Jul 14, 2007

LOPEZ ISLAND, San Juans – The last light wicks over the horizon as I unfurl the tent in the hazelnut orchard.

Yukon mosquitos dapple its green fabric. A year ago, Edward and I drove from Skagway, Alaska, to Seattle, Washington. Some hint of super-organic, herbal-based, nonfunctional bug repellent still lingers.

The vestibule's all Picasso, but I'm sure that's a design quirk, not pilot error.

And so. Well. Yeah. I sit in the island's dark. Grass flares summer-brittle under my shins. The iPod blares Elvis Costello, then Counting Crows.

Last night was a late one; dawn broke long before I slept. Now, a mere 12 hours after rising, I'm supposed to snooze?

Like, h#ll. My biorhythms, see, are broken. Regardless of locale, they keep a European schedule. And I wouldn't mind, except for the odd wiseacre editor, who calls at 8am and shouts, "get up, you lazy freelancer," into the answering machine, plus assignments like this, which demand normal-people hours.

Or – shudder – early bird ones...

I sit in the sunwarmed dirt and explore the eddies of Orcas Island's shadows. Clouds smear and gap, stars prickle through the sea fog, rolling low. Cartoon outlines of Doug firs and orchard trellises haunt my vision.

But I gaze up, ever up, into dark we cityslickers never truly know.


  1. Anonymous4:04 AM

    Darling, you simply MUST move back home then...

    Xoxoxox, Euromutt

  2. Would that I could, petal...