The Skinny Island Post

A little betwixt and between weather wise here on Skinny Island today, full overcast, muggy and still, but with tornado warnings due to heavy weather to our north.  No rain here yet though.  A purgatory, if you will, made for other musings, and some word work.

Absorbed in novel crafting for eight hours or so.  Would love to talk about the story, but have found, sadly, that to do so makes it go away.  Nothing especially magical or mysterious about that, it’s simply that telling is telling and, once told, it’s out there and gone.  The impetus is lost.  Maybe there’s a little superstition in there, and if so, it’s the only one I have about writing; no special hat, or shirt, or working barefoot; just hard work. Anyway, it has to be kept on paper, or, in this case, in cyber space until finished.  But the process can be talked about, is cathartic, and maybe even a little interesting.

I can think of nothing requiring more discipline, which is strange, because I am not a very disciplined person in any other aspect of my life.  It was a hard lesson to learn, and ultimately came down to, still does, nailing one’s butt to the chair and making it happen.  Inspiration comes from effort.  You start with some kind of idea, of course, often vague, but then it’s just about hammering out some concrete evidence of that idea, learning what it’s about as you go.  When I am working on something I set a goal of a thousand words a day.  Sometimes I put in more than that, and that’s a bonus, but I can’t get up until I have those thousand words.  With that as the framework, something interesting usually occurs.  It actually starts to flow, and with it a concentration akin to meditation.  Absorption.  One places oneself in the narrative, not as creator, necessarily, but as participant.  You get into the heads of your characters, ideally, thinking their thoughts, and it doesn’t end when you get up from the keyboard.  To complete a work as long as a novel requires months of this.  I think that is why many writers, historically, are drinkers.  Sometimes it becomes necessary to turn it all off.  A pitfall, for sure, but then there is the excitement of getting back in there in the morning.  Early on you should read from the beginning before starting the day’s work, to sustain the continuity, but when there gets to be too many pages to do that, you read from the day before; it should be part of the DNA by then anyway.

Not every day flows, of course.  Some days there is a lot of staring at the computer screen, and, in my case, a lot of walking around.  In this capacity writers are notorious for finding something, anything, to keep from going back to the chair.  Refrigerators are your best friend; music; calisthenics.  Then you remember the rule about just writing a simple declarative sentence, and you’re off and running again.  Thinking too much is a bad thing.  The thinking about the story happens when you’re sleeping.  Something back there is always working on it.

Sunny days distract me.  I want to be out in it.  We need days of purgatory like this now and again to goose things along.  That said, I think it’s time for a drink.  Happy writing.

First Street South in St. Petersburg to I-275; 275 across the bay and through Tampa to I-4; I-4 to just past Lakeland, then get the hell off.  We don’t take I-4 through Orlando and home anymore from the Gulf coast.  We get off at state 33, a little two-laner, and take it into Polk City, and then through the Green Swamp to Groveland.  It’s a beautiful, relaxing ride, especially after the trauma of I-4, lots of farms, cows, goats, chickens, and usually a couple of sightings of Sand Hill Cranes.  Groveland, an old orange depot, when the whole area was covered with groves, (hence the name) is a quaint little old Florida town, with three stop lights now.  You try to beat the semis through by going down a back street instead of down the main drag.  From there you pick up state 19, (not to be confused with US 19, which goes up the Gulf coast from St. Pete,) and more country, but losing its orange grove character as more development occurs, on into Howey-in-the Hills, another tiny little place on Little Lake Harris.  We’ve never been able to figure what people do there for a living.  Across Little Lake Harris on a classic old low-slung concrete bridge, and into the Tavares, Mt. Dora, Eustis megalopolis, which grows more crowded and uglier each trip.  You pick up 441 there, then 41, another two-lane country road through eastern Lake County, to the St. Johns River and DeLand.  A couple of turns in DeLand, and you’re on US 92, AKA International Speedway Blvd., a 4-laner into Daytona.  We get off on LPGA Blvd., then pick up Granada, Hwy 40, and it a straight shot to the bridge across the Intracoastal and Skinny Island.  A left on A1A and we’re almost home.

This way adds at least a half-hour, all things being equal; or you can get hung up in Disney traffic going I-4, and add another hour or more.  To say nothing of the hassles and danger of that choice.   There aren’t many roads left like this in Florida, and I’ll do just about anything to avoid proximity to Disney.  More on that another time.

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Foggy, cool, and windy when we pulled up to the little hacienda.  Evidence of a good rain on the garden whilst we was gone.  Had to stake up the tomatoes, which had grown a good 4 inches, and found several tiny little yellow squashes showing.   Rain barrels full.  More on the way tomorrow and Thursday. Yay.

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Skipped off Skinny Island again Sunday to do a little upkeep on the Gulf Coast offices of the Post.  Work went well, leaving a little time in late afternoon for a trip to the beach.  We

Treasure Island

normally go in the morning when we’re here, so we were a little surprised to see how crowded it was.  Very different scene here.  Some of you may wonder why we come over here and go to the beach, when we live at the beach.  Well, its apples and oranges, really; the Atlantic, and the Gulf.  Very different bodies of water, very different sand, very different scene, people-wise.  And this is Papa’s old stomping grounds.  Born and raised in Tampa, the Gulf will always be special to him, always like going home.

We go to Treasure Island Beach, about two miles from the house.  It’s a Gulf barrier island, and you cross beautiful Boca Ciega Bay to get there.  Have to use a parking lot and, after it many years of it being the only free one left in this part of the world, you have to pay now.  We think there should be a Special Dispensation for natives, but there isn’t.  The beach is very wide; about a quarter-mile from the parking lot to the water.   Clear, sunny skies, temp in the low eighties, a southwest wind, and packed.  Another great feature is that the Gulf always warms up faster than the Atlantic.  It’s in the mid-seventies now, about 10 degrees warmer than what we left.  Still too cold for a dip back on Skinny Island, but we went in here, and though it was rough, (for the Gulf) it felt great to swim again.  As usual, we took a walk down to John’s Pass, about a mile and a half north, not realizing what a trek it would be coming back against the wind.  Pretty good workout. 

Great Blue Heron

 This is a semi-permanent of the John’s Pass jetty.  We’ve been seeing him here for about eight years.  He hangs out around the fishermen, hoping for a handout.  Good work if you can get it.  There’s a second one that usually stations himself about a half-mile south of this one, but we didn’t see him this time.  No, they aren’t the same bird.  Also didn’t see the transgender, bikini-clad bald dude, with obvious equipment of both sexes, another beach fixture; or Soccer Boy, a middle-aged nuisance, who kicks a soccer ball down the beach in an effort to meet chicks.  Guess he doesn’t have a dog.

Very pleasant couple of hours, but as we were leaving we noticed a drum circle starting to set up, we assume for an evening of pounding.  We are not fond of drum circles.  We participated in one once, at the invitation of friends, and found it tedious and rife with control and power issues, rather than the heightened spiritual surge we anticipated.  It seems to us to be the epitome of empty-headed Culture Borrowing, like American Zennists dressing up like Japanese, but that’s not the worst.  We lived next to a Saturday night drum circle many years ago in Washington, DC, and while it was, I guess, at least authentic, being conducted in the apartment of William Rides-at-the-Door, a Lakota, it was incessantly irritating.  They are all fundamentally irritating, and lame.  (Please express indignation, if any, in the designated comments section.)

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Awakened by a wonderful thunderstorm at two forty-five a.m., which was followed by a steady, moderate rain until dawn.  A good, long-needed soaker.  We have a powerful affinity for thunderstorms, especially of the night and early morning variety.  They  permeate the sleeping, and in a semi-conscious state, ease us back to the sweet equilibrium of childhood; the fear and fascination; the wonder that went with still being new in the world.  That stayed with us through a day’s work on the Gulf side getaway.  Partly cloudy and blustery all day.  Front stalled to the south will move back north tonight.  More rain expected.

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Saturday is our day to have The Baby.  He’s three and a half now, but we still call him The Baby, and probably always will, even to his great discomfort.  Saturdays have been our day together since he was an infant, and we all look forward to it.  He loves the beach, of course, but in recent months, with his increased mobility and insatiable curiosity, he has discovered the woods behind the house, and the garden.  It must all be a magical place to him, the trees, the paths, the slopes to climb, the deck steps, the plants growing almost before his eyes, the sunlight, shade and color.  He has invented a number of games out there, in which we must participate, of course, and he helps Papa in the garden with weeding and watering.

Today, after a good romp out back, we went to Bicentennial Park, about a mile south. This is forty acres of Florida scrub, from ocean to Intra-coastal, and containing  picnic pavilions, tennis courts, ball fields, wonderful hiking trails, and a fishing dock and kayak launch on the Intra-coastal. We’ve been taking The Baby there since he was, well, a baby. Today we did the trails, which wind through the woods over some pretty hilly terrain for this part of the world.  He had to run the whole way, of course.  Coming out, before we went out to the dock, flushed and tuckered, he requested to be carried.

We have a set routine when The Baby comes over, and if we leave out something, or vary it too much, he lets us know.  After morning play we have lunch together, then he brushes his teeth, and we lay down together for a nap.  He has been calling his blanket a “Nits,” all his life, and the Nits, which we keep in a closet here, must accompany him to the back bedroom.  If we forget, he’ll ask where it is.  Perhaps anticipating the decline of his grandparents, today he brought one with him from home.  Snuggled down with the Nits, we then must sing the song we came up with a couple of years ago especially for nap time. This is the most important ritual of all, around which all else orbits.  The Baby sings it very well now, and has, in fact, taken to jazzing it up a little in a variety of musical styles from Punk to Rap.  He still sometimes fights going in to take a nap, but the ritual is so comforting to him, it is a half-hearted, and brief protest.  He has settled on a satisfactory compromise these days, saying he is just going to take a “little nap.”  After the song, he is conscious for about a minute, then sleeps for an hour or two, and then we take him home or, like today, Daddy comes to get him, and we go down to the beach.  A little too cool in the water yet for swimming, (we thought,) but we all traipsed down for some time in the sun.  The Baby, of course, just had to get wet, charging into the shore break, then retreating with a shriek as it chased him up the beach.  He’s a piece of work, for sure.

Back up to the house for a shower, then supper.  Don’t know about The Baby, but the rest of us are worn out.

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All the trees and bushes fully leafed out now, early but intensely green and beautiful.  The canopy back in the little hammock is complete, with just bursts of sunlight allowed through when the wind stirs things.  Colors at their most vibrant for the year.  Can’t hold it; just noting.

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Long beach walk this morning; infinite range of rose and lavender on horizon reflected in wet sand retreating tide had left; mauve palmettos on still-dark dune.  Reverence comes to mind; little else.  A few birds, a few walkers, all seemed held by the quiet transition, common and unique.

And then suddenly the sun popped up and the color went wild toward the orange and red end of the spectrum.  But only briefly.  In two minutes it all receded into a yellow sky, then pale blue, with a white sun you couldn’t look at.  Stood atop the dune walkover a long time just watching.

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Nervously pleased with the garden so far. Everything thriving in brilliant greens, with flowers coming out on the largest tomato plants, and buds forming on the peppers.  Still need a good soaking rain, though, and have some forecast for beginning of next week.

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Some good friends from up the road in Jacksonville came down for the day.  Haven’t seen them in many months.  We took lunch up at Snack Jack’s in Flagler Beach.  Actually it’s called High Tides at Snack Jack’s, which is cumbersome, but something the current owners thought necessary when they took over the place several years ago.  It had been Snack Jack’s for a very long time, and a Flagler institution.  We knew the old owner pretty well, and used to go there quite a lot.  Papa even had his second book publication party there.  But she sold out finally and went into real estate.  It is a relic from a by-gone era, a funky little bar and fish restaurant built right out on the dune, with outdoor tables, and a nice little indoor bar.  Still a decent place, but the food and service aren’t what they used to be, and there’s Valet Parking now, which don’t seem right for a beach bar.  Had a good fish sandwich, though, and much good conversation.  Still it’s just not the same, and neither are we.

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Some umbrage and a confession I think are due.  I wasn’t fair about the work done today, the hauling out to the street of all the tree work, etc.  I was in a hurry; not with the work itself, but with the telling of it.  I wanted to get something out.  In actuality, there really isn’t enough space and time to talk about the particulars, and that is the gist of this, what really was involved.  Much of what we carried out, as I’ve said, had been piled up in various places for about three months.  Consequently, each individual pile was in its own state of decay.  Some of the palm fronds were almost compost, it smelled of deep, nurturing earth, but so Florida; the bay tree limbs and leaves, when I turned them over to lift and carry, exploded with a singular, herbal scent; some of the tree limbs from the back crumbled in my hands.  I don’t know why I didn’t say so.  It is important.  Still learning, I guess.  On the beach side, the tangle of that invasive non-native we had cut were still springy, difficult, and resilient, even dead; a bow should be offered to that.  Gassho; Blessings upon us.

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The squash was droopy this afternoon; very low humidity and no rain; so I watered again, just what appeared to need it.  West wind high and strong in the trees, nothing low; light fractured and dispersed in the leaves, the undersides; an old nest of last year’s birds; a Cicada husk on the wall by the back door.  Everything different; everything the same.

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The Pile

Pretty tuckered out here.  Spent the morning moving about three months worth of clippings, palm fronds, and the dastardly invasive we cleared from the dune, out to the road for pick-up tomorrow.  We have been putting out a little at a time, but the service will only haul away so much a month under the fees we pay.  We had to contract to get a whole truck out here just for us.  Would have taken about three years to get rid of it all the other way.  Neighbors and passers-by all appear happier.  Can’t wait to see the looks on the faces of the crew tomorrow.  They have no idea what they’re in for.  Hey, if we can do it . . .

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We at The Skinny Island Post are mourning the passing of the great Liz Taylor this afternoon, and reminiscing about some of her great performances.  Top of the list would have to be “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” with hubby Burton.  What incredible performances by both, but the range of emotion and flat-out acting skill exhibited by Miss Taylor was astonishing.  Saw it first time right when it came out, with buddy Mike at Florida Theater in Jacksonville.  It was summer; we were hanging and surfing at Atlantic Beach, and came into town for the show, shorts, t-shirts, and barefoot, as I recall.  Also remember walking out completely drained, but happily aware I had seen some real art; great writing, great cinematography, great performances.  She was savage, and crazy, and smart, and sad, and beautiful, one after the other.  Have seen it numerous times since, and it never fails to knock my socks off. (If I had any.)  So long, and thanks for all you were and gave, Liz.

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