LITTLE GREEN SPEEDOS & WHAT A ROOM FULL OF WRITERS WILL DO

Its now down to four of us in the room. I am thankful for Malaika and Chelsea's company. Last night, exhausted, I passed out at 9pm while we were chattering on. Before hand, Arthur, Bonnie and the three of us discussed the bizarre energy floating around this place. Though the day time feels rather neutral (though our second story balcony has the most gorgeous ocean view and is a perfect place to perch and write, in addition to the love of Uncle Ronnie, the elder South African in the house, who sends me up a cup of instant coffee each morning), the house at night settles into a creepy lull. Our toilet doesn't work so us ladies must trek down to the first floor toilet. I run. Quickly. The house, largely undecorated, feels spacious, unlived in, and as Malaika suggests, institutional. As Arthur says in his gruff, bass voice, "I don't much care for Peter's decor," drawing out each word. Extra emphasis on Peter.

The porch view

The rest of the night Chelsea, Malaika and I spin stories. We are rather suspicious of this Renee character, convinced she may be hustling us all, despite her valiant environmental and Obama efforts (though don't get her engaged in conversation over politics, the woman can go on!) Her story, as we know it, is that she lived in Europe for twelve years before settling here in the 1980s. There are very little details and the conversation around her history is always vague and scattered. Once in discussion, Renee briefly alludes to being part of the Black Panther movement way back when. This piece of information spurs us on. We decide "Auntie" can't go back to the US because of some past history as a panther. I imagine her with a big 'fro and a beret, fist in air. "They're too concerned with Assata to care about Auntie!" Malaika says and we die laughing. Yes, this is her story to be sure. Though our credibility, it has to be said, is a bit shaky. To be fair, we also invented a rather convincing story about the small plot of land across the street that looks, from our balcony, like a make shift graveyard. Upon closer inspection, it seems to be some sort of run down garden with head stone sized planks of wood acting as backbone for small trees to grow straight against. A graveyard would have made the story more juicy, much like my momentary desire for a bigger chip in my front tooth.

The next day Chelsea and I spend the morning on the big porch. The house has "breezes" written on its gate for a reason. The ocean breeze that lifts off the water is the one true treasure in this abode (aside from the porch and Uncle Ronnie's coffee, of course.) Later in the day, the two of us stumble upon a hidden cove off the main road where the water smacks in rhythm against the rocks. It seems to be the site of an old bar, the thatched roof still standing aside a worn picnic table. It strikes me that this secret location would be quite dangerous for drunks, stone steps lead down to the water, the bar and table precariously situated on the titled ground between the steps from the path and the steps to the ocean, all of course, on a serious incline. But like most abandoned sites (and especially those set in nature), there is a distinct charm and story to this small pocket of Kokrobite and we take the opportunity to snap some portraits.



Somewhere later, after Matt's lecture, after the folks left for Big Milly's bar, I lingered behind. I thought about this gift I've been given. To be able to pick up a notebook wherever I am and invent characters. What power that is! To create new people, new stories from the deep crevice of your own ripe and comforting mind. I think there should be no reason to ever feel lonely again.