Saturday, August 20, 2011

isla de encanta

Drove up after work just in time for the sunset, walked to the parking lot at the tip of the island by the ferry to watch the red sun dive into the blue water, as a fellow photographer showed us supposed UFOs in the sunset on his iPhone and we gazed in wonder at the swirl of pink and grey clouds uncommonly curvy like Rembrandt models or Georgia O'Keefe paintings.

There was some terrible music coming from the bar up the street and so we decided to investigate and seeing that the Indians/White Sox game was on, my dad and I split a beer, watching the game, and observed the antics of our fellow tourist weekenders. The sound was so loud that we could hear it all the way across the island clearly and the revelers were yelling over the music about the last casinos they visited and talking about WHAT A REALLY GOOD TIME WE'RE ALL HAVING. Some really spacy girl told us she was totally glad that we showed up at this totally awesome party and we both looked confused, because it's just a bar patio full of total strangers with suntans drinking but decided that there would be amusement to be had here.

The singer had karaoke arrangements of 70's and 80's hits and was in the middle of a drunkenly synthesized rendition of "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" complete with out of key keyboard lines over the prerecorded tinniness. It was like karaoke night with minimal musical accompaniment and enthusiasm that was no subsitute for the lack of real talent, though no one there seemed to mind and were dancing around to "Everybody Wants to Rule the World." He was unsurprisingly decked out in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt and seashell necklace jumping up and down and really getting into it in between talking about how awesome MTV used to be and who his favorite VJs were and his day job which somehow involves the IRS.

My hopes of sitting out on the breakwall under the stars listening to the waves were dashed by continued covers of Black Eyed Peas songs filtering through the trees, but eventually they stopped, and we built a fire and sat out there awhile talking about stuff until we all got tired.

It felt good to sleep in, spend the day in total relaxation, no phone calls, no email, no drama, just sleeping under the trees lulled by the water and the symphonic drone of summer insects, eating peaches, reading Christine de Pizan and Walker Percy, watching great blue herons glide past and clearing my head from all the clatter and chaos of the last few months.

My sister and her family unit came later, and I got to babytalk to the nephew and hang out before heading back debating whether or not I wanted to be introverted or see Jucifer play down the street and opted for the former. It was good to be away, and it's good to have returned. I needed the solitude, needed to contemplate, to cry out to God and try to listen for the intangible yet so real response that keeps my soul alive and from not slipping into total despair at what I see or total distraction to pretend that what I see isn't there. Part of the getaway, the escape, is trying to figure out how to return to the daily grind.

3 comments:

Randal Graves said...

The fellow photographer wasn't a short man named Dennis, like, totally?

If one never leaves the daily grind, one never has to devise a plan to reintegrate into the machine, silly goose.

Word verification: costrydd, a Welsh dimestore.

susan said...

It's sad when a holiday ends but it's also true there's something that feels out of balance about them. I found a story a few days ago you might enjoy:
... the old story of an American investment banker who was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The Mexican replied, “only a little while.” The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish? The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”
The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my
children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening
where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy
life.”
The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend
more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat with the proceeds
from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a
fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would
sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would
control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this
small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually
NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”
The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”
To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”
“But what then?”
The American laughed and said that’s the best part. “When the time is right
you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become
very rich, you would make millions.”
“Millions..Then what?”
Then the American said, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing
village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take
siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could
sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

thatgirl said...

thanks Susan!