary the way it listens." I've heard many stories of people manifesting certain desires or hopes or fears. People tell stories of the night marchers, fallen spirits known to march through the night. Accounts of people being trampled by invisible soldiers, waking up with bruises, are common around here. "Don't manifest it," they say. Before getting in the water rid your mind of thoughts of sharks because if you don't, you'll manifest one, sooner rather later. I've yet to run into a shark, but I've also yet to rid my mind of them - I can't help it. I think part of me wants to encounter the beast. I know that part of me wants to run into the night marchers - i'm not going to try to manifest them, but I won't exhaust myself in the other direction either.
There's a man here named Orville Mcallister, but we all call him Tripp. I honestly think he is Santa Claus - red, rosy cheeks, startling blue eyes, short, chubby, and he smiles constantly. He's jolly but you can tell that he tries very hard to monitor his jolliness. Tripp is the resident handy man - he fixes everything. However, he has a tendency to start jobs and leave them midway through. "Hey Tripp," I said to him as he left the kitchen yurt with squinty eyes and a smile. "Howzit?" he returned. i continued on into the kitchen, grabbing two pieces of bread, some kale, turkey, and a tomato that I was going to slice up. I went to the sink to wash the tomato and I 'tripped' on a giant wrench - a plumber's wrench, three feet long and thick - sitting on the floor in the middle of the kitchen. I peered into the sink and where the drain used to be, a gaping hole now sat. I ducked and examined underneath - the pipes had been unscrewed, unhinged, unplugged, completely taken apart. Tripp had dismantled our entire kitchen sink and left halfway through. He didn't even think to say something to me as he saw me walk into the kitchen. And he thought it was just fine to leave his enormous wrench on the floor, the pipes to our sink strewn this way and that - nah, it's all good. We don't need a sink. No point in mentioning it to him, either. He'll cut you off with his raspy laugh and dismiss it with a smile and his rosy cheeks. You can't stay mad at Santa Claus. It's impossible. It's Orville Mcallister.
Here's my grocery list from tonight. Aloha.
I've been on the island for two months now, and I've managed to keep my thoughts and prayers to myself - who am I kidding? I don't have prayers. However, and fortunately, I've remained quiet, but no more. The island has taught me many things - one, to shake your covers before sliding your slimy body into bed...Cane Spiders, Lizards, Ants, Centipedes engage in regular battles over such prized real estate. That last thing you want in the middle of the night, when the rain pours its heart out, is a centipede in your champas. Unpredictable, flexible beasts with devastatingly strong fangs steaming with hot poison. The small ones are most dangerous, because, like Napoleon and me, at one point in my life, the small ones don't know when to stop. Well, maybe I still don't when to stop - so let's continue.
I've spent most of my time in the ocean and I'm thankful for that. Although, swimsuits and salty seas are sworn enemies of soft, pampered body parts and I've paid the price for my time in the water. For such discomforts I've applied what I've learned here, on the island. There are foods and plants and diet tips that can help - or so I've experimented with (still am) - and I can divulge what works and what does not.
This blog is intended for us to get to know one another and, so, I plan to share my thoughts and my recipes and my poetry and my stories. I want share one story a month - and in two months I plan on releasing the biggest story of my life thus far. I hope you'll enjoy it or hate it - both account for readers. Of course, in between the stories, I plan to update the blog daily with short entries to clean the window that peers into my life.
Yesterday, I severely stubbed my toe on a dead, dull log lying in the middle of a walkway. What was it doing there? - I haven't the slightest clue. The stubbing further injured my crippled ring toe on my left foot - the toe has been through war and struggles with day to day life, as is, and now this tragedy has struck. I say this to you to present an opportunity to share healing information....a potion that I constructed from plants growing in the garden near my yurt. Do you know what a yurt is? Well, I live in one. Here's the recipe to the potion - it works on sunburns, scrapes, bruises, scratches, burns, ingrown nails and virtually everything.
2 leaves of Comfrey
3 stems of aloe (slice off the pricklers)
1/2 squeezed lemon
gelatin as needed for texture
Try it. Or don't, but it's been shared and you've been warned - there are answers out there. Natural, sexy ones and I plan on finding them for you.