Century #22: Surflessness

Posted on August 10, 2012 by randomyriad

From the Journal of Mylo Grove:

July 19, 1998

My mom read the pages I wrote. She thought it was perfect. She said that even if she hadn’t known me and picked that up and read it, she would know a lot about me. Well, I did tell practically my whole life history. But, she said it also had to do with my voice, she says that writers have a voice when they write, and that mine was very natural. Whatever that means. She reads a lot so I guess she should know.

I like to read too. I read a lot of Ghost stories and Science Fiction and Fantasy. I also like comic books. All kinds like Batman and Mad magazine. I don’t get to watch TV, because we don’t have one, and there aren’t any stations here if we did. We never watched TV very much. Mom says it kills brain cells. I think she means we should be doing other things.

Blenny is a reader too. She is also a musician. She can play the piano pretty well, but all we could bring to the island was an electric piano, which she practices for hours at a time, but she doesn’t sing anymore. I used to like the songs she’d make up about stuff that happened. She was always making up songs about things she was interested in like gravity and animals. But, I have to admit it did sometimes drive me crazy when she would keep singing the same song over and over until I wanted to put my hand over her mouth. I don’t know if the Squirt will ever sit still long enough to learn to read. Mom says, “She lives in her own world and it’s constantly in motion.” I’m hoping that she grows up soon before she hurts someone or herself seriously, but it’s always on accident even when she meant to do it.

I guess I should get to what happened today. I took a long walk down to the ocean (people call it the water here). There were no waves except when a boat goes by. It’s like an endless lake not like the beach at Santa Cruz. The waves never stop there and the signs all say dangerous undertow swim at your own risk. In Santa Cruz you know the ocean is there all night because you can hear it over the cars and other noises crashing and hissing, and you can watch the surfers out on their boards riding the big ones. Here there are no big ones. The tide goes up and down. Sometimes when we get off the ferry the dock is steep because the water is so low, and the beaches, which are all rocks and pebbles, stretch way out. And, sometimes the beaches disappear and the dock is almost flat. I didn’t notice the tides so much before unless it was very low or high. There are lots of purple and pink starfish on the rocks and little crabs that scurry under rocks. Blenny loves to pick up the tiny ones. They just sit in her hand and wave their tiny claws fiercely at her.

Mom says that we will be living here for a while, but when I ask how long. She says she doesn’t know exactly maybe a couple of years. I think maybe that will be a long while with no t.v. and no stores besides the little store by the ferry where everything (which isn’t much) is twice as expensive as anywhere else in the U.S.. But at least mom seems more relaxed without my father around. I asked mom if we were hiding from dad and she said no that she had work here and it paid well and we got housing free. She said that it was too good a deal to pass up and the work was interesting and she could be with us most of the time while she was working. I guess there aren’t many jobs like that around. Maybe if my dad weren’t such a jerk, she would be working in Santa Cruz at the University and I would be hearing the sound of the waves on the beach. I like sand better than rocks, and I like waves. My mom says that people travel from all over the world to come to these islands because they are so beautiful and full of wildlife and whales and stuff, but I just don’t get it, it never gets hot enough to swim and we have ride the ferry 30 minutes to get anywhere and it only comes twice a day. My mom says that I ought to explore the island to see if there are kids my age, but what are the chances of that.

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Century #21: Mylo’s Island Life

Posted on August 7, 2012 by randomyriad

From the journal of Mylo Grove

July 18, 1998

My mom is a biologist. She studies how animals and plants next to the ocean and in the ocean interact with each other. That’s how we ended up living on Finley island in the middle of Puget Sound. I mean this Island is small. Not the kind of Island you see in the middle of city park ponds, but I know that only about 300 people live on this Island — that probably includes the seal population.

We were living in Santa Cruz while my mom was in school at the University of California, and she was about to be offered this great job with the University. But, my mom and dad started fighting, and mom says we gotta go because she got a job up north, and my father was never going to be part of our family anyway. I know he was drinking lot, and he wouldn’t even let people know that we were his kids or that he was with mom. She was tired of that crap she said.

I have a sister who’s 8 and a pesty little squirt of a sister who is almost 6 and can’t sit still or stop making noise to save her life. Blenny is 8. The Squirt is 6 and a major loon. I mean, some people say that what happens before your born can make you act different after your born. I think it must’ve happened to her.

Anyway I know My Mom would rather have stayed in Santa Cruz. Even though she said this island job was a “great opportunity”, I know she only took it because she wanted to be away from our father. Heck, maybe he won’t even be able to find us on this lousy bit of rock. It’s hard to find even with directions and the ferry only comes twice a day.

Anyway I’m writing this because my mom wants me to practice writing by keeping a journal. She wanted me to start a few months ago while we were dealing with moving and all so that she could read what I wrote and help me to sort it all out. But, everything was so crazy that I couldn’t think of writing anything, besides her computer was all packed away, and I’m not doing this without a computer. It seems like a lot to ask anyway. 2 pages a day. I haven’t even finished one yet and I’ve told my whole life’s story practically.

Mom said I could and should write whatever came into my head, but maybe trying to write about what happens in my life and how I feel about them would be the best place to start.

This is what is in my head now. Moving! I hate it mostly, even though it is kind of exciting in a way. I didn’t have to leave any real long time friends though I was kind of getting to know one kid about my age. He (I like the way this program tells me if I misspell a word or when I forget to capitalize it catches it and does it for me) Well anyway he was 12 and I was 11, but he was in the same grade even though I don’t go to school. I’m a homeschooler (the computer doesn’t know that word), but Robert went to school so we could hang out after school got out. Still we got along pretty good, and he liked to do the same things: go to the park or the beach and rollerblade (doesn’t know that one either), swim at the pool, play with his great dog, Bozo. Bozo was great at catching frisbies (another one it doesn’t know) and chasing down balls. Heck he lived to chase things, but he always came when you called him. I had a stupid dog once and he would only come if you had something he wanted. He liked to run at you at top speed and pretend he was going to run you over and turn away at the last second and take off. He would take me on walks or drags more like. How much more to go? God! It takes a lot of writing to fill up two pages even when the font is big.

Let’s see, What happened today? We have finished most of the unpacking and arranging of everything. There’s three

bedrooms and a living room and a kitchen that connects to it. There’s only one bathroom! And Squirt is always charging in ahead of me when I say I have to go. She just about knocks you down if you get in her way. Blenny is kind of quiet these days. She used to sing all the time, but I think this moving stuff is a lot (it put a space between a and lot) harder on her than me. She had a lot (again) of friends to leave behind and now she only has the Squirt. Don’t get me wrong the Squirt can be a lot (again) of fun, but Blenny seems to get tired of the constant sillyness. (the computer doesn’t know sillyness.) Me too! I can see the end of the page. It’s almost here and I am almost done for today. But, there’s always tomorrow and on after that. I guess it’s not so bad writing two pages.

 

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Century #20: Closer to Home

Posted on August 1, 2012 by randomyriad

From the journal of Lita Hopkins

Corfu

6/7/30

Last night I lay awake listening to Charles’ wrestle his dream demons, but in calm moment soft notes of the shepherd’s pipes from up the hill blended with the rattling of olive leaves and the gentle sighing hiss of the waves on the beach below like a whispering orchestra of lulling me to sleep. Even Charles seemed soothed into restful slumbers by it.

It is so still here at night, once the children have ceased their antics and small bickerings. This is like no other stillness I have known. At first I felt my worries come sneaking out as soon as the crowded busyness of the day gives way to the dark open space of evening, but even they were lulled away by the soft drifting song of the night, leaving me to just be next to my Charles.

Tomorrow he leaves with Professor Coyle. I am certain it will be a good distraction for Charles if his health holds up. Already today he is full of life, discussing the itinerary with the professor.

6/8/30

Charles left this morning looking very adventurous as he got into the professors rattletrap motorcar.

“I shall write you and the children about our explorations,” He said. “ I don’t know if we will stay long enough in one place to get mail, But I will try get an address so you can write to me.”

Part of me wants to be with him to see those ancient places, but mostly to see how they light in him the old fires of intellect which got him through the darkness after the war.  Mostly I am content to stay in this quiet place and watch the children play and grow strong in the sun.

6/10/30

Out of nervous energy I have begun a project, a kitchen garden on the terrace next to the house. Mr. Bramble and Lorenzo, Nancy and the children, and even Mr. Papandreus, the little old shepherd whose flute I hear at night, and his wife, Nika, a tiny hardy weed of a woman, have helped me to move and dig soil. We planted seeds and put in some grapes cut from Mr. P’s own vines. He found an old arbor at the side of the house and installed it on the south side making a little arch that frames the crystal water of the little bay. Nancy and I have made a feast to celebrate all our hard work. I have been working so hard the last couple of days and yet feel so strong and ready to do more. Margo and Fletcher are eager to help as well. The little one tags along undoing little things in her effort to be a help, but everyone praises her for her brave attempts at small tasks.

I love this simple life. England seems so distant and grey compared to this bright place.

6/11/30

Books, and odds and ends, some kitchen items arrive from England in crates. My sewing machine and iron. Who thinks of pressing clothes when working in such basic conditions?

The straw padding from the crates nicely covered the floor of the little stone pen that we have installed a fine pair of nanny goats, for milk. Mr. P will  teach Nancy and me how to care for them. We have also acquired 5 fat white laying hens for the fresh eggs and manure for the garden.

Three of Maude’s bright  Yorkshire landscapes came. The English country side looks so exotic here, next to Mae’s simple abracts.

“Of the two visions, I prefer Mae’s,” Mr. Bramble said, “It’s closer to where I live.”

Or as Mae said to me when I made some vague comment about being so far from our house in England.

“Home is where your head is.”

I think my head is in transition, somewhere between England and where my body is, but every day I come closer to home.

Posted in All part of the process, Fiction, House and home, mindworks, novel projects, spring, Voices in the Chorus | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Playing with a Big Red Ball

Posted on July 15, 2012 by randomyriad

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in capturing light, My Art | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Century #19: War’s Legacy

Posted on July 12, 2012 by randomyriad

From the journal of Lita Hopkins

Corfu

6/4/30

Charles has agreed to aid Professor Coyle with his book on early Christian monastic life and its lineage to the present. I am not sure if that is exactly it, but it is mostly about the first Christian communities. The Professor is full of knowledge and ideas, but needs help with some of the writing, and Charles being a first rate editor will be touring the mainland with him to become familiar with the material enough to assist in the writing. Charles is most enthusiastic about the project, which has brought him out of a low period he fell into these last few days. He says it should take about a month to visit the key sites, meanwhile I will stay here with the children and Nancy. Mr. Bramble and his “pirate” friend will stay to help us. Mr. Bramble said, “One paradise is much like another, and this has the best people.” And so is happy to stay on. We will be able to sail up to visit Mae on “Lola”.

6/5

I am worried about Charles, he has begun coughing again. He is so weak at times, but being a man strives not to give in or show any weakness. He was in bed two days after the sailing, and only fully recovered this morning. His lungs never recovered from being gassed during the war. I remember he was such a strapping and dashing fellow before the war.  He seemed to have come out of it all strong and whole without deep harm, but in the last three years the war seems to have caught up with him. He wakes from nightmares sweating and moaning, but can’t tell me about what he was dreaming. He has become distant and locked in his mind. I believe he is ashamed of not being always strong, able to defeat his demons single handed. He blames himself for what the world has done to him. I wish I could wrap his shame in a bag and throw it in the sea.

He will not talk to me about the war. I know many dark and terrible things happen in war to shatter men. Doctors glue them back together, but the cracks remain. I know Charles has considered ending his life, and that it is probably the children and myself which hold him in this world. And yet I think it is because he is often not strong enough to take charge of our lives that drives him into the darkness. I try my best to show him that I consider him a brave and shining example of a man and that no other companion will do for me. I am afraid that I alone cannot pull him out of this darkness into which he slips deeper daily. I hope that his work with Professor Coyle will excite his intellectual curiosity enough to distract him into the light. I fear most that I and children are a burden he cannot bear. I cannot let him read this. I do not know why I risk writing it besides the fact that I can tell no one and must release my anxieties or burst.

I have written to Hunter, hinting vaguely at some of the problems, and begging him to come when Charles has returned. He has a way of talking with Charles, and anyone else he meets, that makes one feel protected and able to talk of things that seem out of reach. If anyone can give Charles renewed hope and courage to face his life, it will be Hunter. I am ashamed to say that having Charles away and busy will be a relief to me. I will miss him no doubt, his gentle intelligence and good-natured appreciation of the world when he is not too burdened. I find it amazing that they could train such a gentle man to kill. War is an abominable enterprise and waste of good men. Even after twelve years it reaches its black hand to squeeze the life out of what should be happy times.

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