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2001.04.29 : 2001.05.05
Saturday, May 5, 2001
A world that seems, pretty much, to have gotten
on without me. The apartment is still here. The cat is still
a pest. The terrace planters arrived in our absence. I have 250 new emails
at work, none of which I've read yet. That's about a third of what I expected.
I must have done a better job than I thought in discouraging people from
writing while I was gone. IBM stock is up nearly 20 points. (My colleagues
are likely to encourage me to go away again for a few weeks.) Dave
has run the gamut in his modern angst over enjoying the appearance of women
that our culture deems beautiful, now to the point of penance - putting
pictures of Mother Teresa and his grandmother in his log instead. Ian
has been working too hard to post much. Beth
had her fated
lunch with Dave and Ian. Bovine
Inversus has hilarious Zen koans done in his own unique style. Dubya
seems not to understand the U.S. policy towards China, but didn't quite
manage to start a war while we were away.
So life is good.
Friday, May 4, 2001
A shower, with real hot water,
in which I can loiter for however long I like without it running out, and
after which I am both clean and dry. A toilet that I can flush even
if it's only #1. Our own bed. Air conditioning.
Home!
Thursday, May 3, 2001
The overwhelming sense of being alive.
Tonight, our last night here, after dinner, after Helen has gone to bed,
after the dishes are done, after the boaters in the bay have all gone to
sleep, I take a shower outside in the ghostlight of a gibbous moon, listening
to the crack of small waves on the shore and the shrill thrumming
of a thousand crickets.
And I think, this is what life is. Not is about, but is.
Standing here, the feel of the water on my body in the soft air, the perfect
ring around the moon, the explosion of succulents against the night sky,
the sand on my feet.
I feel like I am six years old, not wanting to go to bed, not wanting
it to be over, holding on, against inevitable sleep, to my last few conscious
moments.
I love this place.
I love being alive.
Wednesday, May 2, 2001
Gashes in the rocks and coral just offshore,
lined with the baby blue bottom paint of unwary boats.
 This
is a deceptively tricky anchorage. The ocean bottom is shallow, sandy and
uncluttered, which makes it look easy. But it is also covered by eel grass,
whose roots form a steely barrier to the penetration of an anchor. Worse,
the wind is fickle, often changing directions by 180 degrees in the middle
of the night, causing boats to flip around on their anchors and, far too
often, causing the anchor to pop loose.
And when that happens, those dreaming, unwary boaters find that their
boats have drifted slowly backwards until their keels hit the reef where
they pound, often for hours, chewing up both the boat and the reef.
We find a sliver of blue-painted fiberglass while snorkeling and bring
it back to the cottage, to add to the collection of sea shells that is
already there.
Tuesday, May 1, 2001
The quantitative aspects of our existence.
It is 3:47 PM. 88 degrees Fahrenheit. The barometer reads 30.6 mm of Hg,
which it claims means clearing, as it has the whole time we've been
here. The hygrometer says 46. (What is a hygrometer?) The radio
is set to 104.9 WMNG (The Mongoose) and the solar-charged battery
voltage is 13.5
And none of this - none of it - is important as she stands in
the doorway, in a violet-purple swimsuit the color of landing lights, laughing.
Monday, April 30, 2001
A hand, seen through louvered glass, reaching
for iced tea.
Sunday, April 29, 2001
The constant sensation of being icky.
You are never really clean here, and never really dry. In that respect
it is like sailing. You are constantly smearing gunk on your body. Sunscreen
- we call it goop - in astonishing amounts, to fend off sunburns.
Aloe vera gel - we call it goo - when that fails. Off! on
your legs in the afternoon to discourage the mosquitos.
Then, before dinner, you shower in the scarce, cool water and wash it
all off. As if that helps.
In the morning, when you finally wake up, the sheet beneath you is wet,
and your pillow soaked with the sweat of the previous night. And it is
time to get up and repeat the cycle.
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