October 14, 2007
The shower had helped remove some of the cobwebs that the lack of sleep had produced. So had the 4 cups of strong coffee. I pulled into the parking lot at The Wharf at 10:35. Not bad for staying up all night drinking. I checked the mirror one last time before I decided I didn’t look too bad and walked up the ramp to the front door of the restaurant. It would seem that this was the place to be on a Sunday morning. I hadn’t seen this many people in one place since I left Knoxville. I glanced around the room until I saw Louise. She was waving at me, calling me over. A younger woman sat with her, her black hair in two long pigtails. She turned around and smiled. Josie, I assumed.
I had only just made it to the table before Louise grabbed me and gave me an unexpected hug. “Annie! We’re so glad you’re here – I was afraid you were going to cancel on us! This is Josie – the jewelry designer you’ve recently become a collector of. Josie – this is Annie.” “It’s so nice to meet you – your work is beautiful.” I shook her hand and she smiled at me. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Annie. I understand you are quite a talented artist as well.” “Well,” I said, “I am an artist. The talented part I’ll have to defer to others.” I sat down as the server walked up to the table. We all ordered coffee and mimosas. The brunch menu was extensive and I was going to need a moment or two to decide if my hung-over stomach was going to accept any nourishment.
Louise chatted away, gossiping about the locals and regular visitors as if they were her family. Josie and I listened in amusement as Louise spilled the beans about everyone – most of whom were sitting right there in the restaurant. It seemed that Louise had the goods on everyone in town. The server came back and we ordered. I decided to stick to the fruit and yogurt plate. As we talked, I noticed Jackson Pierce walk into the restaurant with a tall, rather dignified woman. She was blond like Jax and elegantly dressed. Louise caught sight of them and said, “Oh, look – there are the Pierces!” My heart sank into my stomach. Jax was married? What the hell?
Jax and the woman were following the hostess to a table adjacent to ours. I tried as hard as I could to sink down into my chair and disappear, but he saw me and looked surprised. He and the woman walked over to our table at Louise’s bidding. They both kissed Louise on the cheek in greeting and said hello to Josie. Jax said to the woman, “Hannah, I don’t believe you’ve met Annie Bradford. She’s just moved to the village. She’s an artist – living in Morning Light. Annie, this is my sister, Hannah.” Oh good Lord, I thought. His sister. I smiled at Hannah and blushed. “It’s very nice to meet you, Hannah.” “You too, Annie. I understand you met some interesting people at the opening last night with Jax. Do you plan on showing your work there?” “I’d like to. I’m taking my portfolio up this week for consideration. From there, I’m afraid it is up to them.” “Well, I wish you very good luck with that. Jax said your work is inspirational.” “Oh, thank you very much, Jax. That’s very kind of you.” We all chatted a few minutes more and the Pierces went to their table to sit down.
Louise and Josie stared at me as if I had grown a third eye. “What?” I asked. “You’ve been in town for a month and you’ve already been on a date with Jackson Pierce? Do you know how many women have tried to go out with that man? I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” “I’m sorry. Uhm. I just got here. I just met Josie – I didn’t know I needed to tell anything. It wasn’t really a date – he just took me so I could meet some people at the gallery, anyway. Nothing to tell.” Josie shook her head. “You have no idea. I mean Jackson Pierce, for heaven’s sake. I can’t believe it.” “What? Is there something I should know about him? Is he dangerous, for heaven’s sake?”
The server brought our food and placed it on the table, along with another round of mimosas. I was going to become an alcoholic if I kept this up. “No, dear. He’s not dangerous.” Louise patted my hand. “He has just been somewhat of a recluse since he came back from Seattle a couple of years ago. It’s good to see him making friends, that’s all.” She shot a look at Josie that said “shut your mouth, darling” and then smiled back at me. I could see that there was more than she was telling, especially as she was so free to share everyone else’s story. But, I figured it was better that way. If Jackson Pierce wanted to tell me about it, he could.
After all, he knew nothing about me.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
November 8, 2007, Word Count 12,729
Back to the present again. Catching up from yesterday. What do you think of the title, "Redeeming October"
October 12, 2007
When the shrimp were gone, I washed up my dish and checked the floor to see if it was sticky from the cocktail sauce. “What a mess,” I said to Pippi. I walked back over to the drafting table to check on the sea turtle illustration. It was dry and I started looking at the blooms and back runs in the background. It was a habit of mine to stare at the shapes that the ink made and see if there were any pictures in them. My version of cloud figures, I guessed. I smiled as I noted some blooms that looked like floating seaweed on the upper left, a few back runs had taken on some characteristics of coral rising up from the seawater. In the upper right, though, was a shape that I was not expecting. I got out a magnifying glass to look at it more closely. It looked just like the silhouette of a person swimming way off in the distance – someone diving down with the sea turtle.
“How strange,” I thought. This sea turtle obsession of mine was turning into something a little creepy. Now I was subconsciously painting a figure in the ocean with the sea turtle. Next thing you knew, I’d be strapping on scuba gear and searching for some mythical giant sea turtle that Stevey might write about. An idea had been born, though, in that strange little ink anomaly. I hauled out the box with all my paints and brushes in it and found a canvas. I placed it on my easel and set everything up just the way I like it. Paints on the left, water bucket perched on the easel shelf, paper towels and brushes on my right. I picked up a watercolor pencil and started sketching right on the canvas.
As I drew, I escaped into that part of my brain I always went to for healing. I drew the turtle again, this time rising up toward the surface of the waters. On his back was a young girl, maybe 7 years old, hair streaming out behind her. She straddled the shell of the turtle and held on with one hand to the lip at the front of the shell, just behind his head. Her arms were slight, yet powerful. Her legs were long and lean and full of strength as she held on to the powerful beast. Her face was turned up toward the surface in anticipation of breaking through and sailing up into the air. In her other hand she carried a scepter of coral and seaweed. She was the turtle princess. Her crown was one of oyster shells and pearls. This girl could face anything.
I began painting, my brushes flying across the canvas. Dappled sunlight was breaking through the depths of the water and casting a radiant light on this turtle girl. The turtle itself was bathed in the light of the sun and in the power of the girl. His strong flippers had just thrust backward, propelling himself and his passenger closer to the surface. Streams of water trailed back from his fins and the girls blond hair left contrails in the wake. Her face was jubilant and triumphant – she had been to the depths of the sea on her fine turtle and she was going to make it to the surface – just one more push and they would be leaping out.
I heard the grumble of my stomach before I felt it. I looked at the clock on the stove, which read 8:00 and thought it must be a mistake. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:01. I had been painting for 7 hours or so without a break. I put my brush down and stepped back from the easel. The painting was finished, except for a signature. My turtle girl had been born. She was marvelous and otherworldly. She was triumphant and pure and whole.
I wanted to be just like her.
October 12, 2007
When the shrimp were gone, I washed up my dish and checked the floor to see if it was sticky from the cocktail sauce. “What a mess,” I said to Pippi. I walked back over to the drafting table to check on the sea turtle illustration. It was dry and I started looking at the blooms and back runs in the background. It was a habit of mine to stare at the shapes that the ink made and see if there were any pictures in them. My version of cloud figures, I guessed. I smiled as I noted some blooms that looked like floating seaweed on the upper left, a few back runs had taken on some characteristics of coral rising up from the seawater. In the upper right, though, was a shape that I was not expecting. I got out a magnifying glass to look at it more closely. It looked just like the silhouette of a person swimming way off in the distance – someone diving down with the sea turtle.
“How strange,” I thought. This sea turtle obsession of mine was turning into something a little creepy. Now I was subconsciously painting a figure in the ocean with the sea turtle. Next thing you knew, I’d be strapping on scuba gear and searching for some mythical giant sea turtle that Stevey might write about. An idea had been born, though, in that strange little ink anomaly. I hauled out the box with all my paints and brushes in it and found a canvas. I placed it on my easel and set everything up just the way I like it. Paints on the left, water bucket perched on the easel shelf, paper towels and brushes on my right. I picked up a watercolor pencil and started sketching right on the canvas.
As I drew, I escaped into that part of my brain I always went to for healing. I drew the turtle again, this time rising up toward the surface of the waters. On his back was a young girl, maybe 7 years old, hair streaming out behind her. She straddled the shell of the turtle and held on with one hand to the lip at the front of the shell, just behind his head. Her arms were slight, yet powerful. Her legs were long and lean and full of strength as she held on to the powerful beast. Her face was turned up toward the surface in anticipation of breaking through and sailing up into the air. In her other hand she carried a scepter of coral and seaweed. She was the turtle princess. Her crown was one of oyster shells and pearls. This girl could face anything.
I began painting, my brushes flying across the canvas. Dappled sunlight was breaking through the depths of the water and casting a radiant light on this turtle girl. The turtle itself was bathed in the light of the sun and in the power of the girl. His strong flippers had just thrust backward, propelling himself and his passenger closer to the surface. Streams of water trailed back from his fins and the girls blond hair left contrails in the wake. Her face was jubilant and triumphant – she had been to the depths of the sea on her fine turtle and she was going to make it to the surface – just one more push and they would be leaping out.
I heard the grumble of my stomach before I felt it. I looked at the clock on the stove, which read 8:00 and thought it must be a mistake. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:01. I had been painting for 7 hours or so without a break. I put my brush down and stepped back from the easel. The painting was finished, except for a signature. My turtle girl had been born. She was marvelous and otherworldly. She was triumphant and pure and whole.
I wanted to be just like her.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
November 6, 2007, Word Count 10460
Time for a little backstory - hope it's not too confusing to add it, but it's all coming together - in ways that I hadn't set out writing...but it is what it is...
And if you're worried that it's going to be sad all the way through the book, that's okay.
So am I.
October 13, 1975
The light filtered into my pink fortress as the sun made it’s way up over the trees in the back yard. At 7 years old, there was nothing finer in the world to me than the color pink. Every shade was fair game – pale peppermint pink, deep rich magenta. It made no difference to me – pink, pink and more pink! My brother, Ray, who was 10 years older, often teased me about my pink obsession, but I didn’t care. Pink was made for girls.
A noise had woken me - The phone, maybe? I wasn’t sure. But then, yes, I heard voices talking. My mother screamed loudly, and I heard the phone thump on it’s way to the floor, before clattering wildly against the wall where it hung. I jumped out of my bed and ran to the kitchen. My dad was supporting my mom and leading her over to the table. His face was white with shock. “What is it?” I asked with a quivering voice. No one said anything. My mom’s sobs rushed over me and frightened me to the core. “What is it?” I demanded more forcefully. I had never been a demanding child, but this was different. Something was terribly wrong.
“Go to your room, Anne.” My father’s voice was flat and emotionless. “NO! Tell me what is wrong RIGHT NOW!!” My mother looked at me with hatred, it seemed. “It’s Ray. He’s dead. He’s never coming back. Are you satisfied, you nosy little bitch?” I looked at her face and could see she was telling the truth. Ray was dead. “How?” My voice had gone back to it’s normal child-sized portion. “He wrecked on the way home from the concert last night. We’ve been up all night calling hospitals, after he didn’t come home. He ran into a bridge abutment on the interstate. Everyone in the car was killed. All four of them.” My father recited the facts as if he were reading it from the daily news. He didn’t look at me. I stared at their faces for a moment, and then turned to go back to my room. I felt the hot tears rushing down my cheeks, and I didn’t want them to see them.
The next days passed in a blur of activity. Funeral arrangements, receiving friends and family, casseroles and flowers filling the empty spaces of the house like solemn reminders that Ray was gone. As if we needed them. Everything about our house screamed it. The quiet spaces that he used to fill with jokes and songs and snippets of movie dialogue. My parents roamed the house looking for solace, but they found none. They looked over me like I was a dirty sweatshirt piled in the corner. I was only 7. Before long, it seemed that it had always been that way, except for the pictures on the wall that showed a different sort of family. One of my aunts brought me a small sketchbook and some pencils and markers. “Here, Annie-love. You can use it to write down your feelings. Maybe it will help your grieving process.”
I was 7. I didn’t know how to spell “grieving process,” so I started to draw. I drew Ray. Ray with his guitar. Ray in his McDonald’s uniform. Ray riding a bike while holding a giant fish over his head. Ray and me walking together in the park. Ray hugging me and telling me “I love you, Annie-banany.” I drew Ray’s car – his pride and joy that all his McDonald’s money went toward, fire-engine red and slow as molasses. I drew Ray’s car crumpled against the bridge. I drew dead Ray and his dead friends in the crumpled car. I drew and I grieved and I healed.
I wished my parents would learn to draw.
And if you're worried that it's going to be sad all the way through the book, that's okay.
So am I.
October 13, 1975
The light filtered into my pink fortress as the sun made it’s way up over the trees in the back yard. At 7 years old, there was nothing finer in the world to me than the color pink. Every shade was fair game – pale peppermint pink, deep rich magenta. It made no difference to me – pink, pink and more pink! My brother, Ray, who was 10 years older, often teased me about my pink obsession, but I didn’t care. Pink was made for girls.
A noise had woken me - The phone, maybe? I wasn’t sure. But then, yes, I heard voices talking. My mother screamed loudly, and I heard the phone thump on it’s way to the floor, before clattering wildly against the wall where it hung. I jumped out of my bed and ran to the kitchen. My dad was supporting my mom and leading her over to the table. His face was white with shock. “What is it?” I asked with a quivering voice. No one said anything. My mom’s sobs rushed over me and frightened me to the core. “What is it?” I demanded more forcefully. I had never been a demanding child, but this was different. Something was terribly wrong.
“Go to your room, Anne.” My father’s voice was flat and emotionless. “NO! Tell me what is wrong RIGHT NOW!!” My mother looked at me with hatred, it seemed. “It’s Ray. He’s dead. He’s never coming back. Are you satisfied, you nosy little bitch?” I looked at her face and could see she was telling the truth. Ray was dead. “How?” My voice had gone back to it’s normal child-sized portion. “He wrecked on the way home from the concert last night. We’ve been up all night calling hospitals, after he didn’t come home. He ran into a bridge abutment on the interstate. Everyone in the car was killed. All four of them.” My father recited the facts as if he were reading it from the daily news. He didn’t look at me. I stared at their faces for a moment, and then turned to go back to my room. I felt the hot tears rushing down my cheeks, and I didn’t want them to see them.
The next days passed in a blur of activity. Funeral arrangements, receiving friends and family, casseroles and flowers filling the empty spaces of the house like solemn reminders that Ray was gone. As if we needed them. Everything about our house screamed it. The quiet spaces that he used to fill with jokes and songs and snippets of movie dialogue. My parents roamed the house looking for solace, but they found none. They looked over me like I was a dirty sweatshirt piled in the corner. I was only 7. Before long, it seemed that it had always been that way, except for the pictures on the wall that showed a different sort of family. One of my aunts brought me a small sketchbook and some pencils and markers. “Here, Annie-love. You can use it to write down your feelings. Maybe it will help your grieving process.”
I was 7. I didn’t know how to spell “grieving process,” so I started to draw. I drew Ray. Ray with his guitar. Ray in his McDonald’s uniform. Ray riding a bike while holding a giant fish over his head. Ray and me walking together in the park. Ray hugging me and telling me “I love you, Annie-banany.” I drew Ray’s car – his pride and joy that all his McDonald’s money went toward, fire-engine red and slow as molasses. I drew Ray’s car crumpled against the bridge. I drew dead Ray and his dead friends in the crumpled car. I drew and I grieved and I healed.
I wished my parents would learn to draw.
Monday, November 5, 2007
November 5, Word Count 8347
October 11, 2007
I dreamed a dream of sea turtles last night. Where was all of this coming from? I needed to clear my head, so I went for a run. I ran to the south, away from the site of the turtle carcass, toward the inlet. My breath pulsed in the staccato rhythm of my steps. The pounding of the surf was lower and slower, a rhythmic undercurrent of the running motion. Sea gulls cried out in bursts of song. This had become the soundtrack of my mornings, the soundtrack of my life.
After the run and a light breakfast, I showered and dressed, eager for the day trip I was taking. Roanoke Island, north of Hatteras Island, was home to a living history museum about the first settlement of English-speaking colonists in the New World. They had settled in 1584, 23 years before the more famous Jamestown settlement, and had the distinction of having the first English child born in the New World. I had been looking forward to the trip, and was planning on incorporating it with a reconnaissance mission regarding the Art Gallery that was also housed on site. As much as I enjoyed my illustration work, my heart was in fine art, and I knew that the art scene in the Outer Banks was active and vibrant. I hoped to make some contacts.
The drive north on Highway 12 is not one to take when in a great hurry. Of course, it is the only route up and down these barrier islands, so the lesson is…don’t ever get in a great hurry. It is two lanes wide, and in places, depending on the weather pattern, covered in drifting sand dunes. This time of year, the roads are not crowded, but the scenery is still so lovely, it’s hard to drive quickly. It is in driving this road that the fragile nature of the islands is most exposed – at times, the island is only just a few dunes wider than the roadway itself. When I first drove down into Hatteras Village, midway through September, kite-surfers and wind-surfers dominated the roadway, pulling off here and there to catch the perfect wave. Today, only a few were out; the water temperatures driving away all but the most dedicated.
.......................................................................
We chatted a few more minutes and I left him to his work. By the time I got back into my car I was shaking. I drove back the way I had come and made it all the way to Whalebone before I had to pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken. I turned off the car and sat for a minute. Then I burst into tears. Deep wracking sobs of grief came up from my belly and poured out of my mouth. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. I cried like someone who had been stuffing grief so far down it had grown roots and spread all over the place like kudzu. I wept until the sobs grew dry and hoarse and then I just stopped. I pulled a tissue out of the glove box of the car and dried my eyes. I turned the key and put the car in first gear and pointed it in the right direction. I drove the 60 miles to Hatteras in a haze, never once glancing at the ocean on my left or the sound on my right. I pulled into my driveway and walked up the stairs and into the house. Pippi mewed her hello and I fed her. I took a beer out of the fridge and the afghan from the couch and walked out onto the deck and curled up in one of the chairs. I stared at the dunes and the ocean beyond them. I fell asleep there with the stars and the moon and the planets looking down on me. I dreamed of sea turtles and tall men with curly black hair carrying little boys with white blond mops, out on the fishing docks.
When I woke up, dawn was breaking over the horizon, cutting up through the ocean’s edge and lighting the world on fire.
I dreamed a dream of sea turtles last night. Where was all of this coming from? I needed to clear my head, so I went for a run. I ran to the south, away from the site of the turtle carcass, toward the inlet. My breath pulsed in the staccato rhythm of my steps. The pounding of the surf was lower and slower, a rhythmic undercurrent of the running motion. Sea gulls cried out in bursts of song. This had become the soundtrack of my mornings, the soundtrack of my life.
After the run and a light breakfast, I showered and dressed, eager for the day trip I was taking. Roanoke Island, north of Hatteras Island, was home to a living history museum about the first settlement of English-speaking colonists in the New World. They had settled in 1584, 23 years before the more famous Jamestown settlement, and had the distinction of having the first English child born in the New World. I had been looking forward to the trip, and was planning on incorporating it with a reconnaissance mission regarding the Art Gallery that was also housed on site. As much as I enjoyed my illustration work, my heart was in fine art, and I knew that the art scene in the Outer Banks was active and vibrant. I hoped to make some contacts.
The drive north on Highway 12 is not one to take when in a great hurry. Of course, it is the only route up and down these barrier islands, so the lesson is…don’t ever get in a great hurry. It is two lanes wide, and in places, depending on the weather pattern, covered in drifting sand dunes. This time of year, the roads are not crowded, but the scenery is still so lovely, it’s hard to drive quickly. It is in driving this road that the fragile nature of the islands is most exposed – at times, the island is only just a few dunes wider than the roadway itself. When I first drove down into Hatteras Village, midway through September, kite-surfers and wind-surfers dominated the roadway, pulling off here and there to catch the perfect wave. Today, only a few were out; the water temperatures driving away all but the most dedicated.
.......................................................................
We chatted a few more minutes and I left him to his work. By the time I got back into my car I was shaking. I drove back the way I had come and made it all the way to Whalebone before I had to pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken. I turned off the car and sat for a minute. Then I burst into tears. Deep wracking sobs of grief came up from my belly and poured out of my mouth. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. I cried like someone who had been stuffing grief so far down it had grown roots and spread all over the place like kudzu. I wept until the sobs grew dry and hoarse and then I just stopped. I pulled a tissue out of the glove box of the car and dried my eyes. I turned the key and put the car in first gear and pointed it in the right direction. I drove the 60 miles to Hatteras in a haze, never once glancing at the ocean on my left or the sound on my right. I pulled into my driveway and walked up the stairs and into the house. Pippi mewed her hello and I fed her. I took a beer out of the fridge and the afghan from the couch and walked out onto the deck and curled up in one of the chairs. I stared at the dunes and the ocean beyond them. I fell asleep there with the stars and the moon and the planets looking down on me. I dreamed of sea turtles and tall men with curly black hair carrying little boys with white blond mops, out on the fishing docks.
When I woke up, dawn was breaking over the horizon, cutting up through the ocean’s edge and lighting the world on fire.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
November 3, 2007 Word Count 5,054
October 8, 2007
I was sitting on the deck of the house, staring at the stars and their reflection in the waves. Twilight had passed slowly, the twinkle of stars darting in and out of my vision as the last rays of sunlight had faded. I listened to the music of the waves, the rhythm of the breakers and hummed along with it. I got up to fetch another beer when I hear a strange mewling sound coming from underneath the deck boards. I walked down the steps to investigate, and saw the smallest kitten I’d ever seen. It was caked in wet sand and sat shivering in the dune grass. I looked around for it’s mother, but couldn’t see any other signs of life besides the ghost crabs poking their googly eyes out of their holes.
I carefully picked the kitten up and held it close to my body. It was so cold, I couldn’t imagine that it was still alive. As I walked up the stairs, I heard myself saying over and over again, “It’s okay, little one…it’s okay. I’ve got you…it’s okay.” I found a towel and wrapped the kitten up, brushing the drying sand from it’s nose and eyes. It looked like a little Siamese kitten, with big blue eyes and the seal point ears. While I held it, I took out the carton of milk and warmed up a bowl of it in the microwave. It lapped it up like it had never eaten, which, given the state in which I found it, was entirely possible. The milk was like a kitty narcotic. It almost fell asleep face first into the bowl. I picked it up and wrapped it in a fresh towel and took it to my bedroom, where I changed into my pajamas. I lay the sleeping kitten in the bed next to me and stared at it in wonder.
It would appear that I have a new roommate.
I was sitting on the deck of the house, staring at the stars and their reflection in the waves. Twilight had passed slowly, the twinkle of stars darting in and out of my vision as the last rays of sunlight had faded. I listened to the music of the waves, the rhythm of the breakers and hummed along with it. I got up to fetch another beer when I hear a strange mewling sound coming from underneath the deck boards. I walked down the steps to investigate, and saw the smallest kitten I’d ever seen. It was caked in wet sand and sat shivering in the dune grass. I looked around for it’s mother, but couldn’t see any other signs of life besides the ghost crabs poking their googly eyes out of their holes.
I carefully picked the kitten up and held it close to my body. It was so cold, I couldn’t imagine that it was still alive. As I walked up the stairs, I heard myself saying over and over again, “It’s okay, little one…it’s okay. I’ve got you…it’s okay.” I found a towel and wrapped the kitten up, brushing the drying sand from it’s nose and eyes. It looked like a little Siamese kitten, with big blue eyes and the seal point ears. While I held it, I took out the carton of milk and warmed up a bowl of it in the microwave. It lapped it up like it had never eaten, which, given the state in which I found it, was entirely possible. The milk was like a kitty narcotic. It almost fell asleep face first into the bowl. I picked it up and wrapped it in a fresh towel and took it to my bedroom, where I changed into my pajamas. I lay the sleeping kitten in the bed next to me and stared at it in wonder.
It would appear that I have a new roommate.
Friday, November 2, 2007
November 2, 2007 Word Count 3,345
October 6, 2007
As I ran down the beach this morning, away from the lighthouse, I spotted a dead sea turtle in the sand. I stopped to mourn. It looked as if it had been hit by a boat propeller, which had nearly severed it’s head. Or maybe it had run across a particularly hungry shark. In any case it was dead, and while that made me sad, it didn’t anger me. What made me angry was the graffiti written all over it in red and yellow spray paint, like it was the side of a high school gym wall. This beautiful, majestic creature had been killed not by spite, but through carelessness, and then had become a sounding board for a 13-year old’s self-absorbed angst. I wanted to go home and get a bucket of suds and a scrub brush and come back and clean it up so it could at least lie in dignity. But I didn’t. The few neighbors I had already believed that I was a crazy ghost lady who only spoke when spoken to. I didn’t need to add this to my list of eccentricities…she cleans up the dead marine life when it gets beached.
I did pick up some of the seaweed that surrounded it and finished my run. I left the slimy brownish-green algae perched on my deck railing and went inside for a shower. I don’t know what made me pick it up in the first place. It just felt sacred to me, like I needed to honor that turtle in some way, to enshrine it and give it place. After my shower, I sat on the deck with a bottle of water and stared at it. It had started to dry out and was beginning to blow a little in the breeze. It reminded me of Ruthie Sipsey’s hair in the second grade – curly and wiry and twisty and unruly. Poor Ruthie. She just never had good hair.
I walked back into the house and grabbed my sketchbook, pens and pencils and headed back down the beach to find the turtle. When I reached it’s resting place, I sat down and faced it and the sea. As I drew it’s elegant lines and regal head, I talked to it a little. I realize that is crazy, but it just felt right. I drew and I drew and as I drew, I could feel a little release…in me. I was here. On the beach. And I was drawing – drawing a life that once was, but no longer would be. Drawing the passing of a great and beautiful thing. Drawing the pain of the world that carelessly rolls over you, intending no harm, but causing near decapitation. As I drew, I realized that I was drawing my life.
As I ran down the beach this morning, away from the lighthouse, I spotted a dead sea turtle in the sand. I stopped to mourn. It looked as if it had been hit by a boat propeller, which had nearly severed it’s head. Or maybe it had run across a particularly hungry shark. In any case it was dead, and while that made me sad, it didn’t anger me. What made me angry was the graffiti written all over it in red and yellow spray paint, like it was the side of a high school gym wall. This beautiful, majestic creature had been killed not by spite, but through carelessness, and then had become a sounding board for a 13-year old’s self-absorbed angst. I wanted to go home and get a bucket of suds and a scrub brush and come back and clean it up so it could at least lie in dignity. But I didn’t. The few neighbors I had already believed that I was a crazy ghost lady who only spoke when spoken to. I didn’t need to add this to my list of eccentricities…she cleans up the dead marine life when it gets beached.
I did pick up some of the seaweed that surrounded it and finished my run. I left the slimy brownish-green algae perched on my deck railing and went inside for a shower. I don’t know what made me pick it up in the first place. It just felt sacred to me, like I needed to honor that turtle in some way, to enshrine it and give it place. After my shower, I sat on the deck with a bottle of water and stared at it. It had started to dry out and was beginning to blow a little in the breeze. It reminded me of Ruthie Sipsey’s hair in the second grade – curly and wiry and twisty and unruly. Poor Ruthie. She just never had good hair.
I walked back into the house and grabbed my sketchbook, pens and pencils and headed back down the beach to find the turtle. When I reached it’s resting place, I sat down and faced it and the sea. As I drew it’s elegant lines and regal head, I talked to it a little. I realize that is crazy, but it just felt right. I drew and I drew and as I drew, I could feel a little release…in me. I was here. On the beach. And I was drawing – drawing a life that once was, but no longer would be. Drawing the passing of a great and beautiful thing. Drawing the pain of the world that carelessly rolls over you, intending no harm, but causing near decapitation. As I drew, I realized that I was drawing my life.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
November 1, 2007 Word count: 1706
My first excerpt. It won't make any sense, 'cause it's an excerpt, but I feel like I have to start somewhere...
I padded into the kitchen and stared at the clock on the coffee pot. 7:05 am. I could do this. I poured a cup of hot coffee and walked out onto the deck overlooking the dunes and the Atlantic beyond them. The sun was just coming up over the water, sending jewel drops of sunlight dancing across the waves. I looked down toward Ocracoke Inlet and saw a flock of pelicans gliding across the tops of the dunes, moving as one organism – up, down, flap, soar. What a strange and beautiful bird the pelican is. So ungainly on land, with is too-large beak and feet, but so graceful in the air.
As I drank my coffee, I laced up my running shoes. Running on the beach had always been a source of great comfort and healing for me, and I had a feeling I would need it today. Too many memories were flooding into my head – memories of love and loss; of celebration and grief. How on earth would I get through this month again? Every year I pray it will just go by quickly, and every year it does, but on the first day I can’t believe that. I think this month will go on forever and the pain will go on forever, too.
Running helps ease the mental pain, I suppose because it causes so much physical pain. As I walk down the boardwalk that crosses the dunes, I stop and stretch and look to the north, toward the lighthouse. It is a little toothpick in the distance, but I can see it. A light that guides so many ships has guided me here, to this little island in the Atlantic, to the salt water that has healing power in it, to a community where 6 months out of the year I can be almost completely alone. I begin to run toward the lighthouse, my feet feeling awkward and hesitant at first. As I pick up the pace, I feel the familiar surge of endorphins and the tightening effect it has on my nipples and groin. This is why I run. I run for the memory of the effect that Charlie once had on me.
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