This is from yesterday:
Puna is dry. Dry dry dry. The yellow bamboo along the drive needs to be on life support. The big bamboo clusters in the upper yard and at the neighbors are nearly denuded; the lawn is littered with their dessicated leaves. Large yellow palm fronds bend from the trunks of their parent, aching for the ground and the compost heap.
Things live. Things die. In their place come new living things. A dried spiky frond from the queen palm lays on the ground like a skeleton, grey and spent. She still carries the shape of her former life, though, when she was frilly and green and the wind was blowing and the only care in life she had was to watch the sea in the distance and draw in water from the exuberant nighttime downpours that bathed her.
All things die. Even the universe. One die I will die, fallen from my family like the withered bract of a palm tree. In my place there will arise others to replace me until the family stops growing, the tree falls asleep forever and begins to decay, and mushrooms arise from what used to be our homestead.
Advance 12 hours:
The seminal rains of nine years ago, which deepened sleep just as they awoke us and incited metaphors for comfort, now cause me anxiety: the gutter on the back lanai is missing a brace; the wooden lanais are at risk of rot; the outdoor furniture needs to be restained… When it rains heavily, as it is now at 5am, I can hear the water rolling out like a waterfall, hitting the carport tent and splashing in the direction of the generator. I tried to jury rig it in October but the rigor wasn’t there; to boot, the ladder is too short to get up there. I need the proper tools and attachments.
Raise its priority on the to-do list.
The carnage of fallen albizia trees lines the driveway. The orchard, as we call it – really a collection of undernourished and scrubby wind-blown citrus trees – is littered with the debris of one of the several fallen albizias. Two fell randomly within the past few months; four came down a week or so ago in a freak windstorm from the west, on Valentine’s Day.
The place looks worn down and in a state of upheaval. Unless it’s my frame of mind.
Day one is always Attention Deficit Disorder Day. From tea and yogurt to compiling this trip’s to-do list:
- The leaking rain gutter
- Yellow light on the solar inverter
- The weed whacker set down on its side, gasoline seeping out onto the porous cement floor
- Review of journal entries from this date, roughly, from 2007 til now, to assess the journey traveled and remind myself that I’ve made progress, slogging though things may seem. Even though I still awake tabulating my ever-growing debt, my attitude has improved over time.
- Where am I on The Punatics? (I need to insert half a chapter I think)
- Who is it that has cleared the land below us, and what sort of people are they?
- What were the neighbors doing up at 5am with all their lights on – escorting friends out? A paranoid might think they’re burglars.
- I’ll never make do on a contract that’s only 15 hours a week.
- Need to schedule a bunch of Punatics social posts, raise awareness, find an agent…all the usual stuff..
So commences Paradise.