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2001.04.22 : 2001.04.28
Saturday, April 28, 2001
A trail of tiny, almost microscopic tile ants,
a slender golden thread extending from the ceiling, winding its way down
through the jars and packages of our foodstuff, to a place on the shelf
where a bag of walnuts used to be.
 We
are making Waldorf Salad for lunch and, in chopping walnuts for it, we
notice unexpected movement. It turns out that the ants like walnuts. And
they invited their friends.
We debate what to do. We donate the remainder of the walnuts to The
Boys (the hermit crabs), who will love them. The Waldorf Salad that's already
made? We have lunch. A little more protein never hurt anyone.
Friday, April 27, 2001
There are no moments more precious in my life, or more memorable,
than those spent in her warm embrace.
Thursday, April 26, 2001
A hermit cab the size of your hand,
whom we call Meester Beeg (ref. Rocky & Bullwinkle) or, sometimes,
Herman (ref. The Munsters or the ancient singing group). He (or
she - how do you tell?) is the largest of a (certainly inbred) family of
at least a hundred hermit crabs that lives below our porch. We are their
gods, raining manna from the sky in the form of old bones and spoiled fruit.
Hermit crab instincts are finely tuned for a scarcity of food. (They
are scavengers, eating things that happen to die in their vicinity.) Drop
a bone off the porch and those that see it race for it. (Race is
a somewhat fanciful term here. It's more of a clumsy scrapping, as a disembodied
hand.) The first one to it starts eating. If he is large enough, and sees
others coming as well, he will tuck it under his body and clamber off,
trying to reach the shelter of the thorny aloe plants below.
This behavior alerts all of the other crabs that there is food. Hey!
Fred's got something! Let's get him! They race for Fred's rear,
where he cannot see or defend against them, climb over him and try
to knock him off of his treasure. If the overtaking crab is larger, this
usually succeeds. As a result, most of the food goes to the big guys, no
matter who finds it first.
Wednesday, April 25, 2001
 A
bouillabaisse of fish and lobster with our "neighbors" at the
house up the hill. (They are neighbors only in the geographical sense.
You can't actually see one cottage from the other.) This is the first time
we've socialized with other people here. Well, other than that one odd
time when Helen met an online friend for the first time in the beach club
bar - neither knew the other would be on the island - so we joined them
for a raucous dinner.
Our "neighbors" are from New York and live within walking distance of
our old apartment. They're foodies who were in the restaurant biz for some
time, hence the bouillabaisse from a rather large fish head that mistakenly
showed up instead of a box of their food. And they're singers, and one
is from Seattle, so conversation was lively all evening.
A break from our normal reclusivity here.
Tuesday, April 24, 2001
A drop of blood, smeared on the floor.
My blood, though it had recently taken up residence in the mosquito I just
crushed. Mosquitos are ever present here, though they are mercifully scarce
this year.
My body reacts strongly to them, half-inch blisters rising where they
bite and itching to the point of insanity for over half an hour. As a result,
I watch for them with murderous intent near sunset, the primary hour of
their attack.
We keep the doors to the cottage closed at all times to keep them out.
For a few hours before bed, we burn citronella candles inside to lure to
their deaths any that might have evaded our barricade. Otherwise, I get
no sleep.
And still they come.
So I sit here on the porch in the late afternoons, armed with the fly
swatter we brought with us. (The locals do not recognize fly swatters either
from the name or from a description, thinking us amusing or perhaps deranged
when we ask.) I am a world-class marksman with it. I am samurai, assassin,
an angel of death come to wreak my vengeance on the mosquito vampires.
Monday, April 23, 2001
The recounting of a recurring childhood nightmare,
as we drive the steep, narrow mountain roads of a nearby island in a rented
jeep.
In the dream, I am in a car that is driving, rapidly and at night, through
a forest. The road becomes narrower, less well tended, then turns to gravel,
then dirt, then ends altogether, leaving me lost and alone in a dark forest.
And there are witches.
As I tell Helen this dream, we swing through a harrowing downhill hairpin
turn and the road, which was not in great shape to begin with, turns to
dirt.
Sunday, April 22, 2001
A list, taped to the refrigerator.
Needs
Olive oil
Scissors
Shampoo
Much more of you
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