For What It's Worth.

I am no rock

I am more like water that changes

with the pull of the moon

becoming currents of hot and cold

rivers rippling through the open ocean.

Where do you make your home?

Do you avoid becoming the foreigner

because it makes you squirm

uncomfortably,

shifting in your skin,

in your mind the center of attention

but for all the wrong reasons?

I am a stranger at home in a strange land.

Just a Thought.

I sometimes wonder whether or not I have anything to add to the conversation of everything. As in, "God and universe, you keep right on doing your thing. I'm cool just watching, you seem to have everything under control."

But then why does everything seem to be so out of control? And why are there times where I want to scream "DO something, somebody!" instead of sit back and twiddle my thumbs? The more I'm in an environment where people stoutly disbelieve in God, the more convinced I believe there has to be one. And the more I'm around narrow-minded believers, the more I am turned off.

I'm angry that people aren't more loving of each other, they don't stand up for themselves, I don't stand up for myself, I don't value other people enough and they don't value me enough, dammit. Why do we do this to each other?

A Good Hard Rain.

I got myself a cup of coffee and I'm sitting in the Otter Lodge before I go hitchhike into town with Alicia. It's pouring down rain and the tide is out. Brad the Doe Bay handyman is wearing his red Steve Zissou hat and is drilling away at some project upstairs in the cafe.

The dark mountains are enveloped in a greyish fog that make them ghostlike against the equally grey sky. Everything feels spongy. Like it has the possibility to burst into flowers or mold or tadpoles.

A damp and fluffy golden dog named Ollie strolled into the Lodge with his owners, shook himself out, and began to lick my hand. Jill, our on-staff yoga instructor, kombucha-drinking and never-disappointing high-maintenance chick looks at me, plugs her nose and tells its owners that they are in a no-pet zone.

"Can't you smell that?" she quietly asks me.

"Smell what?" I say.

"Wet. Dog."

Poor Ollie gets tied up outside in the cold. Doe Bay is quiet today.

I finished The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho yesterday, after taking a two hour nap on the point that overlooks Rosario Strait. Brenda has recommended it to me forever (hyperbole), and I finally had the opportunity to read it. Coelho's ability to name what every human feels--our hunches, intuitions, emotions--was most interesting to me. He uses terms like "Soul of the world", "omens" and "personal legends" to explain what a lot of religions avoid identifying. I really appreciated how he didn't avoid using terms he felt fit simply because of his Catholic religion. There is a connection between listening to God and listening to yourself that I hadn't heard written before. I loved it. Written similarly to St. Exupery's The Little Prince, this book wrote about people, their resiliency, and the courage we can find within ourselves if we ask of it from Higher powers. Thanks, Brendabulous.

Lifestyle of the poor and the waitress.

Sitting down to write about what happened the past 4 days, 35 hours of work, I realize that I've erased all memory of the past work week.

On my walks to work I see deer, the Doe Bay cat, Gorgonzola, fish jumping-if the tide is in-and great blue herons flying low to catch them. I brain-deadedly swipe my timecard and walk up the steps to serve the tourists vegan, organic breakfasts. I am on my feet from 6:45am to 4pm 5 days a week. But I have my first month's rent in a four day period of time...it's worth it, I think.

The Doe Bay staff--about 12 of us--live in what we call "Tent City" about a 1/10 mile away from the waterfront, cafe and tubs. It is home, and I am growing to like it. Quite a bit, in fact.

Last night in the tubs, I met a really cool woman, probably in her late 40s. As I looked at the ocean I noticed a gorgeous rainbow arching over the peninsula of land jutting into the water. "This place is just magical," she responded.

We got to talking, about where she was from, what she does, the past times she's visited here, what I'm doing here, how old I am (her response: "Oh, you're still a baby. You have lots of time left to play."). She's a writer who does freelance. She had worked writing Starbucks training manuals and other corporate gigs. "Hate to break it to you, but there's no money in travel writing." She was telling me the beauty of waitressing and how it can get you around the world, especially if you're willing to tent it. It had gotten her and her tent to New Zealand, Australia, and Asia. Then, after us being naked in the tubs the night before with a crowd of overweight raucous gamers wearing bindhis, I served her--and the 30 year old gamers--the following morning at breakfast. Ain't life grand?

I think I'll like it here.

I will write more on my boss a bit later. Perhaps once I have more material. I have a baby story idea for a man named Lance Boils as well.

I'm on a boat.

At least I will be, tomorrow morning, en route to my new home for the summer. I plan on writing a lot more--hopefully--than I have the past year. We'll see if that dream comes true.

Dear Readers: 

the shock from moving from the city to suburbia will be taken one step further, only to stick me in the middle of an island. There I will wait tables, meet new people, read, play my guitar, smoke my pipe, make beans and rice and climb Mt. Constitution. 

I'll keep you posted.

Check, please.

I went to the doctor

I went to the mountains

I looked to the children

I drank from the fountains

There's more than one answer

to these questions

pointing me in a crooked line

And the less I seek my source

for some definitive,

the closer I am to fine.

-Closer to Fine, Indigo Girls