Yesterday there was a mackarel fishing contest. I didn’t win. But I participated, and it was fun.
A friend won second place, however, and gave me a wonderful bottle of prosecco as a consolation prize. I guess I am still winning.
The days of summer are coming to a close, fall is opening up, and my time on the island is growing shorter.
I guess it’s time I thought about the next adventure…
I’ve been reading the Graphic Canon series edited by Russ Kick. It is an awesome compilation of excerpts of graphic adaptations of classic literature. I enjoy it very much.
I’ve worked my way from the Epic of Gilgamesh to the Popol Vuh (Maya creation story), Greek plays, Shakespeare, Milton… and this rainy, blustery, cold evening I find myself at Keats.
It’s like he visited Monhegan himself. Couldn’t have summed it up better. Thanks to Hunt Emerson for this lovely interpretation.
Somethings keep remaining funny long after your life should’ve outgrown them.
- Watching people trip and fall
- Friends dropping ice cream cones, tacos, or other cherished food items
- Listening to someone talk when they have no idea they have food on their face or something in their hair
- Making someone pull your finger
Now, I know I should be an adult and not chuckle about childish things, but they still crack me up. What’s a girl to do?
I made a friend pull my finger last night, and afterwards said “woof, that’s a relief. That one was a total Gambler.
He didn’t understand what I meant while I was dying of laughter.
“Oh yes, Bekah’s dad came up with it while we were in college and there was a sharting incident. You know, ‘you’ve got to know when to hold ’em.”
Luckily, he was as childishly amused as I was at that.
Viva grown up life!
It rained last night and a lovely dense fog sat on the island all morning. When I got home from work I realized a screen had fallen from my window so my room was full of flies and mosquitos. Great.
I went to tidy up and get a fly swatter. Then I saw the new arrival. An unwanted roommate.
Now a spider is a valuable asset in biting black fly and mosquito country, but I severely dislike them. Like a lot. I’ve been pinned in terror to the other side of my room. My housemate won’t even come in, it’s so creepy.
I swear I can hear it whispering my name.
Nope. I have two options now. Move, or sleep with one eye open. Moving seems easier. I didn’t like any of this stuff anyhow.
”It was a grey morning the sun wanted to come out.
In her warm clammy hands she had found a seal; a seal of approval?
Things were going to be okay.
Lindsay had found hope.
Was it cliche? Was it sad? Was it anger?
It didn’t matter.
The furry little cozy seal let her know that through those clouds the sun would shine so strong it would dry up any tears that would roll down her beautiful face. She could rest her head on a cloud of daydreams and twirl her strawberry blonde hair and remember all the fun and future fun…
…everything is going to be okay.
Life got too much so I peaced out and went fishing for a while. I feel like you’d appreciate my logic. Mackarel is delicious, just to let you know. Cod is nice as well.
Was antsy to get home a few days ago but when I went to do anything about it, I ended up booking a ticket (one way) to Mexico and deciding to let the cards fall where they may. I miss Frank something awful but I feel like you and he will understand. I’m going on another walkabout. I’ll come back better and the person I and you and he like me to be.
The ocean is lovely and fog and rain and waves and storms and humidity can’t beat me. I grow stronger.
I had squash last night and thought of you and your lovely garden and your lovely Elisa (best cook in the world) and I smiled in my heart. I miss you, buddy, but I’m doing it. I’m going to keep on.
I wish you could write back, I wish I could hear your voice, but is it crazy that I do hear your voice and know what you would likely write and that is enough for me these days? I think I’m coming to terms.
Until the day,
Your Lins, avid fisherperson and wandering soul
Ah, the beloved day off. Time away from the hustle and bustle, the quickness and slowness, the grind.
August. The tourist season. Doubles and triples every day.
Then comes that one sacred day a week. That chance to escape (though we’re literally trapped on an island) and the chance to be free.
I have a few spots I escape to. The tourists consider my presence part of the landscape. I’m ok with that. For this day and this time only I am not a guide. Nope. I will answer no questions. I will give no history lessons. I won’t direct to the nearest restroom. I offer no facts about the flora and fauna except ‘No, don’t go over there! There is some poison ivy… eh, they’ll figure it out…’
It is my time for peace and quiet. I remember the silence when I first arrived on the island and I yearn for it again. I look longingly across the rolling ocean and dream of what may be out there, deep underneath. The shipwrecks, the fish, the rocky sea floor nearly 300 feet deep. I hope to see a whale. And a seal. And a cormorant catch a fish.
I see all three.
I pick up my bag, trudge back to the village. My work for the day is done. My mind happily turned down. My ears ignore the voices. It is time to taunt the gulls and ducks by eating a lobster on the beach in front of them.